WWUBD?

A little while back, I made a decision; in an effort to change my life, I was going to start living as the main character in my own private sit-com. I've really given this some thought, loyal readers, and I've decided that the perfect genre for me is the newly minted hour-long comedy, à la ABC's brilliant Ugly Betty. This means that my minor problems will all be solved within 45 minutes, and any major ones will work out for the best in the long run, probably to a very good soundtrack, and with a helpful life lesson tacked on for good measure. Even better, once my life truly became the sit-com it has always resembled, men would begin chasing after me all the time! I come complete with the wacky friends, over-the-top co-workers and a colorful family...all I have to do is to start living like I'm actually in a television show. I decided that this plan was fail-safe, and vowed that the next time I was presented with an opportunity I would ask myself the question: "What Would Ugly Betty Do?"

This week, I attended a reading on Monday night that can at best be described as interminable at 2 hours and 45 minutes long. The play, which shall remain nameless, was 100 pages and three acts. Naturally, my dear friend Adam was a shining beacon of light that kept hope alive as my life irrevocably slipped through my fingers, but not even he was enough to keep me from mapping out possible escape routes should the evening have stretched into a fourth. Option one: fake a ruptured spleen, and excuse myself so as not to interrupt the show with groans of pain. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option two: act as if I'm hard of hearing, loudly ask questions about the plot to strangers around me, and aim to get ejected from the show. Proceed immediately to a bar and drink heavily. Option three: try to master the ancient art of sleeping with eyes open. Dream of proceeding immediately to a bar and drinking heavily. Fortunately (unfortunately?), the show ended after the 3rd act, and none of these last ditch plans needed to be put into action. Even more fortunately, we proceeded immediately to a bar and drank heavily. And it was here that I first the chance to let my inner television star shine.

As it happens, I've been in a bit of a dry spell with the boys. And I asked myself Monday on the way to Gym Bar, "Self, what would Ugly Betty do?" Well, Betty would no doubt down a couple of fruity cocktails for a little liquid courage, then march right up to a handsome gentleman and strike up a conversation. So there I was, talking to friends, quickly slurping down Stoli Razz and sodas, and watching the Met game while surreptitiously scoping out the bar for likely candidates (FYI, the Mets won 9-6...a good omen!). Two drinks in I was ready, marched my cute, Betty-inspired ass up the hottest guy in the bar and struck up a conversation. This is a loose term for what transpired, because, as luck would have it, Simon was from Australia, but born in Ireland, which gave him a sort of uber-accent. This meant most of what he said I responded to with some variation of "what," "come again," or the ever popular (and possibly overly loquacious) "I'm so sorry, but I'm a little tipsy and you're accent is totally hot, but I can't understand a single solitary word coming out of your extremely well-formed mouth, so would you mind just repeating it again, slowly and with extra emphasis on the consonants, thanks, you're a peach." Sadly, this is not a posting to report that I now have an international lover...Simon, as it turns out, was getting up at 6 am tomorrow morning to fly to Ireland, and our love was not to be. A sad ending to the first episode of the sit-com of my life, but hey, I still got to talk to a hot Irishman. And, obviously, the show ends with me and David getting married, so Simon was always destined to be a guest star.

Meanwhile, in another corner of the bar, the comic B-plot was shaping up nicely. The other boys had started talking to various gentlemen of their own, culminating in a rather sheepish looking Mark deciding he did not want to go home with his beau, but not knowing how to tell him. Enter Ugly Betty! Betty would undoubtedly say that honesty is the best policy in this situation and she always wants to help her friends, so Josh and I quickly offered to shed Mark's newly acquired and unwanted fat for him. Mark fled to the bathroom, and Josh asked me how we were going to do this. I downed the rest of my beer (did I mention I had switched to beer at this point?) and innocently replied "I was just going to walk up to him and say that Mark doesn't want to go home with you. Too harsh?" Josh (being from the west coast, and hence somewhat kinder in general) quickly took the reins of the operation, and walked over to the young man in the overly v-necked t-shirt to inform him that he would not be having all the homo sex that night. At least, not with Mark.

As we stumbled out into the early morning, and I imagined the camera panning out to a wide shot of us walking down the street giggling to each other while an extremely appropriate (yet still under the radar) pop song played, it occurred to me that Betty had served me well that evening. She had gotten me into a conversation with a hottie and gotten Mark out of pity-sex, so I gift this question to you, dear readers. The next time you are in a jam, just think to yourself, "Self...WWUBD?" I'm telling you it works.

A Disrespectful Disagreement

I love Ellen Degeneres. She is, without a doubt, my favorite lesbian daytime talk show host. She dances everyday in the morning, she is completely unafraid to make fun of herself, and she is truly funny. The public persona that she has cultivated is the Queen of Nice, and I think she wears her crown well. Recently, Ellen hosted Republican presidential candidate John McCain on her show; you can watch the clip right here.

I am so tired of politicians and their "respectful disagreements." I now will write the response that I feel Ellen probably desperately wanted to give, but was too classy to do so on national television, and be perceived as the mean lesbian who beat up on the old man.

You know what, Senator McCain? There is absolutely nothing respectful about our disagreement on this issue. The word respect should not even factor into it...we can POLITELY disagree on it, which I suspect is what you meant to say. But not respectfully, because I have absolutely no respect for your opinion. Why should I? You clearly have no respect for me as a person, so why are we sitting here pretending? You don't believe that I deserve the same rights that you do, so you are, ultimately, a bigot. Unfortunately, you are a bigot on the public stage, so I'm forced to sit here and listen to this drivel spewing out of your mouth, and actually dignify it with a response. So here is my response, Senator McCain. You and the entire Republican party can suck it. How you got the nominee is a testament to how completely ridiculous the other Republican candidates were, since you are the single worst public speaker I have ever seen. Seriously, you could stand onstage and say "Baseball, Apple Pie and Freedom" and you would still manage to be about as charming as an unexpected colonic. Get off my show, and good riddance.

I'm fairly sure that's what I read behind Ellen's eyes during her far more measured, friendly and humorous response.

I hate politics. I really really do, and furthermore, I hate politicians. I know this whole country has been glued to the television watching the drama unfold between Barack Obama and Hillary Clinton. And by whole country, I mean the 3 million or so people who watch CNN. It recently ended, as I'm sure everyone knows, with Obama winning the nomination. Which means he will be the one I vote for in November, great glory hallelujah. Does he believe I have the right to get married? Nope. He believes civil unions are the way to go. I bet he's for, to quote Hillary, "a strong form of civil unions." He wouldn't get in the way of states giving us the right to marry, but will he support it? No, he will not. Well, congratulations, the first black man that we've ever nominated for president supports a policy that boils down to separate but equal. So our Democratic candidate doesn't support gay marriage. If that's true, he's a bigot just like Senator McCain. If not, he's just a coward, who's afraid to put out what might be a polarizing opinion. I suspect it's the latter. Isn't it the job of a leader to, oh what's the word that I'm looking for, oh right, LEAD? To do the right thing, and bring the people that follow him or her along? I guess that would be too much to hope for.

Please no one forward me Senator Obama's open letter to the LGBT Community. I've read it, and it's not enough. Please, everyone stop kidding yourselves into thinking that if he gets into office, he's going to do more for our community than he's promised. That's not how the world works, and it's definitely not how politicians work. He'll do the bare minimum he can to get our votes in 2012, which is very little, since he'll probably have to compete with someone along the lines of that old coot McCain. Remember Don't Ask, Don't Tell? Maybe when Obama gets into office, he'll get us civil unions, but we won't be able to tell anyone. The day he gets elected and disproves that I will happily write another posting on this website and eat crow. Until that happens, please, no one else send me any missives thinking that I might want to donate to his campaign, or volunteer to spread the word of hope, or give any of my time to promoting someone who won't stand up for one of my basic human rights. If you would like to, I'm glad. Truly, I'm happy you still have enough faith in people to believe in someone. I don't. If he wants my full support, he can prove himself worthy of it.

So yes, I'm voting for him in November. Not because I think he's the greatest thing since sliced bread. I'm voting for him because, when all is said and done, I guess a coward is better than a bigot. And Victoria will end me if I don't.

**My apologies (particularly to my dear friend Josh) for this posting not being the most humorous. But the Mets blew a 2 run lead in the bottom of the 9th (to lose their 6th game in the last 7) as I wrote this. I'm salty today. I'm a salt lick. I looked back at Sodom and Gomorrah and now I'm a pillar of salt. But enjoy the rant. I'll try to make sure the next entry is laugh-out-loud. Shouldn't be too hard. I'm very funny after all.**

Why David Wright Should Marry Me

The ultimate question for all readers of this blog up to this point has been "Okay, so why SHOULD David Wright marry you?" It was certainly the first thought on my mother's mind (yes, my mother reads this blog), and the first thing out of her mouth upon her review. The second was that she didn't realize that Madonna had a song called "Like A Prayer," a revelation that actually succeeded in leaving me speechless. Other things that have left me speechless include the re-election of George Bush, Jennifer Hudson winning an Oscar, and this.

Also, the use of the term "marry" is slightly suspect. Our only real options would be to a) move to Massachussetts and actually get married, b) fly to California and get married before the population of that great state has the chance to write a basic inequality into law, then come back to New York and hope Governor Patterson's new bill passes or c) enter into a domestic partnership with many of the same rights and privileges as a marriage. In light of these difficulties, I was thinking of titling this blog Why David Wright Should Enter Into a Domestic Partnership with Many of the Same Rights and Privileges as Marriage (but Not Enough to Scare the Far Right Voting Base and Single-Handedly Lead to Another Republican Presidency) with Me and Other Stories, but that doesn't really roll trippingly off the tongue. So I went the expedient route, and just used marry.

But the question still stands: why should the Mets' All-Star 3rd baseman marry me? Well, outside of the fact that my love is pure, I can offer him one thing that none of the numerous women who have undoubtedly proposed to him can: if David Wright marries me, he can become the gay Jackie Robinson.

Jackie Robinson, for those of you who might not know (I know my audience, that's not a ridiculous statement), was the first African-American baseball player in the major leagues. He debuted with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1947 and basically ended segragation in baseball. If you would like to know more, I suggest wikipedia, not a blog dedicated to convincing a (by all reports straight) professional athlete to take up homosexuality.

Being the gay Jackie Robinson would mean so many things for David. For one thing, he would become the first athlete to ever come out while still playing his sport. Billy Bean and Glenn Burke are both former Major Leaguers who busted out of the closet after retirement from baseball, and there are a few others from other sports. But David is already a star in his world, and the face of the New York Mets (and what a face it is!); for him to come out would rock baseball. Picture if someone in Hollywood, like say Tom Cruise, was gay. And he had decided to admit it right after Top Gun was released. This is what we're talking about people.

Secondly, he would inspire all those boys who want to play baseball but are afraid of public showering. I'm not going to say that I had an overwhelming desire to play sports as a young man, I was far more concerned with figuring out a triple time step. But I imagine that somewhere out there, a young 'mo in training dreams of stepping up to the plate and then gives himself a panic attack at the thought of the showers afterwards. For those few non-homosexuals reading this, public showers for gay guys are the equivalent of watching porn while running through a mine field: you're having a great time, but really can't just relax and enjoy for fear of your life. That statement excludes public showers in Chelsea. If David could show these young men to not be afraid, the whole face of baseball could be changed...in another 10 years or so, all of these lads would be looking to play in the majors. The tobacco and chaw industry would take a major hit, baseball uniforms would become much more flattering as a whole, and smacks on the ass would increase exponentially.

Finally, he would virtually guarantee a spike in Met game TV ratings, as homos all over the country suddenly start to care about the sport. There are few groups of people out there as rabidly fanatic about their icons then homosexuals. Tell the wrong gay that you think Cher is a plastic surgery nightmare, and you're going to find yourself staring down the wrong end of an epic hissy fit. Imagine how they would flock to David's banner, should he decide to not only accept them, but to join them! I'm picturing a Mets Float in the Gay Pride Parade, the hot dog vendors being treated as a visual gag, and a dramatic upswing in the gay population's understanding of The Infield Fly Rule.

All this is not to say that being the first gay baseball player wouldn't be hard for David. But luckily, he would have me by his side to get him through the hard times. Double entendre intended.

Popular Demand

This blog is but a week old, and there are already requests and suggestions from faithful readers about topics they would like to see taken on here. Since one of the points of this endeavor is to entertain those very faithful readers, it seemed a good idea to follow their lead. This also confirms the long held rumor that people are desperate to know my opinion on a myriad of different subjects. Anyway, we here on the "Why David Wright..." team encourage participation from all corners...you want to hear my opinion on something? Submit topic ideas in the comments section, and I'll happily throw in my $500 worth!

Gay Candy Bars

Submitted by Brooke

What, I ask you, is the gayest candy bar around? Well, before last night, I think the floor would really have been open on this, though my vote would have been for Twix. Two phallic rods with a sweet creamy caramel in the center, that usually ends up somewhere on your face while you eat it? That's pretty gay. And kind of hot. But move over Twix, you have been de-throned by a new candy bar on the block, which you can see right here. No, your eyes do not deceive you.

There is now candy bar just called Big Mo' .

Now, a bit of research and careful consideration of the punctuation will quickly reveal to the studied observer that this candy bar actually has nothing to do with homosexuals. It turns out NasCar star Dale Earnhardt Jr. has decided to launch his own candy bar, named after his hometown of Mooresville, North Carolina, and also his old group of friends who went by (and I'm not making this up) The Dirty Mo' Posse. If that's not begging to be the title of a gay porn film I don't know what is. Below I have posted, directly from the official Big Mo' Website, what can only be described as a mission statement (let's all put on our thinking caps, and hunt for gay subtext!):

What is Big Mo’? Sure, it’s a candy bar, but it’s also everything that Dale Jr. loves—including chocolate, peanut butter and caramel. Big Mo’ is racing. The way you need it like oxygen, because it’s in your DNA and if you’re not around it, you can’t keep going. Big Mo’ is your buddies. Hanging out ‘til all hours of the night crackin’ jokes, playing pool and just kicking back and having a good time like you always do. Big Mo’ is being true to yourself. When you get right down to it, that’s the only thing that matters—doing what you love because you love it and not needing any other reason.

At least we can all see that this candy bar clearly understands that people are born gay...after all you need a Big Mo' cause it's in your DNA. To round out this discussion, take a look at this classic Daily Show clip with Samantha Bee exposing the dark homosexual underbelly of Nascar.

Mandatory Sterilization

Submitted by Heather, Dorene and Lisa (popular topic!)

So I went to see Sex and the City, a little movie that could, which premiered last weekend to quite the successful box office. Unsurprising, since I think the entire population of Queens was squeezed into the movie theatre to watch the film when I went. I know going to see a movie like this on opening weekend was asking for trouble, but I refuse to have my quality of life diminished because people are trash. I was prepared to wait in line to get into the theater. I was prepared to have late-comers trying to squeeze into seats that weren't there. I was even prepared for people to talk through the movie and reiterate things that just happened as if everyone else in the theater had gone spontaneously blind, and they were the helpful health care workers helping the hundreds of sudden cripples get their $12 worth out of the film.

I was not prepared for mothers to bring their infants. To an R-rated movie.

I mean seriously, what is the matter with people? Can't the theater stop this? I'm not one of those people who thinks that kids are scarred by this kind of thing...frankly I would imagine that if a kid can't wipe his or her own ass yet, they can't really even comprehend what's going on. But seriously, I felt like pulling a Samantha and turning around to the woman sitting behind us with her crying baby and sweetly saying "That kid is an asshole." If there ever was an argument for forced sterilization, it was sitting behind me in that theater last night.

Unless you want to bring up Dorene's contention that crack-ho's should be spayed upon the birth of their second child, that they are trying to exploit for disability checks. Dorene works for a law clinic if you couldn't guess.

Or Lisa's belief that anyone who wears lamé spandex leggings should be neutered. It's not okay, and we as a society need to stop accepting it and turning the other way. Face it people, if you aren't part of the solution you're part of the problem.

Mandatory sterilization. It's gonna sweep the nation.