Back in 2008, I started writing a collection of humorous essays about growing up gay in NYC and working in the entertainment industry called I Hope My Mother Doesn't Read This. Two years later, it was finished and I started the arduous process of submitting the manuscript to agents and publishers across the country. Four years and countless rejection letters later, I decided to give up hope on ever seeing it in print. But a year later, I was amazed when an email to an old friend led to a publishing deal in a matter of days. A month after that, I had signed a contract and found out the book would be published this Fall.
After spending the summer editing and updating the collection, it finally arrived a few weeks ago, ripe with tales of sordid hookups, narcotic mishaps and a few stories culled from years of working at Saturday Night Live. My takeaway from this entire process is that sometimes, the only thing necessary to get something accomplished in this world is resilience. Lots of it.
Below are a few interstitial chapters -- or "palette cleansers" as I like to call them -- that are sprinkled between a few of the essays. Like that time I gave a trucker a lap dance. Or that time I hosted a New Year's party on mushrooms. Or that time I got high with the "midget" from Twin Peaks... well, you get the idea.
IN THE BEGINNING...
Why are parents disappointed when their children grow up to be gay, mentally ill or alcoholic? I mean, take a look at your gene pool: Uncle Gary and his "special friend" own an antique shop, Aunt Phyllis has the nerves and Grandpa Harry's been carrying around that flask since 1977. So just who did you expect to pop out of your vagina? Eleanor Roosevelt?
The first clue: My mother totally should have known I was gay when I told her I wanted to be Wonder Woman for Halloween when I was five years old. But still, this woman was shocked when I came out fourteen years and countless costumes later...
The second clue: My father totally should have known I was gay, when, on the first day of Little League, I placed my mitt up to my face to catch a ball, and wound up hobbling around the field with a black eye and a broken pair of glasses. But still, this man was shocked when I came out seven years and countless black eyes later.
The third clue: I'm not even gonna mention those white capezios.
GURL, PLEASE
In my freshman year of high school, I became a member of The Alvernian Drama Society, easily the most pretentious-sounding name of a theater club in the history of mankind. Each Fall, we'd produce a play, and every Spring, a musical. In one of our Fall selections, a British farce called See How They Run, I was cast as The Bishop of Lax, and must have subconsciously chosen to play this character as a raging queen because three of our school's brothers left in the first act because they thought I was ridiculing priests. The sad thing is I wasn't even aware I was doing this. I was just doing what came naturally.
Another sign I might one day become a flaming homo came during the run of Ten Little Indians, when I decided to put on a see-through purple negligee one of the actresses wore. Much to the delight of my fellow closet-case actors and a few girls who inexplicably still had a crush on me, I ran up and down Francis Lewis Boulevard, holding a poster for the show while screaming at passing cars, "Come See The Play!"
Amazingly, half these people were surprised when I came out in college three years later. The other half laughed while asking things like, "You really didn't know?" and "This is for real?" Considering I was wearing hot pants and a lycra T-shirt at Limelight's Disco 2000 when I told them, I really can't blame them for their reaction.
SORRY, DARLIN'
I used to think it would be so cool to run into a celebrity you loved and recite a line from one of their movies to them. So when I ran into Gina Gershon at an SNL after-after party one night, I seized my opportunity to say my favorite line from Showgirls while she poured a beer from the keg. With no introduction, I grabbed her hand, looked at her nails and said, "I'm not into that whore look, anymore, darlin'." What followed next can only be described as the most uncomfortable eight seconds of my life, as she looked around the room for security, turned and walked away.
HOUSEWARES
Never have a three-way with someone you meet through the personal ads of a gay nightlife magazine. The one time my boyfriend and I tried it, we slept with a seemingly nice guy who wound up calling a week later to ask if he could bake Special K in our oven. Apparently, the gas in his apartment had been turned off and he needed a little cat tranquilizer to take the edge off.
Like a dumbass, I told him to come over. He baked his Special K in a pyrex dish my grandmother gave me and was on his way in an hour. Thankfully, I never saw him again. Although, to this day, I think of him whenever I make shrimp scampi.
Greg Scarnici currently works as an Associate Producer at "Saturday Night Live" and is the author of "I Hope My Mother Doesn't Read This" available on Amazon and iBooks. Connect with him and his social networks on www.gregscarnici.com