Why does anyone care whether Carrot Top is gay? It seems to be news this week—that Carrot Top was seen recently at a gay club wearing eyeliner. Oh, please. I read that somewhere online this week, in the gossip section of some news page, and then again it showed up tonight on Rome’s sports talk show on ESPN, a vehicle for some lame joke and an excuse for Carrot Top bashing, as if we need another excuse. But I just don’t get it. I mean, I don’t understand why it’s been deemed newsworthy. It seems to me that a large percentage of the entertainment industry might be gay. Who among us is gasping in disbelief with the news? Am I being too sensitive in suggesting that there’s a little bit of disguised gay bashing at play? We all find Carrot Top annoying, a little irritating. We’re meant to, I think. And this bit of gossip tops off our annoyance, lending some legitimacy to it, as if to say, “Oh, he’s gay. Yes, he’s annoying.” It’s subtle, and yes, I usually find such claims silly and hypersensitive when made by other groups. I’m not saying this is any different. I’m merely saying that it explains what is otherwise a completely asinine news item and a gratuitous gay outing. Carrot Top has strongly denied the “charge.” (Maybe that’s what I find so grating about this and similar stories—that it seems to be a charge.) Too bad he’s denying. I wish he’d just say, “Of course I’m gay, you loathsome twits. And you can see me at that same gay bar on a regular basis.” Perhaps he’s not gay, but he seems gay to me. I mean, he’s so damned annoying. Hehe Following the Carrot Top story, Rome made short work of the Liza Minelli divorce, and of her husband’s claim that she abused him, by saying “Get a spine.” Hehe Of course. (Mind you—I was at the gym when Rome was on. I don’t watch his show of my own volition. That must be made perfectly clear.)

There’s a woman I see regularly at the gym. She’s always working the cardio equipment diligently. She’s in her late 30s and wears black tights and a black sports bra, her long dark hair pulled back tightly. She steps through her Stairmaster workout in quick, short, measured steps, holding lightly onto the bar in front of her with both hands as if a rabbit or rodent standing upright out of its hole. She is usually carefully reading a copy of the New England Journal of Medicine. Occasionally she’ll highlight a particularly interesting passage with a pink highlighter she keeps in the magazine holder. She does the maximum 30 minutes on that machine and then moves to the bicycle—one of those compulsive cardio people who works herself into a frothing pile of sweat, as if intending to burn off the unwanted extra pounds all in a single evening. She doesn’t really speak to anyone, so I have no way of knowing what she’s like. Why then do I find her so contemptible? I do this more than I should. Someone will grate on me for no good reason, invariably someone I’ve never spoken to. I’ll focus on the person, conjuring up all that I find annoying. And then one day I’ll actually have occasion to speak to them, and I’ll find them very nice, all of my ill feelings quickly dissipating. But until then… well, I imagine her to be a nurse. She’s rather full of herself, or rather, she’s impressed with her professional standing, and much of her personal identity is wrapped up in it. She’s single, a career woman, but sometimes late at night she wishes she weren’t single. She does all that she believes she should, eating well, exercising regularly, keeping current in her profession. I imagine her life to be like a Tupperware bowl lid that you can’t quite get on all the way—you struggle frantically, chasing one little edge around and around to cover the top and complete the seal so that the contents don’t get out, but you can’t quite do it. She lives a life that’s hermetically sealed, complete in all unimportant ways, but devoid of meaning, devoid of things that matter. That’s my harsh judgment on her, and why I find her so annoying, though I’m certain I’ll like her if I ever get to know her.