I think it's time we have a talk. You don't call me though, so this open letter will have to suffice.
In fact, Neil, like any celebrity boyfriend, you've started taking my affections for granted. I'm not obligated to post pictures of you with your shirt off, I do it because I care, dammit. In your role as Doogie Howser, you were the original blogger (all settled down in your bedroom with a snack wearing pajamas and pecking out your daily entries), so you, of all people, should understand that.
You blew off my birthday party without even sending flowers or a card. While other celebrities make shoutout videos about how much they love Bilerico Project, you've remained silent. Most shamefully of all, when you thanked all your endorsers in the AfterElton Gay of the Decade contest, you named everyone but me.
Still, you've always been ahead of your time, Neil. Doogie didn't even have a website to publish his diary on for everyone to judge him. (No comments? How did Doogie ever feel validated by anonymous strangers?) An online-only short film with musical numbers? Brilliant. Guest judge on American Idol? Gripping. Harold and Kumar? Insightful and moving.
Still, I feel like I need to do something drastic to get your attention. I've blogged about you, I've Twittered you, and I've helped you win a prized title that lasts ten years. (Can the Oscars say that? No, I don't think so.) What next? What can I do?
Neil, you did such a great job of hosting the TV Land Awards that I started giving this some thought. Do you know what it reminded me of? Ellen DeGeneres and reruns of I Love Lucy. Lucy's not important though, so keep following me here...
Ellen is your lesbian step-sister. You're both blond, you're both queer, and you've both got a gift with the witty retort. You're both self-deprecating and cute enough to be eaten with cupcakes. You two are a matched set - a yin and yang of celebrity wholesomeness and homosexuality.
Now I know you're asking yourself, "What is my not-so-celebrity boyfriend going to do? How does he have any love left to give me? His fondness for me makes me feel like tiny kittens are playing on my belly. I've been such a cad in ignoring him for so long! What's he going to do?"
I'm going on a one-man strike, Neil.
From now on, I refuse to watch any awards show unless it's hosted by you or Ellen DeGeneres. That's not an offer a gay man makes lightly, Neil - as you well know.
This isn't something I'd do for just anyone! I mean, obviously, I'd do it for Ellen too, but I'm a lesbian at heart; I'm friends with all my exes and I love granola. Anyhow, put her out of your mind and focus back on me, Neil.
Tonys? Oscars? Grammys? MTV Music Awards? Daytime Emmys? They're all gone unless you're standing on stage reading Bruce Vilanch jokes off a teleprompter and hoping that the next person doesn't go long as they thank their 3rd grade teacher and Aunt Bessy Sue for teaching them about life, and justice, and God and how important those lessons are when making a film like "Romy & Michelle's High School Reunion."
This gay will take a stand. I will not be pushed over. I will not gag down another man's limp attempt as he desperately tries to convince me that the night will end well if he can just get control of the performance. (Hello, Jon Stewart!)
From now on, I will only fall to my knees for you, Neil. And maybe a few other non-celebrity types. Oh, and Ellen DeGeneres. My God, she pops up at the most annoying times, doesn't she? Is she like that in real life?
I hope you realize what a sacrifice I'm making. Not watching the Oscars is like drinking paint thinner for gay men. Throw in the Tonys and you might as well ask any normal pink-blooded man to wear white after Labor Day. It's a burden, but I'm willing to do it if it'll catch your attention.
I'll end my boycott of bad one-liners and Kanye-West-moments if you admit that you've started taking my affections for granted. You don't have to send flowers, of course. I don't want to sound pushy. But maybe a personal tour around the lot? Lunch together at the commissary? Shoutout for the blog? Interview? Restraining order?
Just call me. Or e-mail. Or Tweet, or Facebook. Or fax or certified mail. Smoke signals even.
I'm open. And I'd still fall to my knees if you asked me nicely.