I don't get a lot of stereotypical "gay" things. I don't buy designer clothes, I don't decorate, and I don't like divas. In fact, I'll go even further than that: I don't like people who like divas.

Obviously I understand the motivations behind these things. We buy designer clothes because we want to fit in, and look attractive. We decorate to create nice environments, and impress our friends. And we love divas because they've hit some odd level of fame where suddenly they can call all the shots. Considering we live in a world ruled by people who think Adam Lambert is outrageous, this is pretty much heaven for gays.

It takes very special circumstances to turn a performer into a diva. See, whereas us ordinary people are like cars or trucks, performers are like aircraft. They aren't stuck on solid ground. Some of them are helicopters, some of them are planes. They fly around from place to place, alighting occasionally but mostly staying high above the hoi polloi.

Sometimes, though, these aircraft fly so high and so fast they achieve what's called "escape velocity": they break through gravity and shoot into space, where they float in their own special atmosphere. They never, ever come back to earth.

With aircraft like the Space Shuttle, this special atmosphere means weightlessness and sub-zero temperatures. With entertainers, this means never having to wear socks twice, or eat brown M&Ms.

Oddly, some people adore divas, and I can't figure out why. Without the super-talent, they're just bitches with crazy demands. Nobody laughs when Mariah Carey says she has to be showered with pink, butterfly-shaped confetti upon exiting her limo, but that same demand would get Jim Belushi sent to the psycho ward.

And these demands get pretty ridiculous. Lady GaGa travels with a tarot reader, and needs a selection of non-smelling cheese on ice waiting in her dressing room. Jennifer Lopez supposedly requires eight dozen white lilies, three varieties of Coke and a constant room temperature of 77 degrees. Madonna's dressing room needs a new toilet seat, as well as endless cases of bottled Kabbalah water. Mariah Carey must be provided with twenty white kittens, and when she ventures into public one hundred white doves should be released.

When people say they admire divas, then, this is what I hear: I envy super-talented people, because they can act as ridiculous as they want and people have to bow to their demands. In fact, if I had any talent, buddy, you'd be ironing my jockstrap right now.

Of course, all of this springs out of sour grapes. I just broke up with a diva because of his demands. He couldn't eat food that touched other food. He needed every square inch of my closet space. He couldn't shower without his $27 soap.

The dealbreaker, though, he copied from Eminem. There was absolutely no way he could perform unless his entire backstage area was bleached, front to back, top to bottom.

And girlfriend, if you think I'm talking about cleaning up a theater, you don't know divas.