DWJ, DWG, or DWTPT?

They may be united, but these states couldn’t be any more different. Some may be red or blue, but many are pink, orange, green, yellow, and a few are very gray. Some take great pride in their states, and one in particular thinks it is the greatest place on earth. I know states can’t think, but personification is a tool I like to use like alliteration, alimony, and allspice.

One way to judge the appeal of a state is by its trailer parks – at least those you can see from the Eisenhower Interstate System. Did you know President Eisenhower was the only one born in Texas? Pennsylvania and Ohio have the most uniform and beautiful trailer parks I saw. I imagine a bunch of white trash Stepford Wives living in them. All are set on angles, spaced evenly with car ports, and every one is the same model from the same manufacturer. Palm Springs trailer parks are the only ones you can truly call trailer parks. When you pull in, you realize where Tracy and Nicky parked their long, long trailer in 1954. At first glance, you see Mid-Century Modern color schemes then you notice that the bump-outs and porches are attached to actual trailers which were towed by Mercurys and Hudsons in the 1950s. The trailer parks in South Dakota and Wyoming were dreadful. They were a mish-mash of trailers, RVs, campers and the occasional manufactured home set willy-nilly on large, dry parcels of land. I was ashamed to call myself trailer park trash, but these are the parks that give us our reputation.

Another thing I noticed about Wyoming. No one bathes there. Every time I stopped for gas or coffee, some guy with black teeth, dirty fingernails and a ripped T-shirt was working the cash register. I was careful not to touch any surfaces. However, they were very polite.

Nevada was the curious state. It was the only place where people commented on my license plates. “You are a long way from home.” I heard that a dozen times. For a state where every billboard tells you that you will win thousands of dollars playing slots at Walgreen’s, there were a lot of poor people.

Another way to judge a state is by the way they handle construction. Along the northern route, I relayed before how professionally they handled miles-long construction projects without any interruption to the flow of traffic. The southern route is another story. Let’s take Illinois, a state that gave us Lincoln and Obama. Once you cross into the land of Lincoln, you stop – literally. For three hours. Literally. Three hours. This was mid-afternoon on a Friday. The problem was bridge construction where three highways meet. The signage indicated that two lanes would become one. Apparently, two lanes became none. Once we started moving, everyone got up to speed for about two miles, until the same thing happened again. Then again. Kentucky, reduces everything to one lane from the left, then opens it up for a mile, then from the right, then opens it up for a mile, then the left again. You are given twenty-five feet of warning before merging begins again. I think the person in charge of construction does this because he likes watching people go 70 mph then slam on their brakes. One trucker actually got annoyed and blocked the lane that was merging, so traffic wouldn’t be further impeded by those wanting to get as far in front as possible. They say that if you hit a highway worker, you will go to jail for 30 years – they have signs indicating this. But, I think if you hit the guy who came up with the method of diverting traffic through construction in Kentucky, they will build a statue in your honor.

Speaking of which, are all highways in the middle of America only two lanes in each direction? The good news is everyone knows it is cruise on the right, and only pass on the left … until you cross into Virginia. I was born in Virginia, and I can say that Virginians are the worst drivers in the country with Marylanders coming in a close second. In DC, they aren’t drivers, just idiots. In Virginia, they do not understand the concept of the two-lane highway. They go over the speed limit on the right and 5 mph below on the left. If you are passing someone, they ride your tail until you complete your maneuver. And another thing you will notice about Virginia drivers – they pick their noses and text while driving. All of them. Seriously, everyone was elbows deep into their own sinus cavities while sending messages. Never borrow a Virginian’s phone. Ever.

The most annoying part of the drive was California, but don’t tell a Californian. All those earthquakes, mudslides, fires and Lindsay Lohan trials make them very sensitive. When you are on the I-80 crossing over the border, you begin the most treacherous journey of your life through the Sierra Nevada Mountains. The posted speed limit is 65 mph, but you will be going 75 mph and 45 mph and 75 mph and 45 mph on S-curve after S-curve until you do the one thing they say a driver could never do – make yourself car sick. As if that wasn’t bad enough, on the way down from Upper Lake, California, after my retreat, there was an accident, so Gladys (my GPS, whom I argued with for two weeks), sent me on a different mountain road with a posted speed of 20 mph and rightfully so. The S-curves were so tight that it was like driving a space ship. Shit was flying all over my truck. I was hit in the head by a jar of Tang. The GPS bean bag would slide to one side, then the other, then the other.

After all that, I was diverted again right into the longest traffic jam I ever saw. While trying to merge into traffic, I noticed something you don’t see in my parts. People do not let you in at all. So, you have to force yourself in then they flip you off. Now, I know why drivers shoot each other in the loony state. I experienced this all the way down the state, and a sensitive Californian took umbrage at my generalization of Californian drivers explaining that only northern Californians drive like that. Last time I checked, Los Angeles was in southern California, and I had my share of similar experiences there, but again, I was insensitive. No wonder California is the rehab capital of the world.

California is also the home of Palm Springs, which according to its citizens is the greatest place on earth. All other places on earth are third-world countries with Sally Struthers standing in a mud pit wearing a fur coat and complaining about the flies and heat.

They say it is a dry heat in Palm Springs. Bull shit. Heat is heat. I actually saw an old Gay man, waiting for a cross walk, melt into the sidewalk and disappear into a puddle of bronzer and Lipitor. All that was left was a straw hat and his artificial hip. You can’t drive a convertible there unless you have Teflon seats. I lived in south Florida for five years. The temperature never made it above 95, and we had a breeze. In Palm Springs, it was 108 (by the way, that is the setting I use for a Lean Cuisine), and you have these strong, hot winds, much like an evening in my trailer after a meal of Indian food. Then I would hear, “Oh, but you have humidity in Florida.” You still sweat and stink; it just evaporates faster in Palm Springs. And, speaking of which. I have been there twice; where are the fucking springs? They have these misters, which fog up your glasses, but I didn’t see any springs. Also, what is with all the privacy fences? Everyone lives in a compound, even the trailer park people. I was told I was looking at Cary Grant’s house. All I saw was a gate with a CG on it. It could have been Carole Goosby’s house for all I knew. Who is Carole Goosby? My point exactly.

My friends want me to move there. Would you believe I am considering it? But, if I do, I am going to have the most open house with no window coverings just to freak everyone out. I am also going to say hello to all my neighbors. Do they make a sunscreen with an SPF of 236?

On the way home, I drove through Naziland – Arizona, where if you have a tan, which I do, you are careful never to stop, and you always have your citizenship papers on hand. They have a wrinkled, old bitter governor who is in love with the sheriff of Maricopa County, who only likes white people. So, why is she living in a state that borders Mexico? That is like moving to Tel Aviv and declaring you don’t like Jews.

From there, I drove through my favorite state, New Mexico, the most beautiful state. The scenery is breathtaking. New Mexico is the nation’s meth capital, according to all the billboards. No wonder the colors are so vibrant there. In addition, New Mexico gave us Vivian Vance. Therefore, I have nothing negative to say about New Mexico.

But, cross the next border, and you enter another country – literally. Good ole Texas. They want to secede from the union. I say let them.

Up to that point, I stayed in the right lane with the cruise set at 4 mph over the posted limit because where I am from, they will only pull you over if you are going 10 mph over. There I was in the right lane, going steady with all the traffic in front of and behind me and people passing me as if I were standing still, when I spotted a state trooper driving in the passing lane. He would pause by each car, and then it was my turn. Now, as I said, the cruise was set at 4 mph over the limit, and everyone else was driving at that speed. He hovered beside me for about 30 seconds, flashed his lights and pulled me over. Usually, one gets nervous in these situations, and I have never, I mean never, been pulled over in 35 years of driving. I knew this was bull shit.

What was my offense? DWJ, DWG, or DWTPT? I have a Black friend with a very expensive car, who won’t drive in Virginia because he gets pulled over for DWB all the time. I always thought driving an American pick-up truck with no identifying stickers would make me immune to harassment.

He walked up to the passenger window, which I reached over and rolled down (I know he wondered why I had no electric windows), and he said, “You are driving in excess of our posted speed limit. License and registration, please.”

While I was retrieving the documents, he asked me, “How do you like that GPS stand?”

Seriously, we are going to have a conversation? I responded that I liked it. He then asked me to step out of the vehicle and sit in his car. He commented on the size of the body bag luggage carrier and while walking over to the car, he asked if I had any weapons then turned his back to me. Ummm, if you wondered about a weapon, why would you turn your back to me?

I sat up front, and he asked me all kinds of questions including, “Where are you going?” “What do you do for a living?” “What do you write?” “How do you like your truck?” “How often do you work out?” With the last question, I was beginning to wonder what this was really about. He turned out to be an OK guy, who seemed to feel a little bad that he harassed me for being from Maryland since I gave him no grief and answered his probing questions politely. He let me off with a warning, and I didn’t have to blow him. A win-win for everyone.

As I continued on my journey, I noticed that everyone who was pulled over in Texas had “foreign” plates. Wouldn’t it be more prudent to pursue actual criminals than a Gay Trailer Park Jew in a pick-up truck with a nifty GPS, Maryland tags and smokin body?

For the remainder of the trip, I drove the posted speed limit, until I reached Maryland, where driving is a contact sport.

Although I joke, I met very nice people everywhere I went, the hygienically challenged in Wyoming, the paranoid snobs of southern California, the clean and helpful people of Minnesota, the friendly slow people of Tennessee, and even the nosy state trooper in Texas.

If you had to perform favors to get out of a ticket, follow me, get on my email list, buy my books at www.miltonstern.com.

See the USA in Your GMC

If there is one thing everyone should do, it is drive cross country. Or is it drive across country? AMC did make the Rambler Cross Country, so we will go with cross country. Whatever you prefer, before you die, do it because if you wait until after you die, you won’t be able to see out back of the hearse. They have curtains over the windows as if the sun would bother your eyes.

I am going to blame my rambling on altitude sickness since I am in Salt Lake City. No, I am not converting to Mormonism. They don’t drink coffee, and I drink at least twelve cups a day, which means I would need a twelve step program to get over my twelve cups. Besides, I have just come back from walking around downtown at the church square, and they make me look like a fashionista! I do have to say that their gardener is a genius. Oh my God, the flowers were breathtaking. With my crazy magnet in full force, a little old lady in white slacks, pink shirt and matching hat struck up a conversation with me about the flowers, and I, being so shy and demure, engaged her. She wanted to know if my gardens looked like these. Poor little crazy lady had no idea she was talking to the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park … until I told her.

This is not my first cross-country trip (now see, cross works there). In 1986 with my brother and an overly-packed Chrysler New Yorker, we trekked the southern route, so I could start a new life in Los Angeles and become a famous comedy writer. How did that turn out, you ask? Talk to the crazy lady in the pink shirt and hat. One doesn’t go from the writer’s room on the Alan Brady Show to a trailer park in Jessup easily.

As I was saying somewhere in the previous paragraphs, I am on a cross country trip. I am also doing everything I swore I would never do. I am posting constant updates on Facebook about where I am along with photos taken from my car while driving, so burglars can break into my trailer and redecorate. They say you shouldn’t text and drive, but no one said anything about snapping pictures. I am totally against texting and driving, and when I see that billboard that says, “Text 312 for more information about texting and driving,” I do. My friend Frank texts while driving a 1965 Falcon with a three-on-the-tree. You can always tell when he is texting. He starts driving 30 mph in a 55 mph zone. One day he got into a heated text argument, and he came to a complete stop on I-95. Of course, no one noticed because no matter what time of day, you are always at a crawl on I-95.

Speaking of crawls, I don’t want to hear another word about how none of the stimulus money is being used. So far, every state I have driven through has a twenty-five mile long construction zone with two-lane traffic, and at the end of each zone is a sign thanking President Obama for the funds to repave and repair – even the red states! However, unlike my home region, they know how to detour traffic without backing it up. In South Dakota, they use early 2000s Buick Lesabre lead cars to guide traffic through detours in shifts. It is the most brilliantly choreographed thing I have ever seen. 

Let me tell you how I ended up on this trip. I signed up for a retreat in Saratoga Springs. After paying my fee, I figured I would drive to New York. It was not long before I found out it was at the Saratoga Springs Retreat Center in Upper Lake, California. Quite a difference. Rather than get into a tizzy, I decided to drive cross country (there he goes again) and visit friends I have not seen in years along the way. Simple enough right? To me it was.

To everyone else it was too simple. There is nothing I love more than overly complicated crap, but my friends and colleagues and acquaintances and neighbors apparently love overly complicated crap. The biggest issue was my truck. Everyone, and I mean everyone, wanted to know how I would drive cross country in a compact pick-up. I thought nothing of it. I took it to Cleveland with no issues. It has air conditioning and cruise-control; what else do I need? Apparently, when you drive cross country alone, you need a four-door car. I guess, so you can pick up hitch hikers and do your own remake of that Valerie Harper “Movie of the Week” about the housewife in the station wagon who picks up a hitch hiker who goes bananas when she plays classical music. Or was it Cloris Leachman?

I was advised to rent a car. “Why do you want to put those miles on your truck?” Ummm because I bought the truck to go places? Why would I buy it if I had no intention of using it? This I have never understood. Although my other car is vintage, I treat it like a car. After all, it is a car. I used to own a 1979 Lincoln Continental, which I would drive to the supermarket and K-Mart (before they went completely downhill) and everywhere else I wanted to go. People would ask how I could drive it so much. Ummm because it’s a car? Although I have two vintage cars, and God help me, I am about to have three, I don’t collect things. If I buy something, I use it. I have three vintage percolators, and I use them. I guess this is why I don’t get excited at car shows. The cars are just sitting there. To me, it would be like a vintage appliance show. Unless you are going to wash a load of my whites, don’t invite me. I guess I just don’t like staring at things.

My neighbor, the former dog walker, Mrs. M, was obsessed with the truck, and when I asked her to stop talking about it, she became obsessed with what I was going to pack and wear and where I would stay? She went on and on and on. She completely freaked when I said I would stay where I ended up for the day. I also asked her to stop because nothing makes me more annoyed than someone trying to make me a nervous wreck.

Here is where I am anomaly. Nobody is more anal than I am. My day is completely planned before I get out of bed. I can get more done by 10:00 am than most can do in a week. I know what I will be doing and where I will be every minute of the day. I do not like idle time. On vacation, which is rare for me, I don’t give a shit. I will be where I will be, and I will go where I will go. I once vacationed with someone we will call Roy, not to protect his identity but because that was his name. We went to Paris. He planned every single moment we were there. It felt like work. I kept looking for a time clock. He also forgot to allot time for relations, which was fine because he was lousy in bed, and my friend Christian said he looked like a cadaver. No wonder some people return from vacation exhausted.

With my pick-up packed, much to the chagrin of everyone, including my mechanic (who actually called yesterday to ask if I ran out of room in the truck), I began my journey. My first stop was to see my friends Danny and Michael in Lansing, Michigan. On the way there, I noticed they had the most beautiful trailer parks in Pennsylvania and Ohio – very uniform with all the mobile homes on an angle with manicured lawns and matching sheds and car ports. Lansing is another story. This is where the economy really hit rock bottom. Danny informed me it is the capital, but you wouldn’t have known that by the three cars on the main drag. No one can afford gas.

We had a great visit, and then it was off to Minnesota to see a man about a horseless carriage. I decided to take a quick trip into Minneapolis to have my picture taken with the Mary Richards statue because I am Gay after all. Of all the cities I have seen, none is cleaner than Minneapolis. You could eat off the streets. There was no evidence that it had snowed there just days before my arrival. Also, everyone in Minnesota is nice. They talk as if they stepped off the set of Fargo, but they are just as polite, friendly and helpful as they can be.

From there, it was off to Salt Lake City to visit Anthony and Jeff. I thought it would take three days, but I decided to do the second and third legs in one trip. That was seventeen hours of driving. I crossed three states and a time zone. I saw parts of this country many have not seen except on post cards. For the record, it was supposed to be sixteen hours, but I forgot about the time change. Oh well.

When you live on the East Coast, especially in a metropolitan area, where you are stuck in traffic three hours a day, you forget how beautiful this country really is. I am so glad I am seeing the USA in a GMC.

Also, I have washed the truck twice already. I hate a dirty vehicle. I know the people are looking at me while they pass wondering how that clean truck made it all the way from Maryland.

One last word about speed limits. We have them in the DC metropolitan region, but they are useless. The fastest I can go on I-95 during rush hour is 25 mph. I love when someone asks me if any of my cars has enough power to keep up with traffic. A Hoveround Power Chair with Chris Christie (pre and post lap-band) at the helm can keep up with traffic where I live.

I have now experienced rush-hour in the Midwest. The speed limit by the way is 75 mph. I think Caroline Appleby (that is the name of my truck) actually smiled when she saw that. During rush hour, they drive 75 mph. I could get easily get used to that.

To everyone, yes, my truck has enough room. Yes, it can keep up with traffic. Yes, I am comfortable. And to Mrs. M, I did not pack dress shoes. I didn’t even pack a dress.

If you want to see the USA in a GMC, follow me, get on my email list, share this with your friends and buy my books at www.miltonstern.com. 

How Gay Are You?

Years ago on Saturday Night Live, they had a game show skit called, “Quien Esta Mas Macho?” They would put up a photo of two famous people, and you had to guess. For example, Kathleen Turner and Edie Falco. Ponder that for a minute. I remember Lloyd Bridges was considered more macho than Robert Conrad, but I don’t remember why. Maybe it had something to do with the battery on Robert's shoulder because it takes poise to balance a D-cell.

Personally, I wanted them to play “Quien Esta Mas Homosexual?” My friend Christian told me the word is the same in Spanish and English, just pronounced differently – in Spanish: “homoseksual” with an accent on “al” if I remember correctly. It sounds more like a lifestyle in Spanish and a choice in English even though I was born that way. I would then put up a picture of Tom Cruise and George Clooney. Tough choice.

The thing is as much as I don’t know about designers and flowers and Broadway, I come off as the winner in ninety percent of the pairings. I continue to lose to George Michael and Beiberbelieberassholeteenageslouchypantswearingnotalentlesbianlookingtwink.

What if there were a quiz you could take to find out how gay you are? Of if you are straight curious, whether you might in fact be a friend of Dorothy … or Lucy … or Barbra ….

For example. Who is your favorite Angel? If you said Gabriel. Why are you reading my blog? If you said Sabrina Duncan, you are in fact, very gay. Kate Jackson as Sabrina Duncan provides us with the most basic test for gayness. She is the favorite of both gay men and lesbians!

If you said Jaclyn Smith as Kelly Garrett, you are bisexual.

If you said Farrah Fawcett as Jill Munroe, you are hopelessly heterosexual. However, once she burned that bed, all gay men and lesbians glammed onto her. Who hasn’t wanted to burn an ex’s bed? You haven’t? Oh. Neither have I.

Here is another one, Chevrolet Vega or Ford Pinto? Pinto of course. Sabrina drove a Pinto!

How about Laura Ashley or Martha Stewart? Who gives a shit?

Here are some more questions?

Do you know the difference between a duvet and a sham? A duvet is a cocktail and a sham was when Tyra Sanchez won RuPaul’s Drag Race. Oh wait. That is Dubonnet. I told you I knew nothing about decorating.

If you were offered tickets to see Celine Dion or Barry Manilow, which would you accept? Barry Manilow, of course, so you could watch his face and see if it moves then dish on him with your friends after the concert. For the record, I am a huge Barry Manilow fan, but I still razz on his face. Come to think of it, no one has razzed on my face in years.

What are your pet’s names? I remember going to a gay comedy show years ago, and one of the comics said that gay men's pets run away because of the names we give them. Then he imitated a flaming queen running through the park screaming, “Lorna, Joey, Liza, come back!”

By the way, if you know who Lorna, Joey and Liza are, you are sooooo gay. My dogs were named after characters on Bewitched. Need I say more?

My favorites are the macho gays. I have an old friend into wrestling and boxing and mixed martial arts, and we used to date when dinosaurs roamed the earth and K-cars were all the rage. Needless to say, relations with him were quite active and sweaty with lots of grunting and tests of strength and growling and … excuse me for a second. It was getting warm in here. Anyway, once the session was over, he would start talking about movies from Hollywood’s Golden Age, and this hairy, muscular, macho ape would have nothing but purses and pearls flying out of his mouth. Some found it off-putting, but I found it refreshing.

I still talk to him on the phone every once in a while, and he can go from Lloyd Bridges to Tom Cruise in a heartbeat.

I have another acquaintance who talks like a creepy kindergarten teacher, rhyming every other word in a very high-pitched voice. At the insistence of several friends, we once went on an actual date, which in the gay world means you will end up in the bedroom at some point either before or after dinner. Once there, he turned into a dark dungeon master. To this day, I still can’t decide who was creepier, Mrs. Landers by day or Vincent Price by night – who by the way was not gay.

The worst part is when you find out that one of your most fem friends is a scary creature in the bedroom. I have an old acquaintance, who has a reputation for sleeping around, to put it mildly. By day, he is this happy go lucky accountant who makes light hearted jokes and loves to bake fruity desserts with lots of flair. However, I know of a few people who have had relations with him, and what they have told me creeped me out. In the bedroom, he either whispers or says in a very low voice, “Who’s my boy? Yeah. Are you my boy? Yeah. You want Daddy to …” I can’t go on. Just the thought of him acting like that gives me the willies.

I always wanted to see if I could get kindergarten teacher and happy go lucky together and record just the sound then play it in the background of a haunted house.

Somebody in a gym years ago said he could tell gay people by the shoes they wore. According to him, they all wore pointy-toed shoes. So, I guess Robin Hood was gay. Maid Marian must have been a drag queen.

Another theorized that you could tell if a guy was gay if he talked a lot with his hands flailing around. That means all Italian men are gay. If only that were true.

My favorite of course was the theory that all gay men had loud domineering mothers and emotionally distant fathers. That would make every Jewish man in America gay. Come to think of it, whenever they seek out a spokesman from a gay organization for the evening newscast, he is always somebody named Greenberg, Steinberg or Weinstein. He is also always some nebishy queen with a whiny voice. I wonder why I am never called for a sound bite. 

Here is one last one for the road.

You go to buy a car and you can have one of two options but not both – seat warmers or a sunroof.

Think about it.

That is so gay. Follow me, join my email list, buy my books: www.miltonstern.com.

Wiping Away the Years

Yesterday while unraveling my extension cord, I got to thinking. Get your mind out of the gutter. I was getting ready to use that evil lawn care tool – the Weedeater. What you are thinking about uses batteries. Otherwise, I would go crazy during a black out. Although I carefully wind up my extension cord after every use, I still end up spending at least ten minutes unraveling it and spreading it out, or I end up all tangled up while trimming. OK, that did sound a little dirty.

Anyway, that ten minutes could be spent doing something more useful, and before you suggest a gas powered Weedeater, I don’t like the idea of hanging an internal combustion engine off my shoulder and storing it in a shed that is only feet from two very large, space shuttle sized propane tanks. That is why my lawnmower is a reel mower with no engine. I already have a thirty-year-old station wagon that could spontaneously combust at any moment, I don’t need to worry about lawn care equipment as well. I once lent my extension cord to a neighbor back when I lived in Dutch Village in Newport News, and he returned it all tangled up. How inconsiderate. This is why I don’t like lending people my things. They do not take care of their stuff the way I do. Yes, I know, my mother rushed my potty training, and all of you are paying the price for it.

As I was saying before I interrupted myself, that ten minutes spreading out my chord could be put to better use. I am known for my time management skills. I can get more done by 10:00 am on a Friday morning than most can get done in an entire weekend, so I am bothered by those things in life that take up valuable time. I work two jobs, run a home-based business, write a column for a magazine, edit a newsletter for a car club, write this stupid blog for which I don’t get paid, and I am working on a book, yet I still find myself with time to clean, organize closets and cabinets, do laundry, wash and detail my cars, and do lawn work. Nana used to say I was busier than a blue-assed fly. I still don’t know what that means.

The cicadas are returning after a seventeen year hiatus, and in a day or two, they have to come out of the ground, learn how to fly, find a mate, have wild fly-like sex, enjoy a post-coitus meal, land on a leaf and die, leaving a shell that would make a fabulous earring. Once ground temperature reaches sixty-four degrees and they emerge, I will check to see if they have blue asses because they are busy.

There are a lot of things in life that take up time. For instance, eating. I have not missed a meal since 1962, which is why my safe word is “dinner.” I am like a panda. I eat all day long, I have sex once a year, and I usually don’t do it correctly.

Anyone who has had the pleasure of dining with me notices that I eat like a prisoner. I clean my plate before Manfred from cell-block B can come over and dump my tray over my head, then drag me back to his cage for wild fly-like sex. Thank God, I am a law abiding citizen. I always say I am too pretty for prison. Not to mention that I attract the crazies, so sit back and imagine that for a while.

Don’t worry, I’ll wait. Yeah, prison sex – everyone’s fantasy from straight guys wanting to be a guard in an all-female prison to gay guys wanting to be a guard when Jeff Stryker is incarcerated. That is until you think about how long the usual sentence lasts and you realize this is one fantasy that goes on and on and on.

Back to food. Yes, I eat fast. I have been known to clean my plate before the waiter finishes serving everyone at the table, and that is when it is just two of us. If you do dine with me, and you are a slow eater, be prepared to hear me say, “Are you going to eat that?” If you don’t answer quickly enough, my fork will be stabbing whatever that is on your plate. I once had dinner with Ed’s sister, and she didn’t eat her broccoli, so I used my fork, like a gentleman of course, and took one floret. She about went ballistic. This surprised me because I thought she was Jewish. If you eat dinner with a Jewish person, be prepared to have him take a bite of your meal before he takes a bite of his. Seriously, I am more concerned with what you ordered than I am with mine because that means I can taste something else from the menu.

My father used to cough on his brother’s food when he was a kid, so he could have a double portion. I have yet to reach those classy heights.

Another thing that takes up a lot of valuable time is sleep. I don’t nap. I have never been able to nap. When I try to nap, all I think about is all the things I could be cleaning and folding. Then I get up and clean or fold something. You have been warned if you ever take a nap with me while naked. Think about it.

Years ago, I read David Brenner’s autobiography, Soft Pretzels with Mustard. Did you know he has made more talk show appearances than anyone in history? Do you even know who he is? Did you know he has been engaged to Tai Babilonia for eight years? Do you know who she is? In his book, he talked about how he only slept for three hours a night because he hated wasting time in bed. I tried this. First thing I found out was if you call your friends at three in the morning to see if they want to go grab a bite at a diner, they get a little annoyed. These were the days before cell phones and caller ID, so ringers usually weren’t turned off. The second thing I learned was that no one can live off three hours of sleep a night. For the one and only time in my life, I took a nap. Unfortunately, I was also driving. No one was hurt, and there was no damage to the car, which is surprising since I was about seven hundred feet into that corn field when I woke up. Have you ever tried to drive out of a corn field quickly while being chased by an angry farmer on a combine?

The one thing that takes up too much time is going to the bathroom, especially the paperwork. I dated a guy who only evacuated his bowels once a week. Thank God I was never around when that happened. But seriously, once a week? Obviously, he was not Jewish. Eight-seven percent of the people who have irritable bowel syndrome are Jewish. The other thirteen percent are converts.

I go at least three times a day, usually five. I know, too much information, but I calculated how much time I spend in the bathroom. At fifteen minutes a trip, and five a day, that is 1,368,750 minutes, which works out to 22,812 hours or 950 days. Half that time is spent wiping my ass, so I have spent 475 days or 1.3 years wiping my ass. How many of you work in an office where they have the John Wayne toilet paper? The kind that is rough as hell and won’t take shit off anyone. You can double your wiping time, unless you do what I do – carry a bag of baby wipes with you every time you go. I am not kidding.

Every time I have one of those evacuation orders that requires extra paper work, all I keep repeating to myself is, “I don’t have time for this! I don’t have time for this!” Now that I realize I have spent 1.3 years with my hand back there cleaning the remnants of yet another prisonlike meal, I am even more annoyed.

Do you know what I could have accomplished in 1.3 years?

Has anyone invented a portable bidet? Can they install a bidet in a mobile home?

Are you reading this on the toilet? Follow me, get on my email list, buy my books: www.miltonstern.com. 

You Know What You Should Do?

On an episode of Seinfeld, he had to deal with a heckler, so he went to her place of employment and heckled her. I loved it.

While certain jobs invite heckling and criticism, not all heckling and criticism are welcome. Just saying.

As a writer, I understand being criticized and reviewed and trashed by strangers. If you don’t have a thick skin, don’t go into any creative field. You will also have to deal with those who are close to you sometimes being your worst critics.

Acquaintances have called me on the phone and spent an hour telling me how much they hated my books. Yes, that happened twice. One explained every sentence that bothered him, and the other explained to me how I should outline my book and create profiles of my characters. Funny thing is neither of them are writers or creative. Then there was the one who came up to me before Shabbat services to tell me how much she hated my book. I asked her if she bought a copy, and she said she borrowed it. I yelled at the woman who lent it to her. If I am going to be criticized, I at least deserve my 73 cent royalty!

In each situation, I just listened and said thank you and hung up, or with the cheapskate, who didn’t buy a copy, walked away and yelled at the book loan officer.

I know all of them felt as if they were doing me a favor, but Mother would always say, “Don’t do me any favors.”

I have friends who are artists and writers, and I have never walked up to or called one of them to criticize his work. I know what it takes to create, so if I really have nothing nice to say, I keep my big mouth shut. As caddy as I can be, I do draw the line with people I know personally.

This does not mean I won’t say something behind their backs, but I am sure to say it to someone who doesn’t know them for obvious reasons. If you know me and have nothing nice to say about my writing, say it behind my back. I don’t need to hear it.  

Recently, I was offered a paying writing job, and one person’s reaction was, “It’s more than you get for writing that stupid blog.”

You know how I always repeat what Beverly Sills said about how you will have two to three good friends in life and the rest are acquaintances, and how you need to get rid of all the negative influences, too? Yeah, it’s like that.

None of these people bother me. They are just a bunch of unhappy, ugly, old, bitter, musty smelling queens who have nothing better to do than belittle other people to make them feel better about themselves and their insignificant lives.

I do have one good friend whose only comment was, “The sentences are too long, and I don’t understand them.” Poor thing can only read a coloring book. I forgave him because one should always be kind to the intellectually impaired.

He is pretty, but can he type?

If you are a negative person, you will dwell upon all the criticism. Most waiters only recall every lousy, rude and nasty customer but cannot remember any of the nice ones even though only about five percent are rude. I waited on tables for twenty years, and I can understand this.

Those three people and a couple of assholes on Amazon are the only ones who extensively criticized my books. For the most part, I received good comments – to my face.

However, the people who do bother me are the ones who say, “You know what you should do?”

I always respond, “Oh God, what?”

After my first book was published, a co-worker came up to me and told me I should write a book about the man who designed the sewage system for Baltimore City. He went on and on for an hour about how wonderful this book would be. When he finished, I said, “How fascinating. I have been to Baltimore, and from what I could tell, they don’t have a working sewage system.”

 

Why on God’s green earth would I write a book about how excrement flows through the Charm City? My first book was about President James Buchanan. How did he go from the White House to shit? Nevermind.

Get this. He never read my book. He just thought he was doing me a favor by suggesting the topic for my next book. I didn’t feel like telling him I had been commissioned to write a book about Harriet Lane, President Buchanan’s niece. That is the weird thing about me. As much as I like to brag, when someone comes up to me and says something that deserves a “put you in your place” comeback, I weigh whether they are worthy of it. Usually, they aren’t.

That was my first experience with someone telling me what I should write. But here is the thing. What if I came to your job and told you what to do? A friend of mine is an artist, and it would never occur to me to tell him, “You know. You should paint a bowl of fruit. There aren’t enough paintings of fruit.” If I did that, I would imagine a paint brush sticking out of my eye in my immediate future.

Among my favorites are acquaintances who have what they think is an extraordinary sexual experience (a common trick if you will) and insist I write an erotic story about it – under one of my three pseudonyms of course. My response, “Yes, I already have a title. ‘Sex – It Isn’t for Everyone.’” Why should I write about how you picked up a guy in the doctor’s waiting room, took him home, had sloppy sex for three and a half minutes and noticed your iPad was missing after he left?

 

Meanwhile, while I am spending my weekend writing an erotic story about your lame sex life, you are attending another party or brunch where my invitation was lost in the mail. Facebook pictures of all of you holding red plastic cups to follow.

A day doesn’t go by when I am not told I should write about this or that. Even with this stupid blog for which I don’t get paid, I am often told what my next topic should be.

As Mother also said, “Who asked you?”

Bitter, party of one!

If have a topic you want me to discuss, tell anyone but me, but get on my email list or buy my books: www.miltonstern.com.

The Cleanest Oven in the Trailer Park

When I managed a restaurant in Delray Beach, Florida, I was always amused by my tribe-mates who would entertain by taking their guests out to dinner for the early bird special. Seriously, they would call to make a reservation, and the conversation would go like this:

“This is Mrs. Feinstein. I am entertaining my friends Saturday night. We would like a round table for ten at 5:30.”

“I am sorry, Mrs. Feinstein, our largest round table only seats eight.”

In the background, and quite loudly: “Artie, tell the Greenbergs we decided to go out of town this weekend,” then to me, “We will take a round table for eight.”

It was always funny when the Greenbergs would show up at the same time on the same night.

Mrs. Feinstein told me she had the cleanest oven in Boca. She never turned it on.

At the time, I could not understand entertaining your guests outside your home. Over the years, I had thrown my share of dinner parties, many, many dinner parties. I would cook and serve and clean up. I couldn’t wait for my guests to arrive, and I couldn’t wait for them to leave. I also threw my fair share of Mary Richards parties. Last year, I threw a party and instead of cooking, I ordered trays from the grocery store, and for once I enjoyed myself, and for once my guests didn’t spit food into their napkins and toss them into the houseplants. Once, a plant spit it back. Even my cooking makes bad fertilizer.

That is when I came to a realization. Not all Gay men have to be great cooks or even like to cook or DVR Barefoot Contessa. I don’t consider myself a cook. I consider myself a survivalist in the kitchen. I cook like a Mid-Century Modern housewife, which if I had my way, I would be, complete with Thursday afternoon Mah Jongg games and a pink and white 1960 Ambassador by Rambler Cross Country station wagon in front of my split-level, three bedroom, two and half bath home with all the newest Westinghouse appliances

I can roast a chicken, make a tuna casserole, boil pasta, bake fish, and make a cake for your birthday if you wish. However, I have never blanched, braised, pureed or even emulsified. My spice rack is a section of the cabinet with salt, pepper, garlic powder, onion powder and Italian seasonings. I have never bought a garlic clove. I worked as a sous chef at one time, and I learned how to sauté and other things I have no idea how to pronounce. While I enjoyed my work, I didn’t love it or want to make a career of it. I just threw whatever they told me into the pan and served it up.

However, I am surrounded by people who love to cook, and while at a time I felt inadequate, I have come to accept the fact that this is one more hole on my Gay card that can’t be punched along with knowing the names of flowers, designers and the cast of Glee. Although, I dare you to name all the actors who appeared on Bewitched!

While I admire their love of the culinary arts, it can become quite annoying to have so many kitchen mechanics in my social circle.

My brother loves to cook, and he is very good at it. I don’t know where he gets this. Alex is always trying new recipes, and he watches the Food Network. His marriage is a perfect one because he cooks and Julie cleans.

We were convinced that our mother was a good cook, mostly by our mother, but she wasn’t. Between the oily cakes and burnt offerings of chuck roasts to the God of fire, the only dish she made well was chicken cacciatore. But, one dish does not make you a good cook. Grandma baked great mandel bread, but her tuna salad was made with butter! The only thing Nana ever made was a reservation at the Hot Shoppe. When people tell me about dinner at their grandmother’s house, I just look at them with wonder at such an occurrence.

Every day, I discover one more way I am Nana redux. As I always say, I look like her in drag, and I am only one Kent cigarette and a Reed’s mint (I finally mentioned the Reed’s mints, Alex) from saying “Oh My God” and ordering custom made wigs from Don’s Wig Shop in Newport News. If the Hot Shoppe were still around, I would eat there every night.

I used to watch Rachael Ray’s show, but I soon realized that to make one of her thirty-minute meals, I would have to shop for thirty days to get all thirty ingredients. Who has that kind of time … or patience? And if you cook one of her meals, do you have to be as equally annoying? 

My friend, Ed, is a good cook, and if you don’t think so, just ask him. “I made a marvelous mushroom lasagna, and it was a hit. Everyone wanted to know who made and it and asked for the recipe.” I once hosted a Passover Seder. After cooking everything for the main meal, he made homemade macaroons. They were to die for, but I was not happy. While everyone was oohing and aahing his goddamn macaroons, they had completely forgotten about the crappy meal I prepared. I put a Sephardic curse on all of them, and his macaroons didn’t pass for twenty-eight days.

I wasn’t bitter.

My friend, Ted, is apparently a great cook with the most beautiful presentations ever. I say apparently because the only thing he has ever served me was tepid water. He is going to be pissed now! He posts more pictures of the food he has prepared than Paula Deen. All of the pictures are works of art. He keeps promising to cook for me. We did go to a fundraiser together where they served expired appetizers from the Costco freezer. I hadn’t spit out that much food since my last dinner party.

Frank, whose house looks like a centerfold from a 1963 issue of Architectural Digest, is probably the best of them all. He is the Martha Stewart of McLean. If you tell Frank you are having an impromptu cookout in two hours, he will show up with a gourmet side-dish made from the rarest of ingredients he just happened to throw together along with a homemade chocolate cake. There isn’t a supermarket within ten miles of his home, so I am convinced he is a warlock. He also has an extra oven, refrigerator and freezer. And, I have never seen him sweat.

I used to cook for boyfriends to show them how domesticated I was. Ironically, I wonder why I am still single. However, since moving to the trailer park and having what is the largest and most efficiently laid out kitchen of my lifetime, I have stopped cooking for other people. I make all my own meals, which are simple fare, but no longer do I subject the innocent to my gastronomical atrocities.

I am comfortable with the fact that I really do not enjoy cooking. After all, if God had meant for me to cook, I would have been born with aluminum hands.

This past weekend, I had dinner with a friend of mine from my Newport News days, who recently moved to the area. He had been a guest at more than a few of my dinner parties back in the day. When I told him we would go out to eat, his response was, “Thank God.”

Mrs. Feinstein, upon reaching age fifty, I finally get you, and I will no longer make fun of old Jewish women who entertain their guests at the early bird in Delray Beach.

I have the cleanest oven in the trailer park. I’ve never used it.

If you hate to cook, follow me, join me, get on my email list, buy my books: www.miltonstern.com

F*** You Facebook

This morning, for the third and final time, Facebook has banned me for ridiculous reasons.

The first time was after I posted, “I wish Sarah Palin would disappear.” That punishment lasted until I agreed to a policy prohibiting threats. Really, a threat? A threat would have been, “I wish I had a canon, so I could blow up Sarah Palin’s house, and she could no longer see Russia from her bedroom while riding her idiot husband’s tiny penis in attempt to make more babies and name them after mathematical theorems.” Now, that is a threat. And, the world doesn’t need another Pythagoras Palin. Can you imagine him on Dancing with the Stars? And what makes Boom Boom Bristol Palin a star? I wish someone would knock me up, so I could get on a reality competition show.

The second time was because I either sent a friend request to someone I did not know outside of Facebook or someone I didn’t know outside of Facebook sent me a request and I accepted it. That punishment lasted until I agree to a policy only to friend people I knew outside of Facebook. Seriously? So you are telling me that all these other people with 2,000 and 3,000 and even 5,000 friends know all those people outside of Facebook? My favorites are the suggested friends on the right-hand column. I would send a friend request and get a note telling me they have too many friends, yet some had 1,500 friends. Who makes these determinations?

Isn’t the purpose of Facebook so you can connect with people all over the world and make new friends? Apparently not. If I see someone in France with shared interests, I need to book a flight, visit him, fly home, and send him a friend request, hoping he doesn’t forget who I was and report me for requesting a friendship with a stranger. I guess that meeting better be memorable with a happy ending.

I signed the agreement, but then I was not allowed to send requests for fourteen days or message anyone. What was more frustrating was they went through my friend list and unfriended about twenty percent of my friends, so then I received messages accusing me of unfriending people. Who decided which friends I was allowed to keep?

Today was the icing on the cake. I work for a publisher of gay erotica, so we arrange for and have a lot of images that are not for everyone’s eyes; however, some are harmless enough not to offend, or so I thought. We had a picture of a naked mechanic working on a car. All you saw was full backal. The caption was, “My new mechanic.” The comments and likes were many and positive, but then, someone from Facebook removed the picture.

My Facebook friends, whom I know personally and have touched in many ways, were appalled. One even sent me a dozen photos he found on Facebook, which depicted sex acts by any number of combinations of genders and species – all of them posted on people’s pages. There is a page called “Gay Porn.” Literally! You should check it out. I can’t.

In order to log back on to Facebook and reactivate my profile, I was asked to sign an agreement not to post any pictures that I did not own the rights to and that all my pictures were of people I know and contained a date and time stamp.

My reply to Facebook?

FUCK YOU!

They claimed I did not have the rights and permissions to post that picture. What a bunch of dicks. I was at the photo shoot. I know the model. I know the photographer. I drew up their contracts. I received permission to use the image.

By the way, I love my job. It doesn’t pay much, but for some reason, I don’t care.

So was it banned because they thought I didn’t own it? Or was it offensive? Or ….

Does someone on Zuckerberg’s team have something against me? Did I piss off someone years ago, and that person works for him and has nothing better to do than watch my profile? Is Cynarra, my stalker from college, the vice president of morality and standards at Facebook? Do they have morality and standards at Facebook? 

I have the most honest profile – or at least I did until this morning . My pictures include my face. I use my real name. I post pictures I took with my own camera and phone or ones I witnessed being taken. Do they know how many of those Craig’s List headless profiles are fake?

I had a guy contact me last week with the last name Stern. He had a headless shot for a profile picture. It turns out after telling me we were related that Stern wasn’t even his name. I had already figured that out, but I wanted to see how far he would go. And have mercy, did he go far. You can’t catfish me!

This isn’t the first time they have removed images from my page. You know those Blunt Cards that people post constantly? I apparently am not allowed to post them. Every time I did, they removed it. Literally. A friend made one his cover photo. I told him what happened to me, and he said they never questioned him.

Our publishing company has run into the same problem on Amazon. For the last four years, Amazon Kindle has randomly banned books for questionable content, and the reasons never make sense. We have a book called Muscle Worshipers, which was published so many years ago that it was the first Gay erotic book ever on Amazon Kindle. It is also the tamest erotic book ever. It is nothing but stories about guys admiring each other’s bodies. There are no anal sex scenes in it, and everyone is of age. This book is so tame that it was panned by hard core fans and reviewers of erotica for being too vanilla and boring. Two weeks ago, we got a notice that it was banned. We were stunned. There are books on Kindle that are downright disgusting but still available.

We are convinced that the Church Lady is one of their reviewers, and every once in a while, she picks up one of our books and decides to ban it. We would fight it, but then we risk having all of our books banned. The books are all in the erotica category, and one must be eighteen to order them. All the characters in the books are eighteen. Who determines what is questionable or not? And if erotica is not allowable, why is it one of the categories? This makes no sense.

Funny, we never had these problems when a Republican was in the White House. Go figure.

As I learned during my decision to go on weekend Facebook hiatus, this social media site does little for book sales and only drives about five percent of the traffic to this blog.

I can live without it on Saturdays and Sundays, so how hard will it be to live without seeing pictures of cats and knowing someone woke up with a headache on any given Tuesday or drove in traffic on a Thursday evening?

So long Facebook and your fascist, nonsensical policies. As far as I am concerned. You are so last year.  

If you find me offensive and don’t know me outside this blog, join me, get on my email list, or buy my books at www.miltonstern.com.