Whatever You Do to Her, Do to Me

Many years ago and pre-stroke, Bette Davis was the guest on the Tonight Show, starring Johnny Carson, and he was actually there that night. As she chain smoked and complained about Faye Dunaway being the most unprofessional actress with whom she had ever worked, she brought up the subject of how everything had to be so real these days. Where was the glamour? Where was the filtered lens? This was the early 1980s, so you can imagine how she would feel today with Honey Boo Boo and her disgusting family, especially her nose-picking, flatulent mother.

I agree. Where is the glamour? Why do I need to know that they use Proactive?

When Karl Freund was approached by Desi Arnaz to be the cinematographer for I Love Lucy, he initially balked, saying you couldn’t properly light a set for three separate film cameras, and he also noted Desi’s not so flawless skin and Lucille Ball’s not being “a spring chicken” as he put it. She was forty. But, Desi, who was known for his charm, convinced him to take on the challenge. One trick he devised was putting pink upward facing lights on all the camera dollies. Even in black and white, the pink lights blend with any blemishes or flaws and hide them. Some CBS executives complained that the glamorous close-ups that he would do of Lucille were too much for television, and you will notice that by the fifth or sixth episode, he quit doing these close-ups. There is one of her smoking by the fireplace that is breathtaking.

Next week, I am having upward facing pink lights mounted on all my baseboards. I will also never leave the house again.

Mae West only had pink lights around her at all times, and Bea Arthur, during her one-woman show, noted how when she met Mae West in her dressing room, she looked thirteen years old.

Wow, four paragraphs in, and I haven’t mentioned one living person; God rest their souls.

All of these lighting techniques were needed back in the day because the movies and subsequently television were fantasy worlds. Also consider that the early stars of television were mostly experienced film, radio and vaudeville performers and mostly near or in their forties, including George Burns and Gracie Allen, Milton Berle, Eve Arden, Ann Sothern, Bea Benaderet and Gale Gordon, and the list goes on. Jerry Lewis and Dean Martin were kids compared to everyone else.

With the advent of video tape, more realism came to television. For example, watch a rerun of All in the Family. No glamour there. My father thought that show was a documentary and everything Archie said was gospel. Then, watch a rerun of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, which was filmed, making the edges softer. Want to have some fun? Watch the first two episodes of The Golden Girls and look at Rue McClanahan’s face. They switched to film by the third episode. She couldn’t keep talking about how young and beautiful she was with pot-marked skin.

Happily Divorced is filmed rather than taped. How else would everyone get away with calling Fran Drescher a beautiful forty-five-year-old woman? She’s fifty-five.

I am not critical of film. I prefer it. If I were in Hollywood, I would wear a veil, only be seen in flattering light and never, I mean never, allow myself to be taped … or have a mug shot taken.

There are other methods for taking away the years, and no one did it better than the woman I mention more than any other, Lucille Ball. During the last season of the Lucy-Desi Comedy Hour, her hairdresser, Irma Kusely (who died in 2009 at age 95, God rest her soul), convinced her to wear a shorter hair style, but Lucy did not want to cut her hair, so Irma did something that they had been doing in Hollywood for years. She bandaged the redhead’s head. This consisted of braiding the hair around the hairline, pulling it back, clamping it, then putting a bandage over her entire head before putting on a wig. All that pulling on forty-nine-year-old Miss Ball created an instant facelift. OK, not so instant. It took almost two hours to complete with make-up by Hal King – also dead.

Watch the early dressing room scene in All About Eve. Bette Davis removes her wig and behold, she is wearing a head bandage!

From 1960 on, Lucille Ball rarely appeared in public without her head bandaged and a wig. Toward the end of her career, it took almost four hours to complete including make-up for her face and hands. Steve Allen, another dead person, remarked that beautiful women in Hollywood end up looking like drag queens by the end of their careers. Sadly, he was right.

On The Tracy Ullman Show (hey, a live person), the star did a skit with Glenn Close (also alive), playing two aging stars, who meet after many years. Tracy played the earthy star who never went for glamour, and Glenn played the Hollywood beauty who has way too much work done and can hardly move, and the dialogue goes like this:

Glenn: “Have you had any work done?”

Tracy: “No.”

Glenn: “How brave of you.”

Lucy wasn’t the only one to bandage, and she even mentioned the procedure during interviews. There is an old episode of The Dinah Shore Show (as opposed to a new episode), where she talks about her wigs and what she has to go through. During filming of Mame, she asked Bea Arthur if she wanted her face pulled, too. Then they filmed the entire movie through a cheese cloth.

Joan Collins, still alive, wears a head bandage and a wig and has done so since Dynasty!

The expert at instant facelifts was Marlene Dietrich. Strangely, she never wore wigs. She would use gold chains and other paraphernalia to create the illusion. She also never turned her back to the audience. Liza Minnelli, still alive, appeared with her on stage, and after singing her song, she ran backstage and declared in a rather loud voice, “Oh my God! She’s held together with rubber bands!” Marlene Dietrich was standing right behind her.

Why not just get a facelift? You ask. Well, back then a facelift was scary. Not like today when everyone comes out looking like Donald Duck – Wayne Newton, Morgan Fairchild, Heather Locklear, Barry Manilow, Delta Burke. I think they would look better bandaged.

Vivian Vance had a few facelifts – one right after the end of I Love Lucy. After her last one, she couldn’t close her eyes, so they had to do emergency surgery. No wonder Lucy didn’t want to take a chance.

My Aunt Dorothy, who was married to Uncle Yale, Nana’s youngest brother, whom she divorced after fifty years of marriage when she caught him having an affair, had a sister named Lena. Lena always wore dark glasses regardless of the time of day. Apparently, she had a facelift in the sixties that was pulled so tight, she couldn’t completely close her eyes, and she had a permanent smile. To borrow a joke from Joan Rivers (I know, appropriate), every time she crossed her legs, her mouth popped open.

Upon the announcement that my brother was getting married, my mother decided to get a facelift. To many at the time, this may have seemed surprising. Not to us. My mother was the queen of flattering light and theatrical make-up regardless of the time of day. When I was in fifth grade, she came to visit Mrs. Dick’s class on parents' day, and all the other kids said, “Your mother wears a lot of make-up.” Funny, I never noticed.

In 1973, when she was elected Rodef Sholom Sisterhood President, she was to provide an eight-by-ten photo for the Synagogue phone book along with a message about her vision for the Sisterhood for the coming year. While all prior Sisterhood presidents provided what amounted to a Polaroid, Harryette Summers Stern made an appointment with a professional photographer. He took at least a hundred pictures, then upon picking the best shot, with my mother looking up and off into the distance, a la Arlene Dahl (still alive), who always walks into a store facing the ceiling, according to a friend who owns an antique shop, air brushed the final product. My friend Dylan hates my long sentences.

I want to emphasize this was a Newport News, Virginia, Synagogue phone book, and my mother had a picture that would only have looked right if she had her film and television credits listed below it.

Back to her facelift.

She met a former navy doctor at a cocktail party who offered her a discount on a facelift. OK, you think you know where this is going. To back up, my mother actually aged very well and did not have wrinkles, only a little tiny bit of sag, which still did not hint at her sixty-two years.

The day before the surgery, I took her to the doctor for “before” pictures. As I arrived to pick her up, she was in full make-up, and I don’t mean her usual layer of clay and color, I mean Rupaul would have been jealous of her accomplishment. She looked twenty-four. I told her I didn’t understand why she was getting a facelift, and she replied that she didn’t have two hours every day to pull this off.

When we arrived at the doctor’s office, the nurse, upon seeing Norma Desmond (fictional), told her she had to wash all that off. I died laughing. Harryette was pissed. For the first time since she was sixteen, someone was going to take a picture of her sans make-up, as Shelly Winters (God rest her sould) used to say.

After the facelift, my father told her was pulled tighter on one side than the other. He was always a charmer and did his best to make you feel better about yourself, she did look younger. Thankfully, she told the doctor not to pull her too tightly, just freshen her up. However, she started wearing very pale make-up that would have been too light for a mime. I could not understand how an olive-skinned woman could think this shade was flattering.

Being the good Gay son I was, I took a picture of her. I showed it to her and asked, “Why are you having a mortician do your make-up? You look like a cadaver.” I can be charming sometimes, too. For once, she didn’t take offense.

My father also said one other lovely thing. “So, when you die, are they going to bury you with your head sticking out of the ground because it doesn’t match your old body anymore?” I always wondered why he never pursued a career as a diplomat.

No one hates having pictures taken more than I do. I know that is hard to believe considering there are thousands of pictures of me on Facebook and countless other websites. Let me clarify. No one hates having headshots done more than I do. However, as an author of six books (go to my newly redesigned website, www.miltonstern.com – shameless plug), I had to have headshots done for each title.

Ironically, the best pictures of me, in my opinion, are candid shots, where I don’t pose. I think it is because I never could grasp the tilt your head, move your chin, look this way and don’t blink routine.

Over the years, I had several photographers try to get a good headshot, and the best was my friend Jim Gade, who actually took the two best ones of me. One was in natural light in a park setting. The other was on my sofa with Esmeralda (God rest her soul) sitting on the pillow behind my head. It took almost three-hundred shots to get those two pictures.

I am really not photogenic.

I never wear make-up during my headshots because in make-up, I look like a girl. Not a drag queen. I actually look transgendered. There is no middle ground. I go from flamer to Pat to Nana in just a few layers of medium beige pancake make-up.

In moving pictures, talkies as we called them in my day, I take up the whole screen. They say the camera adds ten pounds. Really? How many cameras were on me?

Back in the early 1990s, I hosted the first Gay talk show in Florida, The Milton Rose Show, Tuesday evenings, 10:00 pm, Channel 47. Did you see it? I would begin the show standing in front of whatever establishment we were highlighting that week and introduce the show like this:

“Hello, and welcome to the Milton Rose Show. I am your host, Milton Rose. This week we present our flowers for mother’s day special at Lake Worth Flowers. Come with me as we learn how to make the most fabulous bouquet!”

I said fabulous a lot.

Then, I would turn, and the camera would film me from behind as I walked into the shop or restaurant. That was when I saw what everyone was talking about all those years. MY BIG FAT JEWISH ASS! It was huge on camera (I still refuse to admit it is huge in person), and my funny walk didn’t help either. I bounce when I walk. Ba boom, botta boom, ba boom, botta boom. Oh my God!

Strangely, I never learn, so I continued to begin each show like that. I guess I have always enjoyed making fun of myself.

Twenty years later, I still look huge on film. Devon filmed me, and when I saw the results, I screamed. I looked like his biggest fan! I hear there were other objects and things in the picture like furniture and walls, but I never saw them. I took up the entire frame! Even he was surprised. I then spent the rest of the day asking, “Am I really that fat? Is my ass really that big? Do I look pregnant? How many cameras were you using? What happened to me? I used to be hot!”

Even in still pictures, my body looks funny, which is why there are so few attempts at beefcake shots of me. I look like a bowling pin. Seriously, I look as if I never saw the inside of a gym. Maybe I am a Jewish vampire, and that is why the camera hates me so much.

Now, I am fifty. I can kick, and stretch and kick. I’m fifty!

So, I decided to get some new head shots done. A friend of mine, a professional photographer, who also “enhances” pictures, offered to do the deed. I warned him that it would take hundreds of pictures to get one good shot. He told me not to worry because he would make it look good.

I immediately thought of Renee Taylor and Elizabeth Taylor (God rest her soul). Liz made a guest appearance on The Nanny, and when they did the cast photo, she insisted they use her photographer, who would send them copies after she approved them. Renee Taylor told the photographer, in front of everyone, “Whatever you do to her, do to me.”

The day after my shoot, Steve posted one of the pictures on his site to advertise his photography business. This was a first because none of my photographers have ever used me as an example of a good picture. I am always the “before” guy.

Well, he convinced me that my love of all things filtered and flattering is spot on. I never looked so dewy and young – even when I was dewy and young. I didn’t recognize myself. I have never looked that good. Friends from as far back as elementary school wanted to know my secret to young, flawless skin.

Here it is: flattering light and Photoshop … and Vaseline on the lens.

Now, where can I find someone to bandage my head?

If you look through the world through rose-colored glasses or wish everyone else did, follow me, join me, buy my books at www.miltonstern.com.

 

Make Room for Booty

At Christopher Newport University, which was Christopher Newport College when I attended – a big shout out to “Shoe Lane U” – I took an interpersonal communications class taught by Dr. Rita Hubbard. I remember a lot from that class. I remember being appalled that the girl sitting behind me voted for Walter Mondale (now, you know what year it was), since I was a Reagan Democrat at the time. I voted for Bob Dole in 1996 because Clinton signed DOMA. Sue me. Ironically, I am still working the phones for the Hillary 2008 campaign. I refuse to concede.

Where the fuck was I?

Oh yes, Dr. Hubbard’s class. I liked Dr. Hubbard although she was a bit pompous by Newport News, Virginia, standards. One day in class, she stated that once her face fell, she would get a facelift. I am going to bite my tongue because I liked her, and she is still alive.

We learned quite a bit in her class, and it was the third of her classes I had taken. The first was a speech class, where I delivered a series of speeches on Lucille Ball and the state of situation comedies in the 1980s. Big surprise there. I also met my first boyfriend in that class. A guy who turned out to be a pathological liar whose entire life and even his name were fabricated! We went on a trip to New York, my first time on an airplane – Piedmont Airlines – and we stayed at his brother’s apartment, which turned out to be a flat in a warehouse we had to break into that thankfully had running water, but no furniture. To this day, I wonder if that was really his brother’s apartment. I lost touch with him soon after that trip. I have not looked for him on Facebook either, since I never knew his real name.

Yes, I got off track again. Deal with it. The creative mind is quite complex, or in my case, a hot mess.

Among the things we learned in the interpersonal communications class was how women and men take up space when they sit and when they walk. Men tend to swing their arms and walk as if they just finished a heavy lat workout at the local Nautilus – Chris Canavos will appreciate that one. When they sit, they spread their legs as if they are waiting for oral service or a ball waxing. Women tend to walk more narrowly as if their entire path is a runway in Milan; and when they sit, they cross their ankles and close up, practicing for marriage – especially the Jewish ones. How do you stop a Jewish woman from having sex? Marry her. Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve told that one a hundred times.

Oh, how times have changed.

In the 1980s, we were skinnier. I know I was. How else did I wear those tight OP shorts and stove pipe pants that made me look as if I had no working man parts? Remember Whitney Houston’s first video? She was as skinny as a crack pipe. As a result of our undiscovered love of all things high fructose corn syrup, we took up less space then.

Another thing has happened along the way. I remember carrying my books to class under my arm. I never carried anything with me when I went to work at Sammy & Nick’s Steak House except for two pens. I didn’t need a backpack. But now, everyone takes all their belongings with them wherever they go. We carry more shit with us today than ever. Where in the hell are we going?

I am just as guilty. I just took a quick glance inside my bag, which is the equivalent of looking inside Grandma’s purse. I have Kleenex, an umbrella, Excedrin, Benadryl, Zyrtec, Aleve, Claritin, bandages, gum, pens, a baseball cap, a knit cap, gloves, a grocery bag, my lunch, water bottle, eyeglass cleaner, an extra pair of glasses, manicure kit, emery boards, batteries (I always have batteries), iPhone charger, eye drops, moisturizer, brush, comb, and baby wipes. What? No extra pair of underwear? I need to fix that.

But at least mine is just a messenger bag. Yes, I got all that into a messenger bag. I have been told I am the best packer.

What I cannot stand are the people who carry luggage with them everywhere they go, especially on public transportation. And worse yet – roller bags! Are you going on a trip somewhere? Is it a three-hour tour? Why do you need to carry your Samsonite everywhere you go?

The roller bags are the biggest nuisance on the Metro platform. They are so wide you cannot get past them on an escalator, and those who live in DC know: stand on the right; walk on the left. If only the tourists knew that. Once you pull an OJ Simpson and get past them, as you run for your train, there is someone else with a roller bag blocking your path. If you thought by OJ Simpson I meant you stab them to death and get away with it, you are very young. Think Hertz commercial.

Not only are they in your way, but also they are the ones who walk slowly through the station as if they have nowhere to go. I guess if you have all your belongings with you all the time, you don’t need to be in a rush. You are your destination. It makes the transition to homelessness that much easier.

Once you get by the snails with the luggage, then you have to get by the …

OK, I am about to be so politically incorrect, I am going to hurt some feelings, but there is no other way to say this.

… fat people. If 80s fashions ever come back, these people have no hope. Why is it the bigger the ass the slower the pace? There is only so much room between the edge of the platform and the various poles and stairways and escalators at any given Metro station. It never fails. Just as I hear the chime of the Metro doors, I am behind someone who could moon Houston – the fourth largest city in the United States (I just read that on Wikipedia, and if it is on Wikipedia, it must be true). As you try to pass on the left, what looks like someone smuggling couch cushions swings to the left, and when you try to pass on the right, you almost get bumped onto the third rail 70s style.

Without your ass, you couldn’t walk forward, so shouldn’t these people be walking faster than the rest of us?

For those of you who don’t take Metro, these are the people who are in the crosswalk when the light turns green, and unless you want one for a hood ornament, you have to wait two cycles of the light before you can proceed. Have you ever yelled out your window, “Move your fat ass!”?

No? Me neither.

After dodging all shapes and sizes of roller luggage and various and sundry gluteus maximusses, you finally get on the train, and for once you get a seat. Don’t get too comfortable. Remember that one ass in the blue polyester you had to cross to the other side of the platform to avoid, it is aiming for the seat next to you. It creates such a shadow that you would swear you were witnessing a solar eclipse in a tunnel.

Now, I am six-four, two-hundred-forty pounds. I carry it well, and with the aid of spanks, you will never deny me that delusion. With my frame and tonnage comes my own wide girth, so if you are going to sit next to me, you cannot be built like a 1959 Rambler American. Don’t tell Teensy or Weensy that (there is your I Love Lucy reference for the day).

I don’t know how many times I have heard: “Oh have mercy, ummmph, Lord, let me sit, oh my, uuummppph,” as one of those twin globes of adipose tissue squeezed into the seat next to me then pulled her roller luggage closer and blocked what little leg room I had.

Funny, after they get squeezed into the seat, they always give me a look as if I am the one taking up all the room. Hey, I didn’t eat an entire box of Entenmann’s donuts for lunch. OK, I did, but I work out.

America is getting fatter, and all that fat is spilling into my personal space!

If you have a large ass and are proud of it, follow me, join me, get on my email list, but don’t get in front of me. Better yet, buy one of my books at www.miltonstern.com.

There's My Bag

There's My Bag

Around every seven of so years, I decide to fly somewhere. There is a reason I don’t fly. I don’t like to. I am not afraid of the flying part since I am more likely to die by hitting my head on the faucet after I slip in the shower while shaving my testicles.

I hate the experience. I have never been a fan of frequent travelling, but I will take a road trip over any other form of transportation any day, and until I perfect doing my Endora wave and achieve an entrance surrounded by smoke and an exit punctuated by flames – now I both enter and exit with a punctuation of flames – I will pick a road trip over anything else any day.

My first experience travelling a great distance alone was on a Greyhound bus in 1977. I was going from Newport News, VA, to Washington, DC, to visit Nana, my drag grandmother – I look like her in drag; she didn’t teach me drag. The station in Newport News was located near King’s Department Store – the one store that even trash considered trash. The station in DC was and is still located in Union Station. Knowing I was arriving at 1:30 pm, Nana arrived at the Greyhound Station at 10:00 am. She never liked being late. Sound familiar? The trip was uneventful, and there were no-blog worthy events on that trip.

However, my next trip on Greyhound was in 1990, and I was traveling from Beaufort, South Carolina, to Savannah, Georgia, and from Savannah to Newport News, VA. That was also the weekend of the Greyhound strike. I was stuck in Savannah, and my long love affair with Georgia began that weekend when I was mugged at gunpoint. I was mugged again at gunpoint in 1993 in Atlanta, Georgia. Whenever I drive south, I make sure I pee and poop before entering Georgia, and I don’t stop the car until I am in Florida.

I have taken Amtrak once. I rather enjoyed it until it started raining, and the car I was in had a leaking roof and filled up with water. When the conductor came by to punch our tickets, I pointed out the crack in the ceiling, and he said, “Will you look at that?” Not the reaction I wanted with water leaking all over light fixtures and other electronics.

Air travel is another story. Often when I get on a plane, I think about that Lucy special in 1965, Lucy Goes to London, co-starring Anthony Newley (available now on DVD!). The special starts as an episode of The Lucy Show, and she marvels at the joy of flying, going here and there, drinking champagne, being served by a pretty stewardess in a tight fitting girdle, having a meal and a snack, and buying that fabulous Pan Am luggage at Duty Free!

Remember when you picked up Nana at the airport, and you could walk right in and wait at the gate, or better yet, when you dropped her off, you arrived twenty minutes before her flight and walked her right up to the gate? Those days are long gone. Long, long, long gone.

Air travel is no longer a luxury or a pleasure. I think my ancestors had an easier time getting on that boat to ride steerage across the sea to a land filled with promise and opportunity and a phone book full of Gentile names to choose. What security? They rode their horse drawn cart to the dock, paid their fare, let the horse go, and boarded the boat with all the belongings they could carry, including a set of sterling silver Shabbat candlesticks that would be passed down generation to generation until their great, great, great granddaughter Rabbi Sylvia Williams sold it on eBay.

Were they charged per steamer trunk?

If only air travel were so easy. I had a 7:35 am flight from Baltimore to Houston to see Devon and attend his gallery opening this weekend, so according to the TSA, I was to be at the airport at 5:30 am. That meant I had to get up at 3:00 am in order to have some breakfast (I haven’t missed a meal since 1962 – remember my safe word is “Dinner”), drink some coffee and hope for a bowel movement (fifty can suck sometimes).

I decided to drive myself rather than use the Blue Van because if I want to die while on holiday, let it happen on the plane not in a fiery crash on I-195 in a Blue Van. You see they are really bad drivers … get it ... moving on.

I parked in long-term parking, which is a reasonable $8. At Ronald Reagan George Washington George Bush Richard Nixon Gerald Ford International Airport (they are still changing its name) it costs as much to park your car as it does to pay off a politician. Neither is satisfying.

I then took the shuttle from the parking lot to the terminal. I loved the following announcement: “Thank you for using long-term parking. On your next trip, consider using our covered garage completely powered by the sun for just a few dollars more.” A few dollars. Try an extra $16 a day.

Now, it has been a while since I have flown, so I was surprised that at check-in, which I thought I had already done when the android called me the day before to complete my check-in, which apparently, we did not, or I would not have had to go through the entire process again.

Here is what I found fascinating. The ticket agents all stand behind the counter, while you complete the check-in yourself utilizing a touch screen. The touch screen is like buying that thing that vacuums wax out of your ears that is advertised on the TV Guide channel. By the time you finish your call to the 1-800 number, you have bought four WaxVacs, batteries, a frying pan, a blender and the Veg-O-Matic for only six easy payments of $19.95.

Not that that ever happened to me.

I did order the seat-plus for those of us with extra inches, and I did the unthinkable, I checked my bag. I don’t do the four-three-ounce-quart-baggy thing. Who needs the headache? Besides, I go through six ounces of moisturizer a day and don’t get me started on lube. I pack what I need, and I check my bag. The ticket agent asked me, “Are you sure? There’s a fee. No one checks their bags anymore.”

“Check it, please,” I said. She then took my bag and flung it onto the conveyer. Seriously, it is the only bag you will have to grab today. I just checked myself in on your lovely touch screen, and the only communication we had was your inquiry about my checking a bag, and you fling my L.L. Bean exclusive, limited edition, roller bag in olive green with burnt sienna accents and matching tags? If she broke my Neti Pot, there would be hell to pay. I absolutely must water-board myself twice a day.

Then you walk through security. I love security. I like trying to figure out how many of the TSA screeners are former gang members, and how many killed someone. Want a hint? If a number is tattooed on the back of the neck – former gang member. It makes body identification easier after they are shot. If there is a teardrop tattoo near the wrist, they killed someone. Don’t ask how I know that.

I counted eleven.

I took my laptop out of the bag, emptied my pockets, then I took off my shoes, and I wanted slit my wrist with the edge of the bin (since you can’t even bring a fingernail file with you). I had worn a hole in my sock, and the big toe on my left foot was sticking out. How mortifying.

They you walk onto this Dr. Scholls kiosk and place your feet on the yellow feet marked on the floor (the feet are always much smaller than mine) and raise your hands. I received compliments that I am sure were inappropriate – well received, but inappropriate nonetheless.

After being told to exit, I asked which orthotic I should buy? No one laughed. I should have realized the Sharks have no sense of humor.

Then you have to walk fourteen miles to your gate. This is when the unthinkable happens. Your bowels, which you thought you thoroughly evacuated before leaving the house, send you a signal. And, no one likes to have a bowel movement in a public restroom, unless you are a senator from Idaho.

I took a wide stance and did my thing. Then came time for the paperwork. I usually carry baby wipes with me, but in my rush to leave, I packed rather than put the wipes in my pocket. Helpful hint: put some in a sandwich bag and carry them in your pocket. Huggies are the best brand.

I am about to get a little personal here. First, I want to know what sadomasochist designed the toilet paper dispensers in public restrooms. The paper never comes out, so you spend most of your time trying to get enough of it, and when it does, you realize a roll of calculator paper would have been better. Why is it when you really need an absorbent paper product, what you have makes whatever you are doing worse. This is where the term “hot mess” originated.

I was ten minutes from boarding, and no matter how much of this crap, pardon the pun, I managed to wrestle from the bastard of a metal dispenser, I was getting nowhere with my paperwork.

Needless to say, ten minutes and one very raw tuchus later, I walked to my gate looking as if I was the main bottom attraction at the Eagle’s latest demonstration on the proper way to take a fist up the ass. I am sorry, but there was no other way to put this. And, it has happened to all of us. The bad toilet paper; not the fisting.

Now, I would have to sit in my extended row seat for three hours, chafing, burning and itching all the way.

This is where the fun begins. I had a laptop bag, and my seat was near the front, so I quickly placed my bag and jacket in the overhead bin. Apparently, the ticket agent wasn’t kidding. I never saw so much crap carried on a plane in my life. One lady had a Queen Anne desk. Another had four radial tires. My favorite was the couple carrying the side-by-side refrigerator. Somehow, all was stowed away, and our flight took off.

Now, maybe my expectations are too high from watching Pan Am, a series that only lasted a season (if I like it, they cancel it), but when did flight attendants become so old? I am not talking my age old. I am talking worked the Lido Deck on Noah’s Ark old. One of them was nice enough to offer me the emergency row seat, but once I sat down, he asked me why I moved. Then he wandered aimlessly throughout the cabin for the rest of the trip.

The head attendant, or chief, or whatever they call them these days, used a walker instead of a beverage cart. The wings on her badge were made of wood and canvas.

Amazingly, the crew from Noah’s Ark did a great job even though one dropped her dentures into the coffee pot, and the other tucked her skirt into her adult diaper.

My favorite part of plane travel is the food – or lack thereof. You are offered choices on the pack page of the magazine, which you can pay for in-flight. The only problem is the same man who owned that restaurant in Ohio in 1955 when Lucy, Ricky, Fred and Ethel drove through now runs the catering service for a certain airline. The hot sandwich choice was a cold cheese sandwich. I kid you not. I had to order one. Just as I suspected, that sandwich was manufactured in 1955.

I ate it anyway. I never miss a meal.

Knowing I was on the plane, and I am never late, the plane arrived thirty minutes early. After walking twenty-six miles through Bush Intercontinental Airport in Houston to baggage pick-up, I waited by the conveyer for my bag. The screen indicated my flight’s cargo was next, the conveyer started moving, and there was one bag: an L.L. Bean exclusive, limited edition, roller bag in olive green with burnt sienna accents and matching tags.

I chose that luggage because I thought it would be easy to spot in a sea of charcoal and black.

Who knew?

If you have struggled with airport toilet paper, get on my email list, follow me, tell your friends, or by my books at www.miltonstern.com.

Don't Annoy Me in the New Year

Remember when you were little, and the big deal was to stay up until midnight to watch the ball drop? How many of you are now of an age where you go to bed at 10:00 pm on New Year’s Eve confident the ball will drop without any assistance from you?

As kids, we fought sleep with every bone in our bodies, and as adults, all our bones want to do is sleep, which brings me to my secular New Year’s resolution: Get more sleep!

That is the only resolution I will make. All the others are just bull shit; however, I do have a few resolutions that are affected by others’ lack of resolutions.

For example, I plan to unfriend anyone on Facebook who posts more than one political rant a week. In addition, I plan to unfriend anyone on Facebook who comments on my posts, which are mostly jokes, as if they are gospel. Or worse, have to one up me with some ninety-word sermon on why I am wrong.

 

Rule Number One: I am never wrong.

 

Rule Number Two: if I am wrong, refer to Rule Number One.

No more humorless friends. I also plan to unfriend anyone on Facebook who sends me messages telling me how he would like to rim me. Do I need to see that first thing in the morning in my notifications folder?

Who says that to a stranger? And let’s face it; if you have never met someone in person, you are strangers. Imagine walking up to a good looking guy on the train and saying, “Hi, I would like to lick your anus.” Better yet, I want to be there when you do that, so I can film it for America’s Funniest Homosexual Videos.

Now, let’s say you finally meet your virtual rim-fantasy friend in person. How do you greet each other? Does he turn around and bend over? Do you?

In the real world, I plan not to engage annoying people in conversation again. This could go both ways I assume. Some of the people who fall into this category are those who get all their news from blogs, written by unattractive people who don’t bathe and have not changed out of their bathrobes since Clinton was getting rim jobs from Monica. Did she send him a notification ahead of time?

For the record, I bathe, and I don’t own a bathrobe. You will just have to imagine what I am wearing.

I also plan no longer to engage with those who are full of negativity. The Eeyores of the world. I grew up with Eeyores. I cannot stand them. My father saw the black soot covered lining in every cloud. Beverly Sills said you should get rid of all the negative influences, and when you really think about it, all you really have are two or three good friends. The rest are acquaintances or sources for a loan.

And while I am on a roll, the ones who when you ask them how they are doing, actually tell you. I don’t care if you had a loose bowel movement this morning, if your cat had a migraine, or if your ass hurts from being in a sling in someone’s basement all night. Wait a minute. That last one might be a good conversation starter.

I went on a blind date around ten years ago, set up by a friend of mine whom I unfriended in the conventional way sometime later. I met my date at an Indian restaurant in Woodley Park. He was very attractive, tall with dark hair and all that. After the usual I’m from so-and-sos and I went to school at so-and-sos and I work at so-and-sos, he told me he was kind of tired from his activities the previous evening. He then went on to tell me how he went to his first sex party and performed oral sex on fourteen strangers. After making a mental note not to kiss him good night, I skipped completely over appalled and disgusted and went straight into journalist mode. Having never attended a sex party (to this day, I have not been invited to one either), I was curious about the logistics involved. Where does one put his wallet and keys? How do you protect the furniture? What do you serve? Who stays to clean up? Do you wear name tags? I received a great deal of information, and I never went out with Mr. Electrolux again.

What I forgot to ask was why he kept count?

Where was I? Oh yes. When someone asks how I am doing, I say, “I can’t complain.” Why complain? No one is going to listen. I do have the advantage of having a blog, so I complain here.

There are others on my list: Whisperers – people who are always huddled in a corner whispering for hours on end. Questioners – people who investigate you (I have to admit I catch myself doing this sometimes, and I find myself annoying when I do; just ask Devon). Awesomers – people who say “awesome” all the time; these people say “whatever” a lot, too.

As you can see, I have no resolutions, but thanks to me, if you want to remain my friend, virtual or otherwise, and be a better person, you have a lot of work to do.

It ain’t easy being perfect. If I can make the effort, so can you!

Have a very Happy New Year! May it be filled with joy, happiness and good health. If it isn’t, don’t tell me about it.

If you took most of the above seriously, before I unfriend you, follow me, get on my email list, and buy my damn books – go to www.miltonstern.com.

Barbie’s Malibu Dream House It Ain’t

I don’t Christmas shop. Big surprise I know, but my nephew is eighteen years old, and he would rather have cash than some ridiculous gift his fifty-year-old uncle thought would be perfect for a young American boy, such as the English Leather gift set, which includes cologne, aftershave and soap on a rope. How ridiculous is soap on a rope? Have you ever tried washing your feet with soap on a rope? If you can, Devon and I would like to make a video of that. Enough said.

Back in my day, there were gifts for boys and gifts for girls. While you may think I was drawn to girls’ toys, you would be sadly mistaken. I liked toy cars and trucks. My favorite was the Fire Truck Pedal Car Uncle Stanley gave me. When I was four years old, my brother and I were watching TV when a commercial for the Fire Truck Pedal Car from American Pedal Cars aired. I told Alex I wanted one. He said, “Go downstairs and ask Uncle Stanley to get you one.” He thought he was funny getting me to go downstairs and ask for a present because if you ever asked my parents for anything, you got the “we grew up during the Depression” speech – which was more like a scream and a yell than a speech – and you were made to feel like the most rotten kid on the planet, and sometimes you were spanked. No wonder three therapists quit on me.

Well, I marched downstairs, interrupted the grown-ups’ conversation, and said, “Uncle Stanley, can I please have a fire truck for Hanukah?” He smiled at me and said, “Sure.”

I went upstairs, and my brother, who thought I would return in tears, was shocked when I was smiling. But then, I worried. I didn’t ask for a Fire Truck Pedal Car; I asked for a fire truck. “Oh fuck me,” I said. However, I didn’t press my luck by going downstairs to clarify my request. I just waited patiently for the Festival of Lights.

 

Well, Uncle Stanley, who was the polar opposite of his brother, my father, delivered. I had a shiny red Fire Truck Pedal Car. My first car! I drove it around the house all night. The next day, I drove it all over the yard. Around this time, my mother decided to have the shutters painted green, and the painter drove a white 1965 Ford Econoline van. He parked it in the driveway and blocked the path I had created with my first car. I was pissed. I think that was the first time I cussed like a New York cab driver while behind the wheel – “Goddammotherfuckinpieceofshitvan blockingmygoddampath fuckingsonofabitchasshole.” I still yell that when I am in a traffic jam.

Now, I was a car freak from an early age, but there was another toy I always wanted, but I never dared to ask for it. I got my Fire Truck Pedal Car, so I quit while I was ahead. That didn’t stop me from yearning. Remember the little wooden fake kitchenette, complete with oven, refrigerator, sink and cabinet that all the little girls had? I wanted one of those kitchenettes. It would have been perfect in my bedroom, and I would have created the most fabulous studio apartment in the Ivy Farms neighborhood in Newport News, Virginia. Alas, it was not to be because in the 1960s, one didn’t let his son wear a dress to school, call himself Melissa or have a dream kitchenette.

Interestingly, I never wanted to play with dolls. Dolls reminded me of babies and children, and even when I was a baby and a child, I didn’t like them. GI Joe wasn’t that buff then, and my mother thought he was a doll, so I never had one of those either because it would make me Gay.

How is that abstinence education working out for you, Mrs. Palin?

This morning, Hasbro announced they were going to market an Easy Bake Oven for boys beginning next year. Rather than being pink and purple, the boys’ version would be blue and black. Aren’t those the colors of the leather community? Or is it law enforcement?

I am pleased that Hasbro is making an easy bake oven for elementary school safety patrol officers or future dungeon masters, but what about all the little Gay boys out there who also want an oven.

Well, I have a few suggestions for my friends at Hasbro, Mattel and Milton Bradley.

Let’s start with that Easy Bake Oven. They should create one in chrome with black knobs for little Gay boys. Instead of that stupid light bulb, it will have convection cooking, a flat-top range and a plate warmer. And, let’s do away with that nasty cake batter. Gay boys limit their carbs and never eat cake. Instead, provide a quiche mix with a gluten-free crust (for their Lesbian playmates). For families on a budget, you can add the decorator pie plates from the Martha Stewart collection at K-Mart, and for those in the one-percent category, plates from the Ina Garten collection at Lord & Taylor.

While you are shopping for the Easy Bake Oven, look for the Gay version of that miniature wooden kitchenette I lusted after as a young wanker. The Ever-So-Fabulous Kitchenette would feature cabinets in dark cherry with Corian countertops and brushed aluminum hardware, complete with recessed lighting and include a complete set of All-Clad Stainless Steel cookware.

Remember that Fire Truck Pedal Car I loved so much? You should, it was only five paragraphs ago. For the little Gay boys, a BMW pedal car in charcoal, complete with GPS and the premium sound system. Why a BMW? Even pretentious Gay child assholes need toys for practice. For the rest of them, a Volkswagen Jetta pedal car will do. The adult versions leave the factory with a rainbow sticker permanently attached.

A favorite has always been Barbie’s Malibu Dream House, a pink monstrosity if ever there was one. No wonder Ken left her for Italian New Jersey Barbie’s Dream House Down the Shore. Ken needs a little Guidette snatch now and again. That Dream House comes with its own detached free clinic.

For our fabulous boys, let’s create Bruce’s Mid-Century Modern Palm Springs Dream House. All the furnishings would be from Levitz of Southern California, circa the 1950s, with lamps and accent pieces in coral and aqua. Parked in the driveway would be a Sherwood Green 1959 Imperial Crown convertible, and out back by the pool, would be Rock Hudson and Doris Day dolls sunning themselves on chaise lounges.

Due to the nature of this blog, I have to suggest an option for future trailer park queens. For them, I give you Rick’s Mobile Dream Home in Jessup. It would be a luxury double-wide with a gourmet kitchen, sunken living room and two Chevys in the driveway – one a pick-up truck and the other on blocks. Around the side, would be two buff boys sunning themselves by a plastic pool.

Now, Milton Bradley, you need to do something about Monopoly. This would be an easy fix. Instead of hotels and houses, have boutiques and summer rentals. For nine months out of the year, when you land on someone’s property and there is a boutique, you have to buy something. For three months out of the year, if you land on someone’s rental, first you pay rent, and then you have to cause insane drama with anyone else who has landed on that summer rental. If you play correctly, by the end of the game none of you should be speaking to each other.

Finally, GI Joe. Yes, the little soldier my mother thought would turn any boy queer. It is a good thing she didn’t live to see today’s juiced-up GI Joe. Now, that DADT has been repealed, GI Joe needs a new buddy – GI Steve. GI Steve’s body would be a little more cut (that no carb thing again), and his uniform would be more tailored to accentuate his V-shape and bubble-butt. GI Steve would have one additional accessory for when he goes on R&R – a camouflage square cut. Well, as long as we are giving him a camouflage square cut, give GI Steve a penis, too. Make it a nice circumcised one. It is all about the marketing.

I would offer a suggestion for a Gay version of the Barbie Beauty Salon, but I think it already is the Gay version of the Barbie Beauty Salon.

Here’s to hoping that shopping for that nephew who makes you wonder is a little easier this year. While straight girls are difficult when it comes to gift giving, Lesbians are a breeze. If your little niece shows Lesbian proclivities, just buy her a Sears Craftsmen starter toolkit. Every year, buy her a new tool, and when she is an adult, she will be ready to tackle the world … or at least repair it.

Here is to hoping there is an Easy Back Oven in your future.

 

If I have offended anyone with the above suggestions ... good!

Buy my book, and the royalties will be your Christmas present to me!

By special request, I am re-running my holiday blog from last year:

CHRISTMAS IS THE JEWISH CHRISTMAS — THE EIGHT MYTHS OF HANUKAH

I love Christmas with all the songs, decorations and lights, especially the lights, and the tackier and more overdone the house, the better.

When we were kids, our parents would love to take us around in the car and look at all the lights. This is where I first learned the word umbeshrian — which according to my mother, meant overdone.

We even had a Christmas tree in our house when I was little, and when my mother accidentally barbecued the den one December, she was most upset about the loss of her Styrofoam snow man with two elves standing next to him.

Now, that I own my first home, I have also strung up some lights — blue and white of course, to celebrate the season. Before you start in on me about decorating for a Christian holiday, keep reading ...

(About 11 years ago, I gave a drash during Shabbat services on Hanukah, where I presented for the first time my “Eight Myths of Hanukah.” A few years after that, I was asked to present them again. For your reading pleasure, I present them for the third time.)

Introduction

Many people do not realize that Jesus was not born on December 25. He was born September 11, 3 BCE, which on the Hebrew calendar for that year was Elul 1.

To make a long story short, in the year 380, Pope Damasus I made it his goal to have all Christians in the Roman Empire yield to his authority, and he convinced the Emperor to issue an edict requiring them to practice the religion of Rome, Catholicism. Damasus I was also seeking to lure the people away from the pagan rituals honoring the birth of the sun god on December 25 at midnight by demanding attendance at a memorial in honor of Christ’s death — in other words, the Mass. The people confused this Mass with the pagan solar birth rituals conducted at that same time, and gradually, the Christ-Mass became associated with the Nativity, hence, Christmas. Somehow, many of the symbols and customs remained, most notably, the Christmas tree and fruitcake.

Did you know all fruit cakes were actually baked before the year 380? That is why they are so dense and hard to slice.

In the United States, Christmas wasn’t even celebrated during our country’s first 94 years because in England, it was celebrated with excessive drinking and lewd and lascivious behavior. Not unlike a Tuesday night in my mobile home.

As a matter of fact, Washington crossed the Delaware on December 25, 1776, to attack the British in Trenton because he knew the Red Coats would be hung … over.

Americans wanted to reject all things British, so Christmas and afternoon tea were the first to go. I wish we kept the tea.

Congress met on Christmas day every year until after the Civil War. Americans complained there were no federal holidays, so on June 26, 1870, Christmas was officially made a federal holiday. However, you can thank the Jews for something else. We invented the weekend. You know: God worked all week then rested in Boca.

So, to all my Jewish friends out there, hang up those Hanukah lights this weekend because Christmas is not a religious holiday; it is a federal holiday, and we want to be patriotic!

Now, I present:

The Eight Myths of Hanukah

1. Hanukah is the Jewish Christmas. False. How many times have I been asked, “Is Hanukah the Jewish Christmas?” Let me set the record straight. Christmas is the Jewish Christmas. Mary and Joseph were Jewish, Jesus was Jewish, and at least one of the Wise Men was Jewish — the one that brought the fur.

2. Hanukah is the holiest of Jewish holidays. False. Hanukah isn’t even a religious holiday. The holiest of Jewish holidays is April 24, Barbra Streisand’s birthday. The second holiest Jewish holiday is December 29, the wedding anniversary of Steve Lawrence and Eydie Gorme.

3. Hanukah is another Jewish holiday where they tried to kill us, they didn’t, so we eat. True. Also known as the Festival of Lights, Hanukah is an eight-day Jewish holiday commemorating the re-dedication of the Holy Temple (the Second Temple) in Jerusalem at the time of the Maccabean Revolt of the second century BCE, which brings us to ...

4. Hanukah commemorates the miracle that one day’s worth of oil lasted eight days in the Holy Temple. True. But, this is hardly a miracle because I witnessed my grandmother doing the same thing with one tea bag.

5. During Hanukah, children get a gift every night for eight days. False. If you grew up in my house, you got a gift the first night, then for seven nights, you heard about how awful it was to grow up during The Great Depression. The ritual of gift giving is actually very American, since Jewish children in this country are totally exposed to Christmas customs.

6. Hanukah is a holiday when Jewish people eat bland, colorless foods that are fried in oil and difficult to digest. True for ALL Jewish holidays. On Hanukah, we eat latkes (potato pancakes) or sufganiot, if you are Sephardic. Sufganiot are similar to jelly donuts. I am part Sephardic, so I like donuts, just not jelly ones.

7. There are many popular songs about Hanukah, and Jewish people know the words to all of them. False. Other than “Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel,” there are no other Hanukah songs we can sing, except for “The Hanukah Song,” by Adam Sandler, which brings us to Number 8 ...

8. Steve & Eydie and Barbra Streisand have recorded Hanukah albums. SO NOT TRUE! Would you believe Steve and Eydie have recorded a Christmas album, and Barbra has recorded not one but two Christmas albums?! And all those Christmas songs we hear on the radio are mostly written, and oftentimes performed, by Jews! Oy vay! This brings us back to myth Number 1, proving once again that Christmas is the Jewish Christmas!

So, from my Trailer Park to Yours, here is wishing you a very Happy Jewish Christmas and a Merry Hanukah!

The Oy in Ohio

As you know from my prior posts, I am not your typical Gay man who makes a big deal out of every birthday like a five year old. You know the ones. They invite all their friends out for their big birthday celebration or make a big dramatic event out of their thirty-seventh birthday, so they can get free drinks and lots of gifts – and attention!

However …

This year, I turned fifty on Thanksgiving, and after spending a year telling everyone I was forty-nine (and I wrote about that, too), I really didn’t want to spend another birthday standing over my sink eating a bucket of fried chicken and throwing the bones down the disposal. I know that sounds dramatic, but it is only dramatic if you have a witness … or a reality show – two things I need!

I made up my mind last year after spending Thanksgiving alone, along with Hanukah, Christmas, New Year’s Eve, the Fast of Gedalia, Martin Luther King Day, Tu Bishvat, Valentine’s Day, Shavuot, and St. Patrick’s Day, that I would go away for my birthday. I mulled over a few destinations, being this would be my first non-working, non-volunteering vacation in five years, and Devon suggested we go to Cleveland.

So, to Cleveland we went.

Cleveland, as it turns out, has a lot to offer. For example, they have the Crawford Auto-Aviation Museum, which I hear is great. I say “I hear” because after booking the trip, I found out it was closed for renovations. They also have the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, which I can tell you is the biggest rip-off in the country (I really wanted to go to Dollywood!). It costs $21 a person to go in plus $11 for parking, and after ten minutes, you realize you are in the most poorly organized and ridiculous tourist trap in the Midwest. We should have known better when we arrived fifteen minutes after they opened and people were already leaving. Even the employees were bored; they also never left their kiosks, so I think they were chained to their posts.

But, those are the lowlights. Oh wait, there is one other. Our motel. While researching luxury lodging on Priceline, we stumbled upon the motel with the highest rating, even higher than the Stouffer Tower Plaza and the Wyndham – the Motel 6 in Willoughby. It wasn’t just the highest; it was the highest by two points. We booked it.

We knew the minute we pulled up that the reviews and ratings were the result of the owner’s inbred cousins. For starters, the Wifi turned out to be “pay-by-day-by-device.” They cut out slips of paper and scotch taped them to a card with the passwords to get on the Interweb and go on Facial Book. The Internet connection was slower than dial-up, and Devon declared the place the “Motel Sucks.” Even better was maid service. The maid exchanged your towels (I am not sure the new ones were clean), emptied one basket and left. She did not clean the bathroom, vacuum, or make the bed. Did I tell you they did not have Kleenex or even generic tissues? None! I asked, and they said, “We don’t provide those.” By the third day, I procured my own linens and towels and proceeded to do the maid’s job. Get a queen on caffeine, and she is either cleaning or cooking. When they went around with the leaf blower, the leaves blew under the door into the room. I mentioned this to the front desk urchin, and she said, “Oh yeah, that happens in all the rooms.”

The best part was we had a view of the Courtyard Marriot whose room rates were three times ours. Too bad they were booked. The second morning, someone had thrown a pizza crust out of their room and hit my truck with it, splattering pizza sauce on the paint. From that point forward, I would look out the peep hole to see what other leftover Italian food was being tossed at my vehicle. Of course, by the end of the trip, the story of the pizza crust had evolved into someone dumping a seven-course, Italian meal on my truck.

Thanks to great company and a sense of humor (on both our parts), we made the best of the motel, and let’s face it, a vacation is about the sites and adventures and not the motel. I will keep telling myself that. The optimist in me takes this view: Had the motel been perfect, I would have had nothing to complain – or write – about, and if I didn’t kvetch, I wouldn’t know what to do with my free time!

Cleveland does have some great attractions. We visited President James Garfield’s Memorial at Lake View Cemetery. Considering he was shot less than a year into his first term and died, his memorial is … how shall I put this … a bit much? It is fucking huge! I imagine if he served a full term, there would be an entire section of the city devoted to his memory. From the top, and yes, you can climb to the top, you can see the Cleveland skyline and Lake Erie or touch the hand of God. The cemetery itself, which still has some lovely property for sale, is amazing. One monument out gaudys the next. I loved it. Then again, I love obituaries and cemeteries and the gaudier the better.

There is also the Cleveland Museum of Art. If you have never been there, you have to go. It is the most amazing art museum I have ever visited. We spent five hours there, and we still missed an exhibit. We returned on the Black Friday to see the feature exhibit on the Wari people, and it was packed. As it turns out, that is their busiest day of the year. How nice to see people taking in culture rather than pepper spraying each other over a pair of Nikes.

The people of Cleveland are very nice and very helpful. When you walk into a CVS, they greet you. Everywhere you go, they are friendly and helpful. It is a shame most will be lucky if they live to see their fortieth birthdays. I discovered the official dish of Cleveland is macaroni and cheese, and apparently, they eat a lot of it with one exception – middle to old age women at Bally’s Health and Fitness.

God forbid a Gay man should go a day without working out, so we worked out while on vacation (you have to do something to work off the mac and cheese). Gym choices are limited, and I don’t have to tell you that the Motel 4.8 did not have a fitness facility, and if they did, it was probably a rusted out Soloflex with a cat skeleton on it.

I have not been in a Bally’s since it was European Health Spa, and judging from the age of the equipment, this one started out as one, and they never upgraded. But, I am an optimist – who also loves to complain – so I was determined to make the best of it. Funny how that works. I ended up having the best workouts there, and so did the women. The women who ranged in age from forty-five to seventy-five were hard core and in phenomenal shape. They weren’t wasting their time on cardio equipment; they were squatting, benching, pressing, etc. Our favorite was Sylvia Goldfarb (not her real name). She was Moses’s prom date. There she was in full make-up, big hair, sports bra, spandex pants, and a gold belt. She had the face of a seventy-year-old drag queen and the body of a twenty-year-old cheerleader. She became my new hero. The men their loved her, and they should. She was working out harder than Arnold Schwarzenegger at a Beverly Hills Housekeepers’ Convention. I want to be her when I grow up; some say I already am.

The men were another story. All they did was walk around in shorts that were too short for Bill Clinton in 1992 and gossip with each other. I never saw one lift a dumbbell or use a machine. Worse were the two personal trainers. Each would have to lose forty pounds to be qualified as obese, and they were hit hard with the ugly stick. There was one exception. We nicknamed him Daddy. This hot fifty-five-year-old did more for tank-tops than Mario Lopez. He seemed happy to see two other men actually working out – very happy. I haven’t been cruised like that since Nancy Reagan was standing behind Ronnie telling him what to say.

The aerobics instructor was another site to behold. After he borrowed an outfit from Richard Simmons, he slapped on his wig (not a toupee, a wig), and made everyone sweat to the oldies, including a suspicious number of songs from the Supremes, Abba, and Liza. Yes, Virginia, there are old queens in Ohio, and they teach Jazzercise.

Again, everyone was very nice.

We had a fantastic time, and we enjoyed everywhere we went with one exception. OK, two, if you include the forty minutes at the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

I needed some Lactaid milk and my newest treat, Lactaid cottage cheese. I know; I have a Jewish stomach, and I live a full life. This is why we ended up at the Giant Eagle – the grocery store of the Zombie Apocalypse.

It was a sea of huge asses, motorized scooters, and extras from Deliverance. This is where the not so nice Clevelanders go to shop. They bang into you, cuss at you, block aisles, and if you are not careful, eat your brains. Apparently, they have already eaten everything else. I usually don’t like crowds anyway, but this was the scariest place on earth. I kept telling Devon, “I need to get out of here; I need to leave; they are going to eat us.”

What we also noticed was that Cleveland is very segregated. Rarely did we see Blacks and Whites in the same building or restaurants and specifically the same neighborhood. I also did not recall seeing any Asian people. With the exception of Daddy and the restaurant manager at the Cleveland Museum of Art, we didn’t see any Gays either. Devon said that one of the night managers at the Motel 3.7 was a lesbian, but I never saw her.

However, our Gays would soon be found. After our second trip to the Cleveland Museum of Art, we began our journey home to Jessup and stopped at the Double Tree in Monroeville, Pennsylvania, halfway there. The desk clerk assumed we wanted a king bed, and we knew we had arrived in a special place. So, other than Felton, Pennsylvania, the town where all the male Log Cabin Republicans live, Monroeville is Pennsylvania’s official gay couples’ capital. At dinner, we noticed the sparsely populated restaurant had only two-tops and all were same-sex couples. Even our server was a lipstick lesbian.  

In spite of the Motel 2.3, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame and the grocery shopping expedition to the Giant Eagle, whose organic aisle had a four-inch layer of dust, this was the best vacation and best birthday I have ever had, which had a lot to do with the company as well as the destination.

I wonder whom Daddy at Bally’s is cruising today? What color spandex is Sylvia wearing?

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