The Summer of the Red Plastic Cup

Social media and I have a strange relationship. While I like to post crap that is meant to get a laugh, I rarely if ever post that I just had dinner with Queen Elizabeth and now we are going to the crafts fair in search of macramé flower pot holders.

Actually, I would post something like that.

However, the summer invites all kinds of “look at me; I am having more fun with more people than you” posts.

For those of you reading this who don’t live in the DC Metropolitan area, first, congratulations. You don’t have to get up at 4:30 am to commute ten miles to work for an 8:00 am arrival. Second, we have something a little more than hundred miles away called Rehoboth Beach. I would like to describe Rehoboth Beach in the summer, but in the sixteen years that I have lived in this area, I have never, and I mean never, been invited to go to Rehoboth Beach in season. I have been there in September for our car club invitational, but being on the board, I didn’t get to experience whatever the hell the excitement is all about. However, if I did, I am sorely disappointed. I have been there in November and April, too. What fun!

I once dated a guy, we will call Lester, not because we are protecting him, but that was his real name. We met in June, and every weekend he went to “the beach,” which is code for going to Rehoboth. Not once, did he ask me to go. He did finally ask me to go the following March. I dumped him the next month.

But, I am not bitter.

Maybe not getting invited is my fault because I never asked for an invitation. I am just one of those people who doesn’t go where he isn’t invited. I know people who ask to stay at other people’s homes when they are on vacation, taking advantage of generous people. When I took my cross-country trip, I only stayed with Danny and Michael, and that was because they insisted. It never occurred to me to ask people to stay in their homes. I have an acquaintance who declared years ago that he would entertain no more houseguests. He said he no longer had the room, nor did he want the inconvenience of having people in his space. Do you know what he does when he travels? He calls everyone he knows living at his destination and asks if he can stay with them. And, they let him. I have invited all my friends from around the country to stay with me, with one exception. You guessed it.

My friends, Charles and Ken invite me to stay with them all the time, so I know my company can’t be all that bad!

Once, many years ago when I lived in Florida, a friend was having a birthday, complete with limo and bar hopping. I found out about it, and I sort of made a stink since I was the only one in the group left out – the reasons being I didn’t drink to excess and I was better looking than everyone else (I am assuming the latter). Well, they reluctantly invited me but not without a bunch of rules as to how I was to behave and not to kvetch nor whine. Not kvetch nor whine? Had we met? I decided to drive myself and meet them at a club in Miami. Well, I was having a perfectly lovely time, when they decided they were bored, so all of them left, except my friend Stan. Not two minutes went by when who would walk by us and say hello, but Madonna! And, I don’t mean the Virgin Mother. I am talking about THE Modonna. And, they called me the whiner and kvetch.

I don’t get upset that I have not been invited to “the Beach” in season because from what I have gathered, everyone who goes there every weekend is a snobby, pretentious, A-list wannabe, who cannot consume a beverage unless it is in a red plastic cup and someone is pointing a camera at him, while he is wearing a bathing suit that is not flattering nor properly fitted and just shows how time and vodka can take a toll on a bitter queen's face and physique. If I drank as much as some of these old hags, I would never let someone point a camera at me when I wasn’t wearing a veil.

Has anyone told them that just because the bathing suit made the model in the Undergear catalogue look hot, that doesn’t mean it is going to work on you?

But, I am not bitter.

Speaking of cameras, I live by the Lucille Ball sixth season of Here’s Lucy rule: only in flattering light with a filter and no close-ups. I have one other rule. I will never have my picture taken while holding a red plastic cup. Uccchhhh.

These “look at my pitiful attention-seeking life” photos are all over Facebook every weekend in the summer. They are usually accompanied by a post that says, “Out at the Blue Moon with my dear friend, Tyler. Having a blast!” Dear friend? Really? Before you invited Tyler to stay at your fabulous beach house that weekend, he was reading you up, down, right and left – behind your back of course. What some whores will do for a weekend at the beach. Tyler’s tongue must be bleeding from all that biting.

But, I am not bitter.

The other summer activities that makes their way onto Facebook are the cookouts and pool parties. Again, I don’t know how these are because – you guessed it – I am never invited. There all of them are, many of whom I have invited to my home over the years for dinner parties, cocktail parties and the like, posing for the camera, holding those godforsaken red fucking plastic cups. All smiling as if they are the best of friends. I just want to vomit.

There is one clue as to why all of them are at the same party. They look alike. You don’t believe me? Look again. DC gays only hang around guys who look like themselves. Twinks with twinks, gym bunnies with gym bunnies, club kids with club kids. Same haircuts, same physiques, same clothes. And, not a damn one of them is aging well. Vodka and red plastic will do that to you.

A good friend of mine and I have had this discussion many times about how hard it is to fit in or be a part of a group of friends in this area. The jobs are here, but that is about it. He escapes westward every weekend rather than beachward. After much thought and consideration, I am thinking of doing the same thing because my closest friends don’t live here anymore. At least the guys in the boonies are not snobby, A-list, pretentious, wrinkled, tired, old queens with nothing better to do than pose drunk in inappropriate attire, while holding a red plastic cup.

But, I am not bitter.

If you are drinking out of a red plastic cup, follow me, join me or buy my damn books! www.miltonstern.com. 

Mental Pause

When do I get to have my mid-life crisis? Aren’t men supposed to have one? Let’s go down the checklist:

·         Switch to bikini underwear? With my big ass? Granny panties are here to stay.

·         Buy a red convertible? I bought a baby blue 1954 Hudson Jet Liner instead.

·         Date a younger woman? I don’t even date younger men. Hell, I don’t even date.

·         Start wearing spanks? There isn’t enough spandex and Lycra in Howard County, Maryland, to pull all this in.

Age has never been an issue for me, which is probably because I have acted like an old Jewish woman since I was seven years old. Therein lies the problem. Old Jewish women don’t have mid-life crises, they have menopause.

My mother’s menopause lasted forty years. She always made an excuse for her disagreeable behavior by saying women of a certain age are emotional. When she finally did reach menopause, it started with the hot flash from hell. Literally.

There she was, sitting in the ugly, brown Herculon recliner she bought from Hanes (one wasn’t enough; she bought two and only because my brother talked her into them), and her bouffant fell so fast, she looked like Cousin It!

Let the games begin.

Her physician, Dr. Kevorkian I believe, gave her these little brown pills we called her air conditioning pills. My mother loved her prescriptions. Whenever I sneezed, she would scream, “Take a pill!” I was so hopped up on Contac growing up that my prostate is now the size of a bowling ball (read any decongestant label). My Aunt Flossie, who also was known to partake of a prescription or two, would scream at her son, “Take a Dristan!” She always pronounced the s like a z, like Liza. It is a wonder she died a grandmother (think about it).

Harryette’s menopause went beyond hot flashes and emotional swings.

Mother, who was known for her style, suddenly started to dress – forgive me – like a wacked-out crack head. Nana, who was very stylish, had recently died, and of all the items in her wardrobe to keep, my mother held onto this beige cardigan that she would wear around the house all the time. My brother said she looked like a homeless woman who should be bending over picking up cigarette butts off the sidewalk.

The worst were the wigs. Since the hot flashes caused her hair to fall, rather than have one of Nana’s fabulous real hair Don’s Wigs of Newport News restyled (Nana, though she lived in DC, had all her wigs created by Don), she apparently went wig shopping at Nachman’s and came home with two curly afro wigs: one brunette and one blonde. Why do Jewish women always go blonde?

Mother always shopped cheap for everyone except herself, but suddenly started buying crap to wear. She once bought a brocade cape for $600 in the 1970s. She wore it once. Seriously, we were always one collection agency away from eviction, and she was dressed better than that struggling actress in that fabulous Manhattan apartment – you know, That Girl, Ann Marie!

At the height of the change in 1985, Mother went to a sisterhood function in her blonde afro wig, wearing a handkerchief dress. I am going to mention this next woman by name. Jackie Sigaloff, who owned the most exclusive dress shop in Newport News, La Vogue, where my mother worked before retiring, walked my mother around the room, showing people that she was wearing the latest fashion and totally hip.

I didn’t see her leave the house, but when she arrived home, I took one look at her in that Harpo Marx wig and Morticia Addams dress, and I thought she looked as if she escaped from Eastern State on a poultry truck. She then relayed the story of how Jackie made her walk around the room like a fashion model. I was mortified. I think that was the only time in my life I really did care what other people thought. If I were not twenty-two at the time, I would have been removed from the house by Child Protective Services.

I will never forgive Jackie Sigaloff, who was always a season ahead of everyone else, for doing that to my mother (we found out later she sold Mother that burial shroud dress). Jackie once wore a hat to Rosh ha-Shana services that was actually a large clock. And you think the royal grandchildren are out there!

By the time Mother’s menopause was over, she had graduated to the other side wearing black stretch pants and black tops with various sequined, lame, or iron on designs that doubled as bibs, along with black Reeboks and too much lipstick. One of her tops had thirty keys sewn on it. You have seen these women on any bus in Boca Raton. That is what a post-menopausal Jewess looks like.

What does my future hold? Since I look and act like Nana, maybe I will get lucky. I asked her how her menopause went. She said, and I quote, “One day, I had my period, and the next day I didn’t.” No mood swings, no hot flashes, and she never dressed like one of those old Jewish women eating dinner at 4:30 pm. Nana never even wore slacks, let alone stretch pants, and she made it to eighty-two and always impeccably dressed. If she had lived long enough to see my mother cross over to that stage in her seventies, it would have killed her.

Recently, I got a sign of the times ahead. There I was standing over one of the registers in my living room (they are on the floor in a mobile home), wearing a pair of baggy shorts and swearing the air conditioning was not blowing cold enough. My pubic hair was falling, and I just couldn’t cool off.

I called for HVAC service, and the guy came out, checked my system and told me it was all working very well. As a matter of fact, he said it was blowing colder than normal.

Well, that told me everything. I’m having hot flashes. I guess my menopause will be like Mother’s.

How long before I buy black stretch pants and a top with sequined butterflies on the front? As God is my witness, I will never wear a blonde afro wig.

If you are warm and wearing a wig, follow me, join my email list and buy my books: www.miltonstern.com. 

Fancy Dining and Fabulous Hats

This past weekend, I took my friend, Marlene, out to dinner for her birthday. I let her pick the restaurant. Letting someone pick the restaurant where you will treat her can be tricky. For example, my mother preferred a birthday lunch, and she would either pick a pizza parlor with peeling lead paint and sagging ceiling tiles or a Chinese buffet with no sneeze guard. I would reluctantly eat at these establishments and sit around all afternoon waiting for a sudden attack of explosive diarrhea. I was never disappointed.

 

While I share Harryette’s cheap taste in dining choices, I draw the line at places with bathrooms that look like a postcard from Calcutta or open kitchens with cooks wearing bloody aprons while they have a cigarette dangling from their mouths. I had salmonella poisoning once, and I lost thirty-five pounds in four days. Then again, maybe it would do me good to lick a raw chicken.

 

I have nothing against fancy restaurants, but after spending more than a decade in Washington, DC, I came to realize that just about every expensive restaurant in our nation’s capital was just an expensive restaurant. The food was terrible, and the portions were so small. DC is not known for its dining, which may be why all the tourists here look for food courts.

 

I am also not a fan of chain restaurants. For some reason, they put balsamic vinegar on everything. Does anyone realize balsamic vinegar is for cooking not for salads? Is there a nastier substance on earth than balsamic vinegar? It burns my mouth. Oh yes, Swiss cheese … and green bell peppers. Ycccchhhhh.

 

The other kind of restaurants that bother me are the ones with seven-thousand items on the menu. Once you make it past page nine, you realize they only make two things and four sauces, and every item is just a variation on either. Have you ever noticed you can look at one of those spiral-bound menus and still not find anything you want?

 

Restaurants with foreign language menus also irk me. French restaurants are famous for this. I think they get great joy in watching you struggle over the menu then ordering “closed on Sundays.” (The I Love Lucy fans will get that one.) Now, fancy Italian restaurants have jumped on this band wagon. You can’t sit down and order a pizza anymore without an interpreter. Every time I see formaggi di dino, I imagine two penises rubbing together. Think about it.

 

Anyway, Marlene, dressed in a lovely black dress complete with Bella Abzug red hat, picked a restaurant in Cleveland Park. By the way, if she were not my friend, I were still doing drag, and I saw her walking down the street in that outfit, I would have snatched that hat off her head and run like a mugger. The hat once belonged to a mutual Black friend’s mother. It was beyond fabulous, although she couldn’t see past the brim, so I acted as her seeing eye dog.

 

In honor my lesbian friend’s birthday, I picked her up in my AMC Eagle Wagon complete with burgundy plaid seats. When chauffeuring a lesbian, it is best to drive a lesbian magnet. Not that she needs a magnet; she is married. She and her wife were among the first to get married when DC made gay marriage legal. My invitation was apparently lost in the mail.

 

Anyway …

 

The restaurant was described as upscale Italian with casual dress. Now to me, casual dress means slacks and a nice shirt, but apparently, I was born forty years too late because to everyone else casual means shorts, T-shirts and flip flops. I fucking hate flip flops anywhere but the beach! We were the best dressed couple in the restaurant, which says a lot.

 

While the wait staff were wearing jeans, white shirts and aprons, the runners and busboys were in all black. The busboys looked better than the waiters.

 

We were seated and handed our menus – three each. That is another thing that I don’t get. Why do I need three menus? Also, why do you need a complete menu devoted to cocktails? In my day, you ordered a Manhattan, martini, or Tom Collins. If you need seventy-two varieties of martinis, you need not be drinking. The cocktail menu was larger than the special menu and the regular menu combined.

 

Marlene and I aren’t big drinkers, so we were just going to order a glass of wine each, but then we had another dilemma. The wine list was all in Italian. Our waitress explained they were listed in order of heaviness from light to robust. Whatever happened to house burgundy? Does anyone drink rosé anymore? Even I wouldn’t order white zinfandel. Oddly, this Italian restaurant did not have a Chianti on the menu, not even by the glass. Surely, someone makes a fancy Chianti. They make fancy kosher wine for Passover after all, which I personally do not like. If it isn’t Manischewitz Concord Grape, it isn’t a Jewish holiday. We might as well be goyim.

 

While perusing the menu, which took longer than expected, they seated a middle-aged couple next to us. Funny, they were probably our age, but everyone looks older to me. Apparently, they were used to perusing the Menu Britannica because they ordered quite quickly.

After having the waitress translate half the menu for us, we were ready. I still wonder where she learned to speak fancy Italian. With her bleach blonde hair and dark roots, she was more white trash than I am.

 

I must say the meal was restaurant quality. Seriously, it was superb. I had an artichoke appetizer that was melt in your mouth fantastic. We picked a wine called Terra Elima {Nero d’Avola}; it was fourth down the list and described as “explosive.” I immediately thought of my mother’s restaurant choices and my hour-long drive home after dinner. I drank it anyway. It was delicious, probably the best red I ever tasted. Considering I drink a lot of Manischewitz, that isn’t saying much.

 

When my dessert was delivered, I was not as happy as I thought I would be. It was supposed to be a bread pudding with gelato. It was a muffin with ice cream. However, the complementary “cello,” lemon liquor, made up for that.

 
Dinner with Marlene is always fun because we laugh a lot. I wish I could say the same for the middle-aged couple. When their dessert was delivered, they each pulled out their phones. I could see the wife’s, and she was shopping for a dress. Marlene could see the husband’s, and he was reading a book. They did this for thirty minutes without saying a word to each other! When the wife picked out a dress and bought it, she said, “Ready?” He told her he needed to finish reading a chapter, and he did before they left.
 

I can now say I have seen everything.

 

The restaurant is called Dino’s in Cleveland Park. When I heard the name, I expected dinosaur meat.

 

If you need a short order menu, follow me, join me, get on my email list or just buy my books, which are shorter than the menu at www.miltonstern.com. 

I Am Annoyed

I don’t know if it is my imagination, or are people getting ruder and more stupid. Or as I grow older, am I becoming less tolerant of people in general? If it is the latter, then I, too, am becoming annoying. Becoming, you ask? For the last few weeks, I have been mentally compiling a list of the people who annoy me.
 

Since my last few entries have been about cars and the driving experience, let’s start there. Maryland and Virginia drivers annoy me. Why when they see you have a turn signal on, indicating you wish to change lanes, do they immediately speed up, so that one of two things happen? You cannot change lanes, or they end up in your blind spot and beep at you as if you are the idiot. These morons only live in our area. In the other forty-eight states, they would be shot. God forbid anyone should pass them or get in their lane. They also tailgate, then pass you, give you a dirty look, then tailgate the next guy, and keep doing this hoping for a different result – a sign of insanity. Ironically, all of you end up at the next stop light at the same time. The minute the light turns green, I start blaring my horn to make sure they take off immediately. If they fail to pass me and I end up in front, I take off very slowly. They love that. I have seen my share of middle fingers.

 

Drivers here are also stupid. I was driving my sixty-year-old Hudson Jet home from Western Maryland last weekend, and while driving up steep upgrades, I purposely used the extreme right-hand slow lane –the one that is usually for eighteen wheelers, so I wouldn't cause anyone any agita. In order to go sixty-five miles per hour uphill, I would need flame throwers and a large propeller from one of those Everglades’ airboats. My top speed uphill is fifty – deal with it. There was an idiot who was tailgating me up the slow lane while there was no traffic in either of the other two lanes. He was waving his arms, flashing his lights, and clearly screaming obscenities. He couldn't see I was driving an old car? In the slow lane? I have heard of kanipchen fits, but this was the first time I witnessed one. After a few minutes, this obviously dyslexic driver realized he was in the wrong lane, so he passed me and gave me a dirty look as if I was the bad driver. As he cruised by my car, I flipped him the biggest bird he ever saw.

 

Teenagers on the Metro annoy me. They congregate on the platform in the worst possible spots, which are already congested, so they can scream at each other, “Oh no she didn’t!” Question: Are all teenagers deaf? They also don't move when you try to pass by them. Are all teenagers oblivious to their surroundings?

Tourists on the Metro annoy me. They stand on the escalators, and when you say excuse me, they don’t know whether to go right or left to get out of your way. Question: Are all tourists dyslexic?

Yes, I used dyslexic twice. Did you hear about the dyslexic cop who gave drunk drivers IUDs?

 

Mothers with children on the Metro annoy me. This morning as I was trying to exit the train at Gallery Place, a mother and her five children crowded the door trying to board without letting those of us on the train alight from the car. The worst is when you are on your way home and you want to take a nap after a hard day trying to look busy at work while you check everyone’s Facebook status every five minutes, and a mother and her seven kids board your car and make more noise than a group of Irishmen at a soccer game. One day, a mother placed her brat on the seat next to me, and that hyperactive toddler crawled all over the place and screamed in my ear. I got up and changed cars at the next stop. Why can’t we have childless cars? Or touristless cars? Or better yet, special cars with only one seat for me?

 

The Gallery Place Metro annoys me. They have not had a working escalator in that Metro station since Roslyn Carter fried catfish in the White House. And speaking of bad smells, it is the only metro station in the entire system that always smells like a urinal that has never been flushed.

 

People who want to hold elevators for conversations annoy me. How many times have you boarded an elevator then the next person, who is engaged in a conversation with someone in the hallway boards but holds the door in order to finish her thought? Yes, this happens more often than you would believe. I once told a woman after she held the door for thirty seconds, “Either step out and finish what you need to say, or ask him to board the elevator.” She had the nerve to give me a look as if I was the rude one. Seriously? She finally finished whatever crap she had to say, and when we reached my floor, I held the door open while I looked both ways and said, “Now, which way do I go? I could go to the right. Maybe the left? Oh the decisions I have to make.” She finally blurted out, “OK, you made your point, asshole.” I will admit I was being an asshole, but sometimes you have to be.

 

People who hold the elevator for the world annoy me. This morning, I stepped into the elevator then this woman ran for the elevator, so I held the door for her. Then she held the door for seven more people, who were walking very slowly –obviously her entourage. It took them five minutes to get to the elevator. There we were crammed like sardines. We arrived at my floor first, and I had been shoved into the back. As I tried to squeeze my way out, no one, and I mean no one made an effort to make any room or step off for a second. I said in my indoor voice,“What a rude bunch of bastards.” By the way, you can hear my indoor voice in Paraguay.

 

Guys who wear their tight pants below their asses annoy me. Seriously, can we ban this practice once and for all? And speaking of which, Justin Bieber annoys me. Can we ban this talentless piece of shit, too? Would you hire someone who arrived at an interview with his ass hanging out of his pants? Maybe if you produced porn.

 

Birds annoy me. Why do they always shit on my car after I wash and wax it? I wish birds drove cars, so I could return the favor.

 

Lastly, I annoy me because I thought I was supposed to become more tolerant with age. Although I ammore patient, I am still annoying.

 

Are you annoyed? Are you a lousy driver? Follow me, join me, get on my email list or just visit my website, www.miltonstern.com. 

Moron on Board

This morning, as I was leaving the gym, I noticed a mauve ribbon magnet on a Japanese car that said, “Secure Our Borders.” They have a ribbon for everything now. The car belongs to a guy who wears an Arizona State T-shirt and has a Mexican workout partner. I guess one workout partner is enough.

Bumper stickers and the like amuse me. When I was young and we got around in Conestoga wagons, the prominent sticker was “Honk if You Love Jesus.” We were Jewish, but that didn’t stop us from honking. The looks we would get. Why ask people to honk if you don’t want them to honk, you stupid honkee? And what is the meaning of the fish with Jesus in the middle? If Jesus does come back, will he be rounding up all the Chevy Malibus with Jesus fish on them?

Anyway.

My favorites are the vegans. They always have twenty or thirty bumper stickers that make no sense, but none of them are on the bumper. They plaster them all over the back of their Priuses. Speaking of Priuses. What the hell kind of name is Prius? It sounds like an infection of the female genitalia. "What did the doctor say?" "I have antibiotic-resistant Prius. I was scratching all night."

However, I do like the word genitalia. Fanny Flagg once got in trouble on Match Game because she used the word genitalia. It wasn’t a match. It is such a nice word. He had the most perfectly formed genitalia, setting the standard for all genitalia now and in the future.

The ones that really get on my nerves are these: “My Kid is an Honor Student at the State Penitentiary.” If the school were any good, they would realize “is” is a linking verb; therefore, it needs to be capitalized. I taught school in the 1980s, and that was when the trend to put any kid who showed up on the honor roll started. Did you go all day without pissing in your pants? Good, here’s a sticker. At fifty, I would love to get a sticker on the days I don’t piss my pants.

Here is the funny part about those honor roll stickers. Burglars follow those cars, and they know when school is in session, so they rob those houses! Your kid may be an honor student, but the sticker you really need is “Moron on Board.”

Speaking of morons. Why are there so many on the Metro this time of year … wait that is the subject of another blog entry.

Why would you put a “Baby on Board” sticker on your car? One, you are inviting every kidnapper in your proximity to try and snatch your offspring; and two, it doesn’t make you a better driver. Chances are you drive a minivan, and that alone ensures you are a menace on the highways. My brother drives a minivan, and I wonder if he will laugh at that?

The new one is the group of stick figures representing how many members your family has, what gender they all identify as and the species of your pets. Again, burglars love you. The more stick figures, the bigger your house and the more stuff they can take. And if you waste your money on stick figures, so you don’t forget you have two boys, one girl, a pot-belly pig, three goldfish and a rabbit, you probably have more money and things than you need. Don’t even bother locking your doors.

Another one from my days as a chariot racer with my friend Ben Hurowitz that you don’t see any more is “My Other Car Is a Rolls Royce.” Of course, the best one from that genre was “My Other Car Is a Piece of Shit, Too!” These days, they should print one that says, “My Car Has No Personality – the Other One, Too.”

The most annoying are the political stickers, especially the old ones. Last week, I saw a lady who had a “Ford-Dole ‘76” sticker on her car. The scary part is that it was a 2009 Cadillac. I thought Alzheimer’s patients were only allowed to drive in Florida?

I used to have a 1982 AMC Spirit, and I had rainbow stickers all over it, which as it turned out was redundant. The only people who noticed that car were lesbians. The car screamed gay! This is why I didn’t bother putting them on my AMC Eagle wagon. Again, redundant.

Funny thing about rainbow stickers. When I lived in Mount Pleasant, which is neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss, the owner of our building used to send workers who violated the border ribbon from the guy at the gym with the Japanese car and the Mexican workout partner. One of them drove a Taurus wagon with a rainbow sticker on it. I asked him about it. Apparently he bought the car used by someone who chose the homosexual lifestyle … much as I choose not to appear in unflattering light. The next day, he arrived to finish working in my apartment sans rainbow sticker on his wagon. That was too bad because he was cute, and we would have had adorable children.

One last note. I am getting a sticker that says, “My Winter Home Is a Trailer, Too.”

If you have a Jesus fish, honor roll sticker, rainbow flag or an AMC, follow me, get on my email list or just buy my books at www.miltonstern.com. 

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.