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. 

How Gay Are You?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are some more questions?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here is one last one for the road.

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

Think about it.

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

Wiping Away the Years

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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