Menopause Puppy

Back in the day, and I am talking even before my time and the pill, women often gave birth to a menopause baby. My Uncle Yale, Nana’s youngest brother, was one such baby. He was only nine years older than my mother.

For those not understanding this term, a menopause baby is exactly what it sounds like. A woman in her mid- to late-forties gets pregnant one last time, gives birth and never has a visit from Aunt Flo again. Remember the episode of The Golden Girls when Blanche thought she was pregnant but discovered she was actually going through menopause? My favorite line from that episode was when Sophia talked about growing a beard and said, “One morning, I woke up, and I was Yassir Arafat.”

Menopause babies also bring on something else: confident parenting. How’s that? Well, with your first child you are over-protective and watch your every move. You won’t even let your baby play in the dirt or crawl on the floor. With your second child, you let your child play in the dirt and crawl on the floor. By the time you have a menopause baby, if your child is still alive and in one piece at the end of the day, you’ve done your job.

For me, Rose Marie is like my menopause puppy. The last time I had a puppy, I was thirty-three. I held Serena when she was two days old, and I held her fourteen years later, when she took her last breath. Did I make mistakes as a new daddy with her? Of course, I did. Was I over-protective? Have we met?

Here are some examples.

I wouldn’t let children touch her. I was like Lucy Ricardo. All those other children have germs. Kids have dirty hands filled with jelly and other stuff I don’t like. Unfortunately, I ended up with a dog who hated children – and many adults.

My dog was clean. Serena had a skin condition requiring her to be bathed every week in special shampoo. Yes, for fourteen years, she got a bath every weekend – 728 baths. She was brushed every night. She was always coifed and perfectly groomed. That is why I wouldn’t let children – and many adults – touch her. They would mess up her do. She also was prissy and wouldn’t play in the dirt or walk in mud. Seriously! I never once saw her step into a puddle or roll in the grass.

People always wanted to pick her up, but she had back and knee problems, so I was constantly pulling her out of people’s arms. Once I was walking her in Mount Pleasant (which was neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss), and this stranger walked right up to her and picked her up. Who does that? I immediately demanded she let go of my dog, and I was made out to be the bad guy. Sorry, weirdo, but to me, this is my child. How would you like it if I walked up to your child and picked her up without permission?

Training Serena was both easy and difficult. I often joked we were Joan Crawford and Christina. I would demand the respect that a star deserves, and she would declare she was not one of my fans.

As a side note. Joan Crawford did that ungrateful child of hers a favor. Had she been all Donna Reed-like, Christina’s book would have been a flop, and she wouldn’t have made millions on it. I read Mommie Dearest and thought, “So what?” You should have grown up in my house. At least you had money.

Where was I? Oh yes, training. I read every stupid dog training book there was. And I learned something about dog training books. They are ALL full of dog shit!

For example: To teach your dog to come to you, tie a fishing line to her collar, then pull on it when you say come here. I did that. I pulled then Serena pulled. Guess who won? The alpha bitch, that’s who.

Use a code word to get your dog to pee. Mine was “go pee pee for me.” Really, it was. Did it work? Hell no. Serena would hold it for hours out of spite. What I did learn was that yelling, “I am in a hurry; take a goddam piss already!” doesn’t work either.

What does work? Just walking along and not saying anything and then saying “good girl” when she goes, and it only took me eleven years to learn that.

I also wouldn’t let Serena play with other dogs unless I had a complete dossier and medical records to review. As a result, her only playmate was an elderly Great Dane. For those who don’t know, Serena was a toy parti-poodle, weighing nine pounds.

As a result, she learned that all other dogs were a menace. Any other dogs who came near me, she would growl at and scare away, regardless of size. She was the best bodyguard I ever had. Too bad she didn’t do that with the jerks I dated.

I also let Serena sleep in the bed. The bad thing about that was when she was old, went blind and deaf, and fell off the bed one night I had to train her not to sleep in the bed. I spent four nights with a dog crying all night long to get into the bed. She finally got it, but she was never the same after that. Neither was I.

I may have made mistakes with Serena, but she lived a good long life and ironically, she died two weeks to the day after her twin brother, who was raised by my friend John, who rescued her mother from an abuser. He soon discovered Venus was pregnant, and that is how I got Serena (their names were only a coincidence and before the Venus/Serena tennis twins).

John was way more relaxed in raising Moochy than I was with Serena, and both lived to be fourteen.

With Rose Marie, have I changed my methods. Yes. I let children play with her. So what if their hands are dirty. I can always give her a bath if she gets sticky. I let her play with other dogs, provided they appear friendly, and what a surprise, most dogs are.

I even took her to a huge car show with hundreds of people and dogs, so she would get used to crowds.

I also don’t yell, “Take a piss already! How f-----g hard is it to piss? Just squat and go!” We just walk, and she goes. I say, “Good girl,” then we continue on our way.

However, she does sleep in the bed. Talk to me in fourteen years about how that is working out for us.

There is one thing that I don’t know if I will ever understand. Every day, someone walks up to me and says, “What happened to your dog’s leg?” If I were walking a child, and she were missing a leg, would you ask me that? Weren’t we taught how to be sensitive to disabilities? I now know how my mother felt.

When I was born, I was huge. I never wore infant clothes and went directly to toddler size. When I was six months old, my mother said she couldn’t count how many people walked up to her and said, “Oh poor dear, is your child retarded? He is two years old and can’t walk or talk.” Can you imagine walking up to someone today and saying something like that?

 

I never got how big I was until I was with my father in a Petco one day, and this woman had a huge baby in her cart. I asked how old he was. She said six months, and as my father walked by, he said without hesitation or surprise, “You were that size at six months.”

 

The woman looked me up and down, and I know she thought, “How much does one of those eat?”

I told my brother that from now on when someone asks me what happened to my dog’s leg, I am going to say, “Oh my God! When we left the house, she had four legs! It must have fallen off!” I got so used to people asking that when my friend Paul wanted to ask me a question about her, I automatically gave him the three leg story, when all he wanted to know is if she had Jack Russell in her. I felt bad for making an assumption.

Not all people are rude. One of my neighbors babysits her grandchildren, and when they saw Rose Marie, they just wanted to play with her. The only question they asked was what kind of dog she was. No one mentioned her three leggedness. Her grandchildren, and obviously children, too, were raised right.

My friend, Danny, said for Halloween I should carry Rose Marie while munching on a turkey leg and go, “Mmmmmm, only three more legs to go.”

All I know is that at the end of the day, she is fed, watered, brushed, uninjured, and still alive, so I must be doing my job.

If you want to come back as a gay man’s dog, get on my email list or better yet, buy my books: www.miltonstern.com.

All She Needs Is a Black Bow

For the last year, since Esmeralda died, friends have asked me, “When are you getting another dog?”

When my father died, no one asked when I was going to get another senile, alcoholic Republican to brighten my days.

My favorite was when one said, “I don’t like the fact that you are alone?” I answered that I have lived alone for more than half my life. She then said, “I know that. I meant that you don’t have a dog.” So, it didn’t bother her that I will die alone and probably not be found until the neighbors can no longer stand the smell emanating from my manufactured home.

Oh, I get it.

Most people who ask either never had a dog or have never had to make the decision to end a dog’s life. You can call it “put down” or “put to sleep,” but the fact is it is a heart-wrenching decision that makes you feel guilty no matter how much people say you did the right thing. I had to do it twice in a three-year period, and both times, I had to make the decision alone.

I wasn’t ready to face that again.

On the Facial Book, I was always sharing pictures of dachshund and bull dog puppies because I think they are cute, and although I didn’t have a dog, I still like them. The jury is still out on people.

Dogs are proof evolution exists; people, not so much. Cats are proof aliens exist.

Well, the last few months, I started to consider whether it was time to bring the pitter patter of little feet into my home. I don’t like children, so it was time for another dog. But this time, I wanted a puppy. At almost fifty-one, I figured this was my last chance to have a puppy and enough energy to deal with one. I don’t know why. I can’t even stand guys who are more than five years younger than I am.

I visited every rescue site in the area for dachshunds, beagles and bull dogs, but what I found were organizations that had you fill out a twenty-page questionnaire online before you were allowed to contact them about seeing a particular dog. I do understand the application process since they don’t want abusers or dog fighters to get dogs, but they should at least contact you within a week, not three weeks later. Once they do contact you, that dog is already adopted or was never available in the first place. Then, they try to get you to adopt an elderly dog.

I have nothing against adopting an elderly dog, but I did that with Esmeralda, and frankly, putting a dog down or to sleep or killing one every two years is not part of my life’s master plan. As I told my friend Danny, “If I have to do that again in the next two years, I will have myself put to sleep.”

My master plan was to adopt a male puppy, name it Dr. Bombay and teach it to come when I said, “Dr. Bombay, Dr. Bombay, emergency come right away.”

A friend told me once, “You want to make God laugh? Make plans.”

My favorite was one on one of the English Bulldog rescues. They had a nine-month old dog available that had been returned. When I volunteered at a rescue, I saw this happen a lot with puppies because the people think the dog will be housebroken, can’t housebreak the dog or don’t know how to housebreak a dog. More on that later.

Three weeks later, I was contacted by email after I filled out the magna carta of applications. They didn't even mention the puppy and sent me a picture of an English Bulldog that they said was five years old, who didn’t get along with children, people, cats or other dogs, was returned three times and had a nice disposition. Even though the description told me this wouldn’t work, I looked at the picture. The dog was so gray and old, it was wearing a Life Alert collar. I told the woman I needed a young dog that got along with other dogs and people and cats because I was considering daycare or a dog walker since I was away from the house for eleven hours three days a week.

You would have thought I pissed in her Rice Chex. “Sorry to have bothered you. This dog is five years old. My dogs are in a crate eleven hours a day, and they are fine. Sorry again to have bothered you.” Her dogs were in a crate eleven hours a day? What kind of Bulldog prison was she running? I didn’t answer because if you get into a pissing contest with a skunk, no one wins. It can be fun with a bear. Just kidding.

I am claustrophobic, so I don’t like crates, and when did this crate thing start? We didn’t use crates in my day. Kelly, Daisy, Serena and Esmeralda never were in crates. I know two people who keep their dogs in crates for ten or more hours a day. I don’t understand it. I would like to put each of them in a crate for a whole day and see how they like it.

Even the rescue organizations call this humane. Sorry, but I see nothing humane about adopting a dog and keeping it in a cage all day. Notice they never say cage. Well, it is a cage. Go get arrested and see what it is like to be in a cage for fourteen hours with only an open toilet and twenty-one of your closest friends then do something horrible and go into solitary for a week. No, I have never been arrested although I apparently have plenty of friends who have.

They also claim the crate is good for housebreaking, but it isn't. More on that later.

With no luck with these other rescues, I started visiting the Washington Animal Rescue League site again. Esmeralda came from there. I had volunteered there and have a monthly recurring donation to them. I started my search with male puppies less than one year old. None really caught my attention and most were pit bull mixes, which is why I didn’t go there first. We aren’t allowed those here. Poor pit bulls. In England they are Staffordshire terriers – Nanny dogs. What they should ban are the horrible owners and that piece of shit football player who went to the same high school I did.

Now, I was thinking, maybe I am not supposed to have a dog. Maybe the universe is telling me to wait. I was getting frustrated. I had already replaced all the carpet with laminate, so no accidents would cause me apoplexy, and I had researched daycares and dog walkers. So, out of curiosity, I changed my parameters to include females. All my dogs were female, so I just thought I was due for a change. Never think. It just gets you in trouble.

And there was this cute black and brown face wearing an Elizabethan collar. I figured she had just been spayed when they took the picture. She was a four-month-old hound mix, but all they showed was this cute face with lopsided ears. Her name was Rose Morgan. My grandmother was Rose, and yellow roses are my favorite flower.

I didn’t contact them right away. I would go on every day and look to see if any new dogs arrived, and one did – a beagle poodle mix. I contacted them, and they responded immediately that she was adopted as soon as they posted the picture.

Rose Morgan was still there with the same post-surgery picture.

The following Monday, I went on again, and there were new pictures of Rose Morgan without the collar. Something looked a little different. She was a small dog and looked to be a mix of beagle, min-pin, Jack Russell and who knows what else, but on closer inspection I noticed she was missing her front right leg. Anyone who knows me would not be surprised at what I did next. I emailed them again about Rose Morgan. I asked if she could walk up three steps; if she was good with other dogs; if she got along with people; if she had any other health issues. What I didn’t ask was what happened to her leg. I mean what’s the point? It wasn’t there anymore, so that was that.

They emailed back in an hour that she was a tripod (that is what they are called), could run, walk, go up three steps, and play like a normal dog because she never had the used of that leg, so it was amputated. However, she was the feature dog on WTOP that morning, and if I wanted to meet her and fill out an application, I need to get down there when the opened on Tuesday at noon.

The next day, I left work for a long lunch hour and only told two people where I was going. I arrived, and I signed in. Then an adoption counselor took me to the puppy room where he retrieved Rose Morgan. We went to another room to get acquainted, and she kangarooed – when they go up on their hind legs, and she licked my face. Then she played and romped, and in seconds, you forgot she only had three legs. She never had the use of four, so it was no big deal to her. She also let me scratch her belly, and she played some more. She even fetched a ball. And, she played some more.

I was falling in love. And, she played some more.

I filled out the application, and they said they would call me that afternoon. I also saw they put a pink adoption pending ticket on her room (they have rooms not cages). This meant no one else could apply to adopt her.

But, they didn’t call that afternoon, or the next morning, and I was getting frustrated. A week earlier I figured I wouldn’t be getting a dog, and then I find a dog I was meant to have and no word. At 4:30 pm, I called them. They were going to tell me to be patient, but without my saying anything, the woman on the phone told me to hold for Sheniqua. I held. Sheniqua then asked me a few questions and remembered I had adopted Lulabell, who became Esmeralda, and that I volunteered there. She also said they were getting dozens of calls for Rose Morgan because she was featured on WTOP.

Then she asked if I was aware of her health issue. I said what health issue? She said that fact that she has only three legs. Because I didn’t want to be rejected, I didn’t make a joke about how I hadn’t noticed and did they find the leg after I left.

She then told me I was approved and could pick her up at 11:00 am the next day.

I thanked her, hung up and cried. The Tin Man does have a heart.

Rose Morgan may have received dozens of calls, but the Universe meant her for me.

I did make one change. No, I did not change her name to Dr. Bombay. I changed it to Rose Marie. My gay friends want to know when I will put a black bow in her hair. My straight friends keep asking me, “Who is Rose Marie?”

Rose Marie acclimated herself to my home very quickly. She found all the toys, and she ran around here like a bitch-ass-ho on cocaine. Rose Marie also requires a special harness. It took longer for me to figure that out than it did for her to make herself at home.

Then, I began the house training immediately. Now, for those who get frustrated, here is the secret. First, they will have a few accidents. Rose Marie went into the bathroom and peed and pooped in there. If you gotta go, you gotta go. You have to accept the fact that a puppy has a small bladder and needs to go frequently. Some people think the puppy should hold it for four, five or even eight hours immediately, and when the dog does not, they give up and return the dog. I cannot hold it for two hours, so why would I expect a thirteen pound dog to do that?

 

Putting the puppy in a crate, especially when you are home is cruel. I know I will piss people off, but that is how I feel. Eventually, the puppy will have to go, then soil itself. Using a crate as a time-out is even worse. Then it just becomes a jail cell for the dog. If you cannot deal with your dog's energy and play, don't adopt a puppy. Go buy a Digger the Dog toy.

For the first day, I walked her every two hours, and she peed on every walk. With each pee, I praised her. Did I tell you her first four days here it rained non-stop? She didn’t care, and I continued to walk her and get drenched, but this was important. She only had one more accident that day, and it was by the front door – the door we use to go out, which meant she knew where to go but couldn’t hold it. She also would gently bark at the door if she needed to go. Serena did the same thing after her first day with me.

It takes patience and a willingness for the first few week or two to take them out quite frequently, so they learn outside is where they go. You are not going to have a puppy who only goes twice a day, especially a small one. They will also have accidents but probably by the front door or whatever door you use to go out.

Rose Marie also made it through the first night, sleeping my bed.

I once dated a guy who asked about Serena, “Does she have to sleep in the bed?”

I answered, “She was here before you, and I imagine she will be here long after you.” Serena lasted eleven years longer than that idiot. My friend Christian said he smelled like death and was the closest I ever came to necrophilia.

That night, I peed five times but only got up three times. She was fine. I am fifty after all.

When the morning came, I went to pee, and she came into the bathroom and did the same thing. I just said a firm no, but I couldn’t be mad. She held it for eight hours. That was her last accident. I now walk her every three hours, and she is fine. The next morning she waited for me to be ready in five minutes then she went outside.

Then came the real test. I have a tendency to project a past experience on a present one. Whenever I left Esmeralda alone, I expected to come home to at least one destroyed object – usually a door jam or a wall. I have scratch guards leftover on the door and window sills here. Or, she would take down all the window treatments. Or, she would knock over whatever she could out of anger. That poor dog was through so much, I just had to deal. I also had to paper train Esmeralda because giving birth so many times left her with no bladder control. I can teach you how to paper train, too. 

Serena on the other hand, never destroyed anything except for a small section of a wall while trying to extract her last baby tooth. That repair took five minutes.

I went to the gym the next morning and did my back and bicep workout in a record twenty minutes. I was a black and gray blur! The manager said they always talk about how I work out with no rest between sets and run all over the gym, but this was amazing. Glad to know I am the subject of protein shake blender conversation.

I pulled up into the driveway, and I took a deep breath. After all, I really am tired of that couch. I would like some new curtains, and who cares about the small area rug in the living room. I would just deal with whatever I discovered. I did close the two bedroom and bathroom doors, and the laundry and closets, too.

I looked through the window first to prepare myself. The place looked exactly as I left it. I opened the door, and nothing was amiss, except my dog. She was nowhere to be found! No wonder the place was immaculate. She escaped. Then I heard a bit of scratching and who came crawling out from under the couch? Miss Rose Marie. Then she sang, “I Wanna Be Around to Pick Up the Pieces When He Breaks Your Heart to Bits.”

I felt awful that she hid under the sofa, so I bought her a canvas mobile home dog house with no door where she could sleep when I am gone. It also coordinates beautifully with my decor.

I have since gone grocery shopping and to a dinner, and each time I return to a perfect home. No, I am not going to another neighborhood by accident.

I wonder if part of Serena’s soul is in Rose Marie. Serena had no interest in destroying things either. Part of Esmeralda’s may be – the part that hides under the couch when I leave, except Esmeralda hid under the furniture when I was home.

I hired professional dog walkers who will come by twice a day for a few weeks, then once a day. It is owned by a nice middle-aged Jewish couple who run an insured, bonded and licensed service and offer boarding in their home. Mrs. M only took Esmeralda out back to smoke, and I don’t want Rose Marie to smell like Marlboros. There is also the issue with the Rose Marie tripping her. This little tripod is the fastest dog and the best leash walker I have ever had.

 

She may only have three legs, but to me Rose Marie is perfect!

On Halloween, I am going to put a black bow in her hair, and call her Sally Rogers. I did, however, get her a black collar. Surprised?

If don’t have a leg to stand on or you wish to live in a cage, follow me, join me, get on my mailing list or just visit: www.miltonstern.com. 

 

It Is Only an Obsession if They Don't Work

Last night, I watched this wonderful movie, House of Versace, on Lifetime Television for women and gay men. Raquel Welch was in it, and I love Raquel Welch. She is 73 and still hotter than any of these ho-bags on screen today – male or female. I know she has had work done, but it is good work, and her wigs are phenomenal. Anyway, I could talk about Raquel and her magnificent bosoms all day, but this is not a “Rack Report.” Do I watch too much Fashion Police or what?

While watching this intriguing movie that sucked me in for two hours of drama and high fashion along with coke snorting and cigarette smoking, a commercial came on for a new reality series called My Collection Obsession. Usually, reality shows don’t hit home with me because I am not a housewife, hair dresser, drunk Italian whore, duck hunter, redneck toddler in a tiara, or Alaskan truck driver. I also have never been arrested or needed to be scared straight. Try as much as you will, you will never scare me straight.

However …

I do collect things, and when I do, it becomes an obsession for a period of time. This has been going on since I can remember. I started with tadpoles. Forgive me. I was just six years old at the time. I had bowls of them in my room until my mother threw them all out.

In my early teens, I started collecting autographed photos. I had Johnny Carson, Joan Rivers, Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett, Vicki Lawrence, Steve and Eydie, Joan Collins, Bob Hope, Gerald Ford … Gerald Ford? How the hell did he get in there? It wasn’t enough that I collected them; I framed them and put them on the walls of my bedroom.

Now, Stern family, seriously? You couldn’t figure me out then?

Anyway, by framing them and decorating with them, I began my purposeful collecting. That is I don’t collect things I cannot use. If it doesn’t work, I don’t want it.

When I discovered online shopping and shoes in Sasquatch size, I started collecting shoes, but unlike Carrie Bradshaw, I actually wear them. It may take a few years to get around to my fourteenth pair of black Chuck Taylors, but I will. Trust me.

As you know from my more than a hundred posts, I sort of collect cars. Some would say, I just buy old cars and drive them because that is basically what I do. I don’t keep them on display in some vast garage, nor do I trailer them to Concourse events. If you saw what I drive, you would understand. Presently, my vast collection consists of three cars. My trusty thirty-year-old AMC Eagle wagon, a 1954 Hudson Jet Liner that I have already driven 1,500 miles in the last three months, and a Rambler undergoing life-long restoration that no one is allowed to mention in my presence unless I am drunk or in a coma.

I also have a compact pick-up, and I drive all my cars every week, except the Rambler, which as I mentioned is going through a lifelong restoration.

About that Hudson Jet Liner: I have driven it in the rain and up and down mountains and on road rallies. It’s a car, and if I can’t drive the car, I don’t want it, unless of course it is a Rambler going through a lifelong restoration, which you are not allowed to mention.

Lately, something has happened to me, and I blame my friend, Frank, the foremost authority on all things Mid-Century Modern. For my fiftieth birthday, he gave me a beautiful glass Procter-Silex percolator from the 1950s. I brewed my first pot, and I was hooked.

I never liked the drip makers. My OCD caused me to replace mine every three months because they would get so nasty, and I couldn’t get them as clean as I wanted, so I threw them out. Also, the coffee usually tasted like crap.

Enter the percolator. Why did people quit using these? They are easy to clean and the best part is that when you pour coffee into your cup, it goes into your cup! Who designs those drip coffee pots? My father always said he would pour the coffee directly onto the counter and hope some ended up in the cup.

Typical Milton, one percolator wasn’t enough. I had to buy another one, and another one, and another one. Before I knew it, I was collecting again. I have three chrome Sunbeams, an orange and a green Poly Perk, a chrome and green plastic totally immersible GE, and an avocado green Cory Buffet Queen forty-cup percolator. In total, I have thirteen percolators, including two stove top models from the 1920s. Before you ask, I tested all of them and they all work. I even have a travel percolator I display with the Hudson. I even talked a co-worker into getting one, and she loves it!

If you get one, the secret to a good fresh pot of delicious coffee is coarse grinding your beans and using ice cold water. It doesn’t hurt to wear pearls and heels either.

They are arranged on my kitchen counters and don't take up a lot of room. People do remark on them when they visit. Strangely, once they see all the percolators, they rarely come back.

Did I mention I use all of them? Not at once of course. That would be weird, and I don’t want you to think I am weird.

Funny thing about my collecting is when I run out of room, I stop. There aren’t percolators in boxes (well there is one, but that is a gift for someone). There aren’t percolators on the floor of my closet or in my bathroom vanities or even in my storage shed. The blessing of being OCD about a place for everything and everything in its place is that stopping is easy. I am not, nor will I ever be, a hoarder. 

But that didn’t stop me from jumping right into another obsession. This one, however, is strange indeed. Thanks to Frank again – did I tell you he also got me addicted to Jerseylicious? – I wanted a rotary phone. He has a rotary wall phone, and it is lovely and it works.

I have my phone service through my cable company. I rarely used my home phone because it was one of those cordless phones, and I hated it. I also didn’t like the way it rang and pushing the buttons, then hitting send like a cell phone. Also, the phone is plugged into a modem and the extensions are these ugly radio transmitter looking devices. I am sorry, but phones have absolutely no style anymore. None.

I tried cancelling it, but thanks to “bundling” that would have cost me an extra $50 a month. Instead they gave me a loyalty discount of $18 a month if I kept my phone service.  Go figure.

So, I thought, if I get one rotary phone, maybe I won’t mind having this phone service anymore.

Did I tell you I have a knack for finding the most obscure things?

I found a restored early 1950s style phone just like the ones on I Love Lucy from this guy who restores phones as a hobby and a business. I wonder if people think he has a collection obsession? I bought one. While it was in transit, I started to panic. What if rotary dialing doesn’t work on a modem? Maybe I should get the landline hooked up? Maybe I should just cancel the service and go with DSL, satellite and landline? Where I live that is the only other option. I called this company and that company and then I found a tone to pulse converter, and I ordered it just in case. I couldn’t wait to see if the phone worked when it arrived; I had to spend that $49 on the converter now.

The phone arrived. I plugged it into the modem and picked up the receiver. I had a dial tone. I then dialed my cell phone and loved the whirly wheel. It worked. Oh my God, it worked! It rang! All I had to do was dial. No pressing special buttons. No hitting send. No lighted dial. It actually connected faster than that appliance they called a phone that I had before. I then dialed the phone from my cell phone. And it rang!

Now, I was hooked, so you know what that meant. I had to have one in every room. Within five days, I had a flesh colored rotary phone next to my bed and a never used 1970s push button model fresh out of the box (you need one push button phone so you can choose 2 for Spanish) for my desk. The Pièce de résistance is an avocado green rotary wall phone just like Nana’s! When I answer the Nana phone, I have an urge to light a Kent cigarette and adjust my wig, while I scream into the phone.

Did you ever notice Jewish people always yell while on the phone? We just aren’t convinced the technology works because Alexander Graham Bell was a Goy. Also, when we whisper, they can hear us in Paraguay.

In addition, I have four other phones I just had to have, one is for my brother and two are for Frank, and the other I am saving for my weekend getaway home someday. I cleaned all the phones I didn't get from the restorer, and yes, they all work beautifully! Right now there are nine old phones in my house and three on the way. I am a collector not a hoarder – I hope.

To get the extensions to work, I found a General Electric wireless jack system that is easy to program. After all, what is the point of having a phone as a decorator piece? That is what I had with that cordless crap, and they weren’t even pretty.

You may wonder how well they work. First, the ring. I love the sound when the phones ring. These sissified rings on electric phones these days are disgusting. When you pick up the receiver, you know you are holding a quality product in your hands. The best part is that the sound quality is amazing. No buzzing, no static and no sounding as if you are in an echo chamber. The youngest phone is forty years old, and they work better than anything you find today.

I now know why our grandmothers were in such good shape. That I Love Lucy phone has a heavy receiver, and holding it for more than thirty minutes is a workout.

Now, if only I could find a modern TV in a 1950s style cabinet. But, what will I do with the eleven televisions I know I will end up buying? Oh well, as long as they work, I can give them as gifts.

If you miss avocado green and harvest gold appliances, join me, follow me, buy my books: www.miltonstern.com. 

If You Are Old Enough to Have Worn It the First Time

Everyone knows I am a slave to fashion. I cannot get enough of designer clothes and high-end accessories. I just die for Project Runway. Friends are always asking me for fashion advice.

Yeah right.

I don’t know a peplum from a bodice from ruching, and I heard those terms because of Fashion Police. I only watch to see what Joan Rivers will say and to see if Kelly Osborne will form her own opinion or just keep repeating what George Kotsiopoulis just said. Giuliana Rancic and I agree on everything!

What I do know is that if you can remember when it was in style the first time, you are too old to wear it the second time. This is why I don’t wear platform shoes – that and the fact that I would look like Herman Munster. I will stick with the Lurch look for now. I also don’t wear hip hugger jeans. There isn’t enough dungaree material on the entire Eastern Seaboard to get around these childbearing hips. Actually, I don’t even own a pair of jeans – not even “Mom Jeans.”

When I am on the red carpet and they ask me whom I am wearing, I answer, “Walmart Fall 2013.”

I have a friend who wears his pants really high, and I once heard him say, “Banana Republic really knows me.” I wonder if they know he has a serious camel toe?

Anytime I attempted to be fashionable, it was a disaster. The problem has always been my size. Big, they understand, but tall, nobody gets. Also, big and tall stores cater to men who need casketwear. One must look good for his viewing.

During my senior year, it was a fad to wear a skinny tie with a T-shirt. I did that, and I looked like a mental case. All day, people kept asking me why I was wearing an old tie from the 1960s. I chalked it up to being fashion forward. Delusional much? That was the only time I tried a fad. Seriously. The only time.

Shoes were always a problem because no one sold my size. I wore what looked like orthopedic oxfords throughout high school. I had one pair of sneakers and one pair that was not sneakers – the grandpa needs to straighten his hammertoes orthopedic oxfords. That was it. To this day, I do not walk into shoe stores. They depress the hell out of me. It wasn’t until I discovered online shopping that I found shoes in my size. Now, I have more than two dozen pairs of shoes in boxes because if I find a pair I like in my size online, I buy every pair they have.

My hair is the bane of my existence. Lucille Ball said that during an interview for Rolling Stone in the late 1970s. My hair is best described as a dirty Q-tip, which is why I have kept it short for more than fifteen years. My large bifocals/goggles, which are necessary for me to keep from banging into walls and stepping on small children, only make me look more like Nana every year. All that are missing are a Kent cigarette and an Eva Gabor wig. My brother would add to that a roll of Reeds mints in my purse. Remember Reeds mints? They were so good. They don’t make hard candy like they used to.

I am approaching my fifty-first birthday, a birthday I have dreaded my entire life. I am not dreading it for the normal reasons one dreads a post-menopausal birthday. President John F. Kennedy was assassinated on my first birthday – November 22, 1963, which means this year will be the fiftieth anniversary of his assassination, and on a Friday, just like in 1963. I was born on Thanksgiving Day 1962, and my fiftieth was on Thanksgiving last year, which means the following year it is always the Friday before Thanksgiving. That entire day is going to be “where were you when Kennedy was shot?” all day long. Ucccchhhhh. Interesting fact, my mother shared a birthday with Jackie Kennedy Onassis, July 28, and Nana with Abraham Lincoln, February 12.

I seem to have lost my way again. Oh yes, fashion, hair, assassinations, now I know where I was, and 1963 seems to be a good place to start.

My favorite fashion era is the early 1960s. I love watching The Dick Van Dyke Show, not only for the brilliant writing, but for the fashions. Speaking of the writing, Carl Reiner is my idol. He wrote 90 percent of the episodes of that show, and I still think it is one of the top five best written sitcoms of all time.

A lot of my friends love the furniture from that show – all that Mid-Century Modern stuff. I like it, too, and I wouldn’t object to living in the Petrie house with all the furnishings, but my favorite furniture is from the Art Deco period, especially the Astaire-Rogers movies with all those square white sofas and chairs, big airy rooms, and flowing lines of all the accessories and especially the radio cabinets and dressers. My friend Ted has an entire home decorated in the Art Deco look. It is an amazing place, but what I discovered was that the furniture is not made for lounging (he agreed with me), which is why Fred and Ginger were always dancing – there was nowhere comfortable to sit.

Aunt Flossie had the most Mid-Century Modern house of anyone we knew. Every piece exemplified the era. She had the sectional sofa in turquoise, the Scandinavian dining table with the high back chairs, a white plastic round dinette with round chairs and green cushions exactly like Laura Petrie’s, and those marvelous color TVs in the cabinets, remember those? Apparently, they are making a comeback. She even had the orange armless sofas that converted into beds in her den. I really loved that house. Aunt Flossie even drove the right car, a 1960 Chevrolet Impala hardtop coupe.

However, it was still the fashions I loved most. It started with Laura Petrie’s capris for me. Did you know they had her stop wearing them for a few episodes and there was a backlash, so it was written in by the network that she was to wear capris in at least one scene per episode? The real reason wasn’t the capri manufacturers but buttcup. What is buttcup? Well, let me tell you. Mary Tyler Moore had a great butt from years of dancing and good genes. When she wore the straight skirts in fashion at the time, they gave her an incredible buttcup, so incredible that Rob Reiner, then a teenager, once grabbed her butt. Every time she turned her back to the camera, straight men nationwide got a boner. The network didn’t know what to do about her great asset. On the pilot episode of The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Lou showed up drunk at her apartment, she turned around at one point, and he told her she had a great caboose. This was purposely done to poke fun at how the network was all up in arms over her buttcup.

So you see, before Jennifer Lopez, there was Mary Tyler Moore. I wonder how many of you will search episodes on YouTube to see if you can find a scene with buttcup?

The funny thing about the fashions of the early 1960s is that the capris, straight skirts, flip hairdos and ballet slippers never really came back at exactly the same time. The 1950s styles have sort of swung in and out a few times; even the 1920s and 30s have tried a revival. The 1970s have attempted to make a sort of comeback or two, and thank God, the 1980s have been laid to rest, but what about those great early 1960s fashions?

What always fascinated me were the skinny, tight high water pants the men wore. Being six-four, I would kill for high waters to be back in style since most pants off the rack fit me that way.

Apparently, I have not been paying attention. One of my co-workers came back from a trip to New York with the fifth grader part-on-the-side haircut, then I saw Adam Levine on The Voice last night, and he has the fifth grader part-on-the-side haircut, too. I could so rock the fifth grader part-on-the-side haircut. Then yesterday, a guy walked by me in tight brightly colored pants cropped at the ankle and wearing penny loafers. I thought I had fallen into an episode of My Three Sons! Remember the opening credits with the high waters and a pair of sneakers, loafers and wingtips? I then spotted a dozen more Douglas sons.

Could it be true? Am I just a single shopping trip from dressing like it is 1963? Am I too old to pull this off? While the rule is if you can remember the first time … but isn’t it really if you were old enough to wear it the first time? OK, so I was in toddler clothes at birth and bigger than a five-year-old at nine months, but cut me some slack. After fifty years, I might just be fashionable for the first time!

There is the downside. If I did dress like one of Steve Douglas’s sons and have the fifth grader part-on-the-side haircut, I might look more like the creepy guy who lives at the end of the cul-de-sac, drives a white Ford Econoline van and has a train set in his basement.

With my glasses, Charles Nelson Reilly may be a better description. Oh God, it just gets worse.

 

Maybe I should just go to Casual Male Big & Tall and buy some casketwear.

If you are a slave to 1960s fashion, follow me, join me, or buy my books: www.miltonstern.com.

Whatever Happened to Talent?

I admit it. I don’t get most of today's music, but to be honest, I didn’t get much of yesterday's music either. I was never a fan of rock or heavy metal or folk or even country (until recently). I often think I was either born forty years too late or reincarnated too soon after my last time on this planet. I don’t use earphones, and I don’t listen to really loud music, unless of course, it is a show tune.

My preference is for crooners who can actually sing with an orchestra behind them – the bigger the belter, the better. I truly appreciate a good orchestra, and the movement to limit orchestra size for Broadway shows is a huge mistake and seriously affects the musical quality of the shows.

Back in the day, they didn’t have auto tune. They especially didn’t have those weird ear pieces, so they could hear what they sounded like. They knew they sounded good, which brings me to a point. If the ear piece enables you to hear how you sound to the audience, why do some of you keep singing?

If I were performing in concert, and I heard what Justin Beiber must hear in that ear piece, I would retire right then and there, walk off the stage and save the rest of the world from any more exposure to my antics. He hosted Saturday Night Livelast year, and he tried to show some dance moves and sing acapella. Oh my dear lord, he couldn’t sing, but the audience went wild. Is the entire world tone deaf now? I cannot even comment on his dancing, which consisted of sliding his foot across the floor. He looked like Cyd Charisse with Huntington’s Disease.

Watch old MGM movies (as opposed to new ones) and you will notice all Cyd Charisse ever did was lift her leg and have a bunch of queens in tuxedos drag her all over the room. Yet, we always applauded and cheered. I try that every Thursday night, but no one ever applauds. Once, I pulled a groin muscle.

Back to Bieberhead – this little shit walks around shirtless with his underwear all out for the world to see with hunched over posture trying to be all ghetto and gangsta. Seriously? Your effeminate hairless ass is from Canada, you freak! Is it obvious I really cannot stand him?

Then, there is his buddy, Miley Cyrus. Here is what is sad about Achy Breaky’s offspring. She can actually sing, but she wants to be all cool rocker chick with her three-pack-a-day voice. What I want to know is how she went from Hannah Montana to Hannah the Ho Needs an Ointment? I cannot begin to tell you what I thought of her VMA performance, but I hear Robin Thicke had a fungus on the front of his pants even his dry cleaner wouldn’t touch.

As shocking as her performance was, this was not the first time for the VMAs. Madonna humped the stage in a wedding dress while singing “Like a Virgin,” as if she ever were one. Talk about a no-talent. Have you ever heard Madonna actually sing? Go on YouTube and look up “Madonna,” “Oscars,” “Dick Tracy.” She sang “Sooner or Later” by Steven Sondheim. It was a bigger train wreck than the ones they have in Mumbai. That is why they call her a performer. However, unlike Bieshit and Cyrcyst, she can dance.

There are others I don’t get. Who is this Drake guy? He isn’t even good looking, he does incoherent rap, and he is all the rave. Women want to have sex with him. If I were a woman and I heard him rapping, I wouldn’t let him perform cunnilingus on me with that mouth.

Speaking of incoherent, what is up with Kanye West? Other than marrying that ho of all hos from the family of hos, Kim Kardashian. I have seen him perform – if that is what it is called – and I cannot make heads or tails of what he is doing. Is this rap? It sure as hell ain’t singing. He sounds like someone who is beginning his methadone treatments. I saw him being interviewed and talking about how God blessed him with his talent. If God blessed me with his talent, I would become an atheist.

My favorites are the ones who sound good on the radio but suck live. One of my favorite groups is Maroon 5 and not because Adam Levine is one hot Yid. When they first started out, they sounded great live, but ever since that skinny stud started working on The Voice, his voice has not been live-worthy. As a matter of fact, they started one episode of The Voice with all the judges singing together, each having a line of a song. Usher, Shakira and Blake sounded good, then it was Adam’s turn, and he sounded like a cat getting a pap smear. This is the case every time he sings live on television lately. He was on Ellen a few weeks ago, and my television may have been on too loud because my neighbor's cat committed suicide.

Oy, two cat jokes in one paragraph.

I know I should just switch channels or turn off the radio, but something happened a few weeks ago that made me more aware of just how many no talents make millions, get handed Grammys like M&Ms and are praised for their heavenly blessed art.

My beloved Eydie Gorme died. I have all her albums – all of them. I think she had one of the most beautiful and powerful singing voices ever. When I posted her obituary on Facebook, I was surprised at all the negative comments I received – all of which I deleted. One called her a “has been lounge singer.” I joke about a lot of things but never about the death of an icon. What was most surprising was that those who made the comments had never actually heard her sing. So, I posted a few clips. One of those negative nellies watched a clip and summed it up, “WOW! I never knew.” Yeah, you never knew because you grew up thinking a skinny white kid in baggy pants and no respect for anyone or himself who cannot sing or dance without electronic enhancements was a good singer.

A music teacher many years ago showed his choral class a clip of Judy Garland singing “Old Man River” from the closing of the first episode of her television show live. After watching it, one student asked if she was still alive, and another responded, “No one with that kind of talent who sings like that is still alive.” Yep.

Someone commented on a Judy Garland clip on YouTube once: “What is that warbling in her voice.” I responded, “It’s called VIBRATO, moron!”

Although she has the busiest vagina in the entire Western Hemisphere, I do like Taylor Swift’s music. No one dumps a guy through song better than she does! I also like Bruno Mars (a real crooner's voice), Pink (she can really sing!), Justin Timberlake (he is also a great entertainer), and the Red Hot Chili Peppers (I don't know why).

If you warble or have no vibrato, follow me, join me or buy my books: www.miltonstern.com.

A Feminine Hygiene Product on Wheels

How cars are named has always been a curiosity. Studebaker had a car in the 1930s called the Dictator. Before that, they had the Rockne – yes, named for Knute Rockne of Ronald Reagan movie fame. You know that old Gipper line he always quoted.

Naming cars for people is not strange. That is how we ended up with Nash, Ford, Lincoln, Oldsmobile (Ransom E. Olds, who also gave us R-E-O). That is how we ended up with Hudson. Hudson was not named for the river or valley; it was named after Joseph L. Hudson, a Detroit department store owner, whose store was named, you guessed it, Hudson’s Department Store.

Car naming was obviously very egotistical in the early days.

Just as we had “look at my company” cars, we also had cars with strange names. There was the Terraplane – on the water you are hydroplaning, in the air you are airoplaning, on the ground, you are terraplaning! Seen a Terraplane dealer lately (for those that don’t know, this was a Hudson brand)?

We have had Presidents, Ambassadors, Statesmans, and Diplomats, but we never had a car called Middle Manager or Frustrated Pencil Pusher. Now, that would sell.

There have been Thunderbirds, Firebirds, and Bantams (a type of chicken), but we never got to drive a Buzzard, a car that would circle and circle until just the right spot was available.

Places make nice names like Monterey, Dakota, Riviera and Montana, but thankfully, no one tried to sell us a convertible Newark or Newport News Station Wagon.

There have been Rockets, Satellites, and Apollos, but did you ever see a four-door hardtop Skylab? I mean one that wasn’t falling toward your house in a million fiery pieces.

Also, there have been the controversial names like Cherokee, Comanche and Chief. Imagine a personal luxury car called a Jewess. It will only take you to restaurants and department stores and never pull into a grocery store parking lot.

Then, there are the names that confuse me.

I have always disliked the name Prius. To me, it sounds like a vaginal infection. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Greenberg, but you seem to have Prius. Does your husband frequently seek the services of prostitutes?”

Toyota also has the Yaris, which is a sleeping disease you contract from fleas that have jumped off a walrus. Corolla means shitty, dirty appliance in Japanese, which is why their owners rarely clean them. The only Toyota name I cannot joke about is Camry because I have an old friend named Cammie, and besides, I cannot think of a Camry joke.

The Nissan Maxima is a feminine hygiene product. How can a straight man drive one of these, and if he does, how can he refuse to pick up tampons for his wife?

Nissan used to be Datsun, and my father always told the joke that a Jewish guy named the company. His boss said, “I need a name by tomorrow,” and the Jewish guy answered, “Dat soon?”

Nissan has the Altima, which is only driven by Alta Cockers – literally; the Sentra, which is enriched with essential vitamins and minerals; and the Versa, which can be parked on the top or bottom tier of a garage … think about it.

Mazda is smart. They only use numbers. However, the English translation of Miata is flaming hot mess of a drag queen. I don’t think since the Dodge Custom Royal La Femme has a car been more associated with women and effeminate men than the Mazda Miata. I wonder if it also has a lipstick holder.

Now Dodge has used a few strange names, and many either medicinal, Lancer for removing moles, or phallic, Dart, and don't forget bisexual phallic, Dart Swinger.

Then, there was the Dodge Coronet, a favorite car among nuns because nothing says marketing strategy more than selling your car to monasteries. Realizing their cars were named for penises, medical instruments and the Flying Nun’s hat, they have recently gone all testosterony with Avenger, Caliber, Challenger and Charger. It’s as if you have to wear spandex and a cape to drive one of their cars.

Chrysler always put on airs with New Yorker, Newport, and Windsor, but Plymouth always suffered from disassociative personality disorder with the Cranbrook, a side-dish served during the holidays, Fury, what happens to your partner when you stain a pillow sham, and Valiant, a prince with a page-boy haircut and lots of male friends.

Ford now has Focus, Fiesta and Escape, so are you going to concentrate, party or just leave? Make up your minds guys.

The best names used to be at Cadillac with DeVille or is it Deville or is it De Ville, Seville and Calais. Well, they did have Fleetwood, and brand of enema. But now, it is all DTS and CTS and LL Cool J and FU2. Where is the class in all that?

Kia disturbs me most. They gave us Sorento, an Italian TV dinner, and the Cadenza, a type of mid-century modern desk. Who drives a desk? Can you imagine asking the valet for your Cadenza?

My favorite is the Kia Sportage, which is when two athletes rub their genitalia together. “After the game, Bruce and I sportaged until we were spent. Then we took a shower and sportaged some more.” No wonder these are so popular.

Did you know the Edsel was almost named Utopian Turtletop? That is an uncircumcised penis that appears perfect in every way, until you have to live in it.

If you drive a feminine hygiene product or a phallic symbol, follow me, join me or just buy my books. www.miltonstern.com

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.