Have You Heard the One About the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park?

Have You Heard the One About the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park?: PICKING THINGS UP AND PUTTING THEM DOWN

2015-05-26T12:05:00.001-07:00

Have You Heard the One About the Gay Jew in the Trailer Park?: PICKING THINGS UP AND PUTTING THEM DOWN: I love that Planet Fitness commercial where the juice head says, “I pick thing up and put them down.” I realize now I have become that g...

PICKING THINGS UP AND PUTTING THEM DOWN

2015-05-26T12:04:00.001-07:00

I love that Planet Fitness commercial where the juice head says, “I pick thing up and put them down.” I realize now I have become that guy, minus the juice of course.

A couple of weeks ago, I walked into the gym at 5:00 am, I put my stuff away, and I loaded up a bar and did one rep. I was done. I don’t mean I was done with the set. I mean I was done.

Finished. Fed-up. Through. I was sick and tired of lifting weights.

I walked back to the locker room, retrieved my stuff, and I went home. Rose Marie was thrilled.

What happened? I’m not sure.

I’ve been lifting weights for 37 years. In those 37 years, I have only skipped the gym for maybe three days each year when traveling, and even when traveling I would work out when I could. That’s almost 12,000 workouts.

You’d think after all those years of picking things up and putting them down, I’d look like a bodybuilder. Well, I’ve never done steroids. I was offered them on occasion, but the cost alone both monetarily and physically never seemed worth it to me. Translation: I am cheap and I don't like chemicals. I was actually unfriended by someone because I refuse to juice up.

About all I accomplished in almost four decades was a complete 180. When I started, I had narrow shoulders, a flat chest and a big ass. Thirty-seven years later, I have narrow shoulders, big boobs and wide hips. I have become Nana! To this day, I still don’t feel comfortable taking my shirt off in public. And now, I need a two-piece!

This disenchantment wasn’t as sudden as it sounds. I remember a personal trainer on TV telling everyone to look at all the people on the cardio equipment then go back six months later. You will see the same people, and they will look the same. I don’t care for cardio because at six-four I don’t fit on the equipment, and I have had more repetitive stress injuries from those horrible machines than I can count. Does anyone else get numb feet on an elliptical? My knees hit the handlebars on exercise bikes. Treadmills scare the crap out of me. I watch too much AFV.

I never liked light-weight high rep workouts. I always thought they were for sissies. Around 30 years ago, I considered training to be a power lifter when I was approached by one to train for the Maccabiah Games in Israel. But alas, my fear of chemical enhancements quashed that dream. All these other guys were shooting horse piss or some other veterinary steroid into their systems and bulking up like crazy. The backne was very attractive. One’s backne would pop all the time, and his shirt would be bloody. Yeah, that is alluring.

A decade ago, a guy I knew told me he never knew anyone who tried as hard as I did to get the results of steroids without using them. He ended up in the hospital a week later due to a combination of steroids, human growth hormone and rhinoceros testicle extract.

I wish I felt the same about supplements and protein shakes. I tried all of them. None of them worked. One did have a strange side-effect – Tribulus Terrestris. While it didn’t give me bigger muscles or a six-pack, it made me treat my body like an amusement park. Every opportunity I could get, I did what every teenage boy does three times a day. I couldn’t get enough of myself. My skin never looked clearer. I never was, nor have I since been, in such a good mood.

Then I watched the documentary, Bigger, Stronger, Faster. In it, they show how all those fitness models on the magazine covers benefit from two things: steroids and Photoshop. Is there no hope?

I really took a long look at all the guys in the gym, which made some think I was Merv the Perv. I realized of all the ones with the perfect bodies benefited from one of two things or both: perfect genes and needles in their butts. Before you think I am lumping everyone into one category – or two, I truly believe, and evidence suggests, that more men, especially men over 45, are using steroids and testosterone therapy. How else do you explain a guy whose face looks like Colonel Sanders and whose body looks like Channing Tatum’s? I can see if you have hours and hours to devote to the gym and a personal trainer follows you around all day to be sure you don’t eat your fair share of Chuckles (I love Chuckles), but you aren’t fooling anyone.

Another point the documentary made was that none of the supplements you buy from Vitamin Shoppe or GNC are regulated. Most contain rice flour and very little or just trace amounts of what they say they are. I quit taking any supplements, and I didn’t notice any difference.

However, I continued to down at least two protein shakes a day. All I was getting was thick around the middle – too bad it was the wrong thickness and the wrong middle.

From what I have learned recently, those protein shakes contain a lot of things besides protein. They, too, aren’t regulated. Also, your body can only absorb and process a certain amount of protein in a day. The rest either makes your kidneys work overtime or gets absorbed and turned into fat.

So, around six months ago, I threw away all the containers of protein powder, and I started making breakfast again.

This was also part of a new kick I was on. Since I love vintage cars and write a column for Hemmings Classic Car, I see a lot of photographs from the 1940s and 1950s. The one thing I notice is that everyone was thin. Maybe that is why my Hudson Jet Liner is supposed to seat six, but only three of my friends can ride with me in comfort.

What were they doing that was different? Not eating processed food. After all, what did our grandparents call organic food? Food.

In addition, my doctor and I were working on a theory. I have an autoimmune disease in the Lupus-Rheumatoid family that causes a range of weird and uncomfortable symptoms. In the last twenty years, there has been a spike in the number of people diagnosed with autoimmune diseases. One belief is the improvements in diagnostics, but the other is that we are putting things in our bodies we shouldn’t be, and as a result, our immune systems are attacking these “enemies.” That is why I started only eating foods I prepare and whose ingredients I can identify. This seemed like a more logical way of keeping my symptoms at bay rather than take a bunch of medications with horrible side effects.

I lost seven pounds almost immediately.

Well, it seems I got off track for a second or two. But, I do have a point in here somewhere.

On the morning I picked something up then put it down and left, I got to thinking. I don’t think often, but when I do, it can be profound.

Over the years, in addition to picking up heavy things in the hopes of not dropping them on my head or feet, I also tried other forms of exercise. I also formed very strong opinions about them.

There, of course, was Krav Maga. While this had a fitness benefit, it also had an injurious one. After 18 months of being bruised, battered and almost killed, I decided I’d had enough. I suffered a ruptured vocal chord from an instructor showing everyone how to choke a tall person, a pulled hamstring from an instructor showing everyone how to take down a tall person, and a broken tooth from an instructor showing everyone how to punch a tall person. What does the world have against tall people?

I tried Cross Fit. Oh dear lord in heaven help the people who take Cross Fit. You’d think Reverend Jim Jones invented this crap. First off. Have you really looked at the instructors? They all have a glazed look in their eyes and flabby bellies. Seriously, all that running around like meth-heads, and you’re fat? I read the goal of Cross Fit instructors is to injure their students, so they can keep the classes to a manageable size. Now, let’s talk about the Cross Fitters, themselves. They are worse than Jehova’s Witnesses. All they post on Facebook is how many burpees they did and their WODs. Work Out of the Day for the less informed. If they miss a Cross Fit class, God help anyone near them. I dated a guy who broke up with me because when he left my house one morning, he didn’t have enough time to make his Cross Fit class.

By the way, the Cross Fit students don’t look any better than the chubby instructors.

Then, there’s Zumba, another cult. I have a friend who used to make fun of me for going to the gym all the time. He would say my gym called when I didn’t show up by 5:05 am. Now, he is 95 pounds lighter thanks to Weight Watchers, and every other Facebook post is about his going to Zumba. I tried Zumba, but I refuse to dress like Richard Simmons. Is that a requirement?

At my gym, they offered a Boot Camp class. This I actually liked because all the exercises used your body weight. There were no weird, unnatural movements, and I didn’t have to dress like an aging queen. I could reserve those outfits for when I go to a banquet. The problem was after two classes, the instructor was fired. Guess why? Selling steroids and having sex with clients in the gym. I was disappointed. While I wouldn’t have bought the steroids, I wouldn’t have turned down a romp on the tanning bed. I apparently wasn’t his type.

Add to all this the home gym equipment I bought over the years, the Power Stand, Cross Bow (Trailer Park Bow Flex), Ab-Roller, and the Bull Worker. Remember the Bull Worker? They still make it: http://bullworker.com/. It’s only $115 plus shipping and handling.

You may wonder why I did all this? I have a terrible body image. It all goes back to sixth grade when we were being weighed in the nurse’s office in school, and Lori Bowman said, as I stood on the scale with my back to everyone, “You’re built like a girl.”

As I said, narrow shoulders, flat chest, and a big butt.

I started with Charles Atlas at age 13. I still have the book of exercises, and some of them worked. Of course, I had to work out in my room when no one was home because I come from a weird family.

Then at age 14, I sent away for the Universal Bodybuilding series, advertised in comic books. After six weeks, it hadn’t arrived. I was upset. That cost $12 of my hard-earned lawn mowing money. Well, it turned out my brother found it in the mail and decided to hide it from me. Then he started a conversation one day about how everyone in his class was getting mail from Universal Bodybuilding. He had been holding on to it for a week. He thought I was being silly sending away for it. He would make fun of me for working out all the time, telling me it was unhealthy to work out so much. Now, he works out all the time.

Do you want to know why I didn’t share this with my family, especially my mother? She thought anyone who looked at a magazine or books about bodybuilding was queer. Maybe she was right.

At 15, I bought myself a weight set and bench for $40 from K-Mart. Remember those sand-filled, plastic weights and benches. I found an old book in the library illustrating bodybuilding exercises, and my life began.

I remember my father saying, “I was going to buy you one of those.” With what? You spend your money on booze and golf. It’s easy to be generous when it costs you nothing.

Speaking of weirdos. I answered the phone one day, and Uncle Stanley said, “Your dad says your lifting weights and are strong as an ox.” I cringed. To this day, even writing this, that makes my skin crawl.

In the Universal Bodybuilding series, there was a chapter on personality, and I’ll never forget one piece of advice: “Never be a muscle head. Don’t talk about bodybuilding. No one cares how many sets or reps you did. Don’t be the guy who always takes his shirt off. Don’t flex for people. You will turn them off.”

I never forgot that advice. It may be the reason I have no beefcake shots on Facebook like many my age who should really rethink those profile pictures. After all, it isn’t Scruff or Daddy Hunt. I never liked to talk about the specifics of my work-outs. When someone would ask me, “Do you lift weights?” I would answer in the affirmative then quickly change the subject. I read the book, and I didn’t want to be a muscle head.

Too bad they don’t teach that in Cross Fit Class! Or Zumba!

I have two acquaintances who do nothing but talk about what body part they are working at the gym any given day and how they are "hitting it hard." Both have loads of shirtless and semi-nude pictures on Facebook. One is 25 and has managed to build a body that makes him look like a 52-year-old married father of three. The other is 52, and he is convinced he looks 25. I think both of their homes are filled with fun house mirrors. They both spend more time talking, posing and posting than actually working out.

Flash forward from 1978 with a $40 weight bench and weights from K-Mart to today with a membership to RetroFitness. After years of gyms, home equipment, diets, supplements, enough protein shakes to choke a moose, and every book and magazine available, I realized I only had a body I sort of liked a few times in my life.

I also realized that in the four years I’d been going to this particular gym, I would see the same people every morning, and none of them looked better or worse.

Looking back, I liked how I looked when I was dancing with the Florida Dance Conservatory. I was much leaner, around 30 pounds lighter, and I had a larger than normal dancer’s body. Yes, I was still lifting weights. To be realistic, I was also in my early 30s. I also liked how I looked in my early 20s. I weighed 200 pounds then. I also had tight skin and black hair and could get an erection from a breeze. Ahh, the good ole days.

So, why was I spending all these years trying to get bigger and stronger when I was happiest when I was lean and pretty?

Yes, I got stronger, but I also got bigger – and not in the right places. I don’t care what the experts say. You CANNOT put on muscle and lose fat at the same time. I have tried every diet and every routine. ALL OF THEM! I have subjected myself to every fad and gimmick. It's all a crock of shit!

After I came home the day I put things down for the last time, I researched one last time for an exercise routine that would enable me to stay in relatively good shape without putting any more strain on my joints. After all these years, my body hurts. I groan when I get up. I groan when I sit down. It reminded me of an old neighbor of mine who was in terrible shape. Upon seeing my face after I ate the pavement while jogging in the dark, he said, “That is why I never exercise. I don’t want to get hurt.”

A few years ago, I wrote a short story about a rich guy who hires a personal trainer. He would drink martinis while the trainer worked out. He felt he was paying for the time, so he would use it as he pleased. One day, the trainer keeled over and died of a heart attack. The rich guy took a sip of his martini and said, “That is why I don’t exercise.”

There was a woman on the news who celebrated her 102^nd birthday by throwing out the first pitch at a Milwaukee Bruins game. Her secret for growing old? “Keep breathing.”

My search led me to Mark Lauren, a former Army Special Ops instructor. He has an entire book of body weight exercises. The SEALS and Special Ops guys and gals don’t lift weights. They use their bodies as their gyms. Yes, they go on twelve mile hikes with 50 pounds of gear on their backs, but I am not 21 anymore, so don’t be looking for me on a hiking trail hauling a radiator from a 1938 Nash.

Best of all, Mr. Laurn has an app!

Every morning, I just choose an "Intermediate, 30-Minute, Body Weight" program, and a new routine is created in seconds complete with a warm up and cool down. I am afraid of the Advanced for now. Give me a month or two. The routines are non-stop, creating a cardio benefit as well.

You’d think after all these years of non-stop working out, fads and routines, I would be able to breeze through this. Oh hell no! This shit is hard! I sweat like a whore in church. I breathe like copulating walrus. And, I groan like a 1979 Lincoln Continental trying to go uphill. Apparently, almost four decades of weight lifting has prepared me for nothing.

Here’s the funny part, and I know you’ve been waiting for the funny part.

Working out at home on a mat with no weights reminds me of my mother following those exercise ladies who were on TV in the mornings back in the days of antennas, three channels, and shag carpeting. Every once in a while, I look at my iPhone expecting to see a lady with big hair, wearing a powder blue leotard and demonstrating the exercises, while her make-up remains flawless.

I am only one degree away from having a Virginia Slim burning away in an ashtray next to a cup of Sanka with one saccharin while I complete my morning exercises.

I’ll let you know if my shoulders get narrower, my boobs get bigger, or my hips get wider. I know my hair will get bigger and blonder. After all, I am just like Nana.

CUTTING THE CORD – HOW TO GO CABLE-FREE!

2015-03-19T13:24:00.001-07:00

I finally cut the cord – not the umbilical cord, but the other one I’ve had attached to me for the last eighteen years. Not my son either; you know the one the front desk guy at RetroFitness thinks I have who drives a BMW? As if I would allow a child of mine to drive a BMW.

The cord I cut belonged to Comcast.

For the last year or so, I have wanted to find a way to release myself from Mr. Master Man. If he were a hot muscle-daddy, that would be OK. But, this Mr. Master Man drives around in a white truck and has a serious attitude equal to his serious butt crack. Add to this charming package a total indifference to your life and time.

“Your technician is scheduled to arrive between the hours of eight and two.” Translation: “He’ll show up when he damn well pleases with the wrong equipment and no knowledge of how our service works.”

When I moved to Rockville (the armpit of Maryland), my appointment was between eight and two, and he showed up at nine o’clock at night. No apology. Nothing.

You can’t blame anyone. The idiot you talked to on the phone is sitting in a basement in Manila, learning phrases like, “Hey, bro,” “I like Taylor Swift,” and “Go Lakers?”

In addition to all of this delight is my favorite term, “bundling.” In other words, buy all our services, or we’ll charge you $75 for every service you refuse. If you only want to watch the four major networks, that will cost you $575 a month. Should I squeeze your balls a little tighter?

Bundling is the main reason I wanted to find a way to cut the cord.

It all started when I couldn’t dial my rotary phones anymore. Apparently, Comcast quit supporting rotary dialing. Have they no mercy? Where’s the humanity?

I asked them if I could cut out the phone service.

“Yes, but that will cost you an extra $75 a month not to have phone service.”

“What if I just keep the internet and cut out the television, too?”

“Yes, you can do that, but it will cost you $275 a month.”

“Why?”

“Bundling.”

Did our grandparents bundle? Grandma and Nana both could watch television without paying anyone for the privilege. Not only that, they could watch Lucille Ball, Desi Arnaz, Vivian Vance, and William Frawley, Milton Berle, Burns and Allen, Martin and Lewis, Abbot and Costello, Amos and Andy, Nat King Cole, Dinah Shore, Jackie Gleason and Art Carney, and don’t forget the best, Ed Sullivan via an antenna.

To talk to any of us, they used their rotary phones, which were leased from and maintained and serviced by Bell Telephone.

They had a phone bill. That’s it!

In the 1970s, Ma Bell was broken up because she had become a monopoly. This meant you now had a local phone company, and then you chose your long distance carrier if I remember correctly. Actually, I do because I soon learned and you will, too, that some things have not changed.

What I don’t understand is how the aim was to break up a monopoly, yet we have more monopolies now than we ever had.

For example, I have one choice for cable television: Comcast. There is no competition.

Sure, there is the Dish, but that’s comparing apples to oranges.

For internet, we have one choice: Comcast. Again, there is no competition.

Fios is not available where we are, only DSL if you don’t go with cable.

That is not competition. To me competition is having more than one cable company, or more than one satellite company, or more than one internet company.

This lack of competition means they can treat you any way they please, and you have to smile and let them fuck you like the whore that you are.

Not me! My whoring days were over!

That was when I started investigating.

If broadcast television is free, why am I paying for it? What do I watch that is so important that I need cable? All I need to see are the news and Good Morning America. Everything else is background noise. I go to bed before any good shows come on, and I use my DVR for those, which presented the first problem.

So first, I subscribed to Hulu. Now, I can watch any “must sees” the next day, which is what I was doing anyway.

What about the telephone? Well, I could no longer dial out, so I decided to go with an old fashioned landline. I called Verizon. For $17.99 a month, I could have a basic telephone line with no frills. Or at least, I thought.

The day came for them to connect my phones, and I soon remembered why I cancelled my landline eleven years ago.

When I lived in Mount Pleasant (which is neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss), I had a landline that couldn’t receive calls. I could dial out, but I had no idea no one could dial in. I just figured no one wanted to talk to me. Then, Mother asked me why I never answered my phone. I told her it never rings. A dozen service calls later, I cancelled the service since they could never get it to work.

In a mobile home, and this is still about mobile home living, the wires for the phone jacks are under the house where the fuse box is located. Mr. Verizon was able to wire the one jack on the side of the house with the connection that Comcast drilled into the exterior wall the day I moved in without asking me first because he didn’t know the wires for the cable lines were under the house.

I asked if Mr. Verizon could hook up the wires for the other jacks, and he told me he was too busy, and I’d have to make another appointment. It would also cost me $95 for each jack to hook up those other wires.

I argued that I made an appointment, and he told me to take it up with his supervisor.

He left and went back to the main switchboard and called to be sure my phone was working. I received a call. There was one problem. I couldn’t dial out without a passcode. Then I spent the day trying to get ahold of someone at Verizon until a customer service rep informed me that the reason I couldn’t dial out was I didn’t pick a long distance provider.

“I’m trying to call my own cell phone, which is in the same area code and in the next room, and my neighbor who is across the street.”

“Yes, but the area code doesn’t mean it is local or long distance. It is all about ‘exchanges.’”

“But, I have regional calling.”

“Yes, that covers you for twelve miles.”

“It isn’t twelve miles across the street and certainly not from the kitchen to my bedroom.”

“It’s about the ‘exchanges.’ Everyone is on a different exchange.”

This was weird. I couldn’t even dial 911 to inform them I was going to cut a bitch if my phone wasn’t working in ten minutes. I could dial Baltimore, but not my own cell phone! I learned that this is what has happened with people taking their phone numbers, area codes and all, with them. Area codes are meaningless – they’re just something you have to dial now.

In the end, my basic $17.99 phone service ended up costing me $67 a month, and that is without call waiting or voice mail. I hate call waiting, and when a friend puts me on hold, I hang up. An answering machine is cheaper than $11 a month. Apparently, maintaining landlines is expensive, hence the price.

At least I could rotary dial again.

Now to watch David Muir, Ryan Smith and all the other male models on ABC News, I had to get an antenna.

I first tried a twenty-mile antenna, but I could only get two channels. Then, a thirty-mile, which gave me four more. Thirty miles my big Jewish ass. The farthest station is twenty miles away. I went on Amazon and bought a sixty-mile antenna. Anything more powerful would require a Saturn V Rocket and a payload from Northrup Grumman.

During my first channel scan, I had twenty-three channels. I went online, while I still had internet of course, and researched this. For your benefit, I give you the following:

If you go with an antenna, pick one with at least a sixty-mile range and hang it in a window behind the blinds. Mine is white, and the blinds are white. It’s hanging in a side window, so no one can see it. Before hooking it up, run a channel scan on the TV. You will get no channels, but you will be deleting any competing settings or data. I had no idea there were competing settings or data.

Then, hook up the antenna and run the scan again. I ended up with forty-five channels. ABC, two NBCs, CBS, five, yes five, FOXs, QVC, HSN, four PBSs, and a whole host of other channels that play old TV shows all day (I can watch Hazel and Leave It to Beaver whenever I want) and others that play Maury Povitch and Wendy Williams non-stop. There is a sports channel, an all-news channel, and also several Spanish-language channels. You’ve got to have your Telenovelas!

Digital signals are strange. The picture is much clearer than with cable; however, it sometimes goes in and out when you first tune in to a channel, which led me to another dilemma, also discussed below.

Now, what about the internet? I got to thinking. If my phone can get the internet without cable, why can’t my computer and Roku? Well, they can with a hotspot modem. I know that isn’t the technical term. I went to AT&T and added a hotspot to my plan and got a free hotspot modem. I chose a 30G monthly plan based on my internet and Netflix usage. The other advantage is my internet connection is mobile. If I ever get wealthy enough to buy a weekend trailer, I won’t have to hook up any internet or cable or phone. I take my hotspot modem (I know it isn’t the right terminology) with me.

I finally was ready to cut the cord.

I unhooked all the equipment and packed it all up, including the cables and remotes. I drove to the Comcast service center up the street. I handed them the equipment, and they didn’t care. They didn’t try and stop me. They didn’t try to retain me. They just told me my bill credit would be mailed in four to six weeks.

Seriously? I’ve been a loyal customer for eighteen years, and this is it? Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out? You’d think I had a one-night stand with them. Tricks have treated me better than this. I’m glad I no longer give them money. My pocket book is closed for business.

So far, I was saving $50 a month, and unless a satellite fell on my head, my internet and TV were always working. I would no longer have to wait during six-hour windows for a cable guy to come over nine hours after the window closed and give me attitude.

However, there was still one lingering issue.

I was using more than 1G of data a day watching my favorite shows on Hulu. There had to be a way to record shows on a digital television. Back in the day, we used VCRs. Do they still make VCRs?

They do, and Walmart had one, but they didn’t have the blank VCR tapes. It was also huge. I wonder if it was a leftover Betamax?

Again, I was doing research, and I found a solution – Mediasonic Homeworx PVR: a porno video recorder. At least I think that is what the P stands for, or could it be personal?

This little machine works as a digital converter if you have an old timey television. One advantage is the Mediasonic Homeworx also transmits the channel guide. If you hit the EPG button, you get a list of all the shows on that particular channel for the next twelve hours!

It will record your shows onto a thumb drive you leave in it all the time, and you can take the thumb drive with you and watch the shows anywhere.

But, it’s a little complicated.

They tell you that you can’t watch one show and record another. Well, you can. Hook up the antenna to the PVR then to the television. Then, hook up an HDMI cable from the PVR to the TV as well. Use the HDMI port for watching normally for an even clearer picture than with just the antenna and for recording. If you are watching one channel while recording another, set your recording using the HDMI port, then when it starts recording, switch your watching to the antenna port.

There are some glitches. You will notice with digital antennas, channel surfing is slow. It takes about five to ten seconds for a channel signal to be received. After a minute of two, the signal gains strength. This is OK if you aren’t recording. If you are planning a timed recording, make sure your PVR is tuned to that station at least five minutes before the recording is to start. You will ensure the strongest signal. If you are going to bed, turn the PVR to the channel first, let it come in clearly, then you can turn off your television, but do not turn off the PVR.

If you don’t do this, when the PVR switches channels to begin recording, the station won’t be tuned in immediately, and the PVR will assume there is no such station. It will do two things: one, it will cancel the recording, and two, it will cancel all future timed recordings on that same channel, since it assumes the channel doesn’t exist.

It took me a few tries to figure this out. I kept checking to see what I recorded, and there were no programs. Half of my future programmed timer recordings would disappear as well. I finally got it when I realized the show I wanted and the future disappearing shows were always on the same channel.

The little machine also records on military time, but even though it is not hooked up to the internet and only gets its signals from digital TV stations, it knows the date and time. You never have to set them. No blinking lights like the 1980s.

Yes, I like rotary phones, but that doesn’t mean I’m a technical idiot when it comes to audiovisuals. You don’t watch this much man-on-man action over the internet for two decades without learning something about signals, clear pictures, and playback.

Once all the dust settled, I notice my leftover data didn’t roll over as planned, so I called AT&T. Whenever I call customer service, I always ask them how they are. This throws them off because no one ever asks how they are doing.

I asked the AT&T guy what happened to my data, and he said sometimes it takes a day or two to catch up, but since I was such a good customer, he was going to offer me a deal. If I were to forgo the rolled over data that first month, they would cut $95 off my bill each month as long as I kept that data plan for as long as I wanted, and my future data would roll over. I thought for a second and said yes.

In the end, cutting the cord saved me $145 a month. More importantly, I no longer have bundles.

Oh, and about those other phone jacks? They never showed up for the scheduled service call to hook them up. No call, no letter, no text. It was like one of my relationships.

I searched online, and there is a tutorial on how to open up the phone box on the side of the house and hook the lines up yourself on the customer side, and it is perfectly legal because the phone box has two sides.

I’m living the life of Nana. I can talk on my avocado green, wall-mounted, rotary phone and smoke a Kent cigarette, while Make Room for Daddy plays in the background.

I would try to live like Grandma, talking on my white, rotary desk phone, smoking a Winston and listening to Lawrence Welk, but I can’t seem to find his show.

Don’t worry, I will.

MY ANNUAL HANUKAH CARD

2014-12-15T13:19:00.001-08:00

My Annual Hanukah Card

Actually, I usually post my “Eight Myths of Hanukah” on here this time of year, but after a dozen or so years, I decided to post "My First Annual Hanukah Card." If you search the archives at right, you can find my “Eight Myths of Hanukah.”

Every year, I get one of those Christmas cards from an old friend in Florida, telling me about all that has happened, most of it bad news. "My shop burned down." "Mother had another stroke." "My live-in lover is getting a sex change … again." I have lost track of whether he/she is a him/her this year or not.

I don’t want to hear all this drama, and I wouldn’t share so much drama. Isn’t the purpose of the annual message to show off how your life is more fabulous than anyone else’s? What fun is there in sending a message if you don’t make everyone else feel bad about themselves?

So, I decided to write my own card to the seven or eight people who actually read this blog. Here goes.

Dear Friends,

I hope this message finds you in good health and happiness as you live the life of your dreams. If not, I hope you find a peaceful way to end it all with little pain and mess.

My dog, Rose Marie, continues to be the light of my life. She brings me such joy and is there for me, as I am for her.

Translation: We are in a co-dependent relationship.

While I have not found my soul mate, I did manage to have sexual relations with a variety of men in their prime, who rocked my world on a regular basis throughout the year. So many men, I can’t remember all their names.

Translation: I got laid once ... I think. I’m not exactly sure there was actually anyone else in the room.

I am continuing to work at my dream job where I am responsible for all the communications at the highest level of government and am called upon to offer my expertise, affecting foreign policy on a daily basis.

Translation: I still work as a contractor spitting out communiques like watermelon seeds and have no clue who, if anyone, reads them.

I travelled extensively throughout the year, seeing things you wouldn’t dream existed.

Translation: My commute to work means I spent almost 900 hours stuck in traffic, seeing people do everything from putting on make-up to picking their noses to masturbating.

I created a lovely outdoor living space where I can enjoy spring afternoons, summer nights and fall foliage.

Translation: I shoveled snow, mowed grass, and raked leaves.

I expressed my true feelings to one of my neighbors.

Translation: I flipped her the bird when she complained about my dog taking a piss.

My social life continues to be interesting and full of new and exciting people.

Translation: I binge watched American Horror Story, Orange Is the New Black, and every season of Adam-12 on Saturday nights.

People continue to seek my counsel and advice as I am a beacon in the community.

Translation: A stranger asked me how to get to M Street.

And finally, I continued to enjoy good health and happiness on this journey we call life.

Translation: I didn’t die.

Happy Holidays!

Love,

Rose Marie and Milton

If you like what you read, buy my books – www.miltonstern.com.

FARTS AND THE MAH JONGG BUFFET

2014-11-10T12:39:00.001-08:00

I loved when it was Mother’s turn to host her Tuesday night Mah Jongg game – so much so that I wrote a book, On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg, which led to my being asked to write the introduction for the soon-to-be-released book, Mah Jongg: The Art of the Game: A Collector's Guide to Mah Jongg Tiles and Sets.

Yes, those were two shameful plugs. Get over it. I live in a trailer, drive very old cars with manual everything, and only buy store brand products. It is either this or Kickstarter.

Anyway, I loved it when it was her turn to host because of the buffet. All the women worked, so this was also their chance to have dinner when they were not in play. They had five players, and Mah Jongg is played with four hands. The fifth bets on which of the four will win. I think six dollars was the most you could lose, so if you lost six dollars, you were at pie, which meant you couldn’t lose more but could keep playing. Sometimes they served pie, which made it even more delightful.

Aunt Anita was always accused of cheating when she was the fifth. None of these women were my aunts. My mother had no siblings, so all these women who were my biggest influence were called Aunt. But that is not the point here. Aunt Anita was also accused of never putting out any food. Well, that is not entirely true. She would have a bowl of those jellied orange slice candies and a liter of Pepsi. Unfortunately, Uncle Walter, her husband, would drink all the Pepsi before the girls arrived.

I don’t know if any of this is true, or if these women were exaggerating. Mother was known to tell a fib or two to make a point … or hide a secret.

My experience with Aunt Anita was that she was always generous with her time and things. When I was typing my last term paper for college, my Royal electric typewriter exploded, even sending off a few sparks. Mother was on the phone with Aunt Anita at the time and casually mentioned that my typewriter just exploded while I was finishing a paper. Aunt Anita promptly hung up. Fifteen minutes later, she was at our door with her own portable electric typewriter. No one asked her for it. She just showed up. That was the Aunt Anita I remembered.

Nana died one week before my college graduation. After the week of shiva and the graduation ceremony, people no longer stopped by the house. One day soon after, Mother was writing thank you notes, and there was a knock at the door. Aunt Anita dropped by unannounced to check on Mother, and she stayed and kept her company all afternoon while Mother wrote the notes, just to be sure she was ok. Aunt Anita never said a word. She just sat there with Mother. It was perhaps the most touching act of friendship I had ever witnessed.

I remember Aunt Renee saying one time, “Anita will give you the shirt off her back. Just don’t ask her for money.” I really didn’t like when they talked about her like that.

Nana lived below Anita and Walter in the late 1950s in Stewart Gardens, and according to her, they would fight about money every night. Nana would light up a Kent cigarette and listen to them until she got bored, then she would bang on the ceiling with a broom stick. Nana had no room to talk. She could squeeze a nickel until the buffalo farted.

Anyway, one night it was my mother’s turn, and she went all out with enough food for a Bar Mitzvah. Tuna salad, egg salad, smoked fish salad, bagels, potato salad, pound cake, fresh brewed coffee in the Sunbeam 30-cup percolator. Jews sure do love their white food. The only thing with any color was the coffee. Oh, you thought I meant Caucasian.

Aunt Anita arrived first, followed almost immediately by Aunt Renee, who upon seeing the food yelled with delight, “Oh my God, look at this spread.” Didn’t bother Aunt Anita one bit.

I will never forget that. Of course, Aunt Renee had an advantage. She owned a deli for God’s sake. Before buying the deli, her husband worked at a furniture store, and rumor was all the nice things in her home fell off the truck as it passed by her house. It was decades ago, so the statute of limitations has run out.

Well, nothing changed for the next decade or so. Food was served, Pepsi was consumed, and they all remained friends.

Then, they hit their fifties, and all of a sudden everything changed.

Aunt Cis developed a hiatal hernia. She couldn’t eat anything with roughage or that would irritate her throat, so she brought her own dinner. Mother had a heart attack, so she couldn’t have anything with fat or cholesterol, and Aunt Anita? Oh she could eat anything, but unfortunately, she died soon after. It was a sad time.

But, the tragedies didn’t stop there.

There were no more buffets. Two things affect Jews deeply, death and a lack of food.

Due to all the dietary restrictions, the ladies who Mah Jongged were brown bagging it. They had to switch from coffee to iced tea, and decaffeinated at that.

I used to joke about how one couldn’t keep up with who could eat what or which. I thought I was funny, making fun of these post-menopausal women.

One should never joke about post-menopausal people because some day one will become one of the post-menopausal people. Karma is a bitch.

It all started around age forty-nine.

I farted.

I know that is no big deal. However, I never farted. I came from a family who farted all the time, but I never farted. I was not like them. I shit a lot due to irritable bowel, but I never farted. I could never understand how people could fart without shitting themselves. My friend, Danny, calls that sharting.

But, I farted. I didn’t just fart once. I couldn’t stop farting. It was awful and painful and uncomfortable, and of course, smelly.

What was happening to me? What did I do to myself? They weren’t just little farts. Oh no, I never do anything little. These were loud, long, wind shear farts.

When I sneeze, I wake up the dead in the next county, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that what was coming out the other end was just as noisy and disruptive.

I kept checking my drawers to see if I shit myself. I didn’t. I was just farting. Non-stop.

I then had to examine my diet. I haven’t missed a meal since 1962, so this was going to require some serious investigating. Then, I found the culprit. Pasta. To test out my theory, I had a plate of spaghetti.

I farted. I farted all night. I felt as if my insides were going to explode. Technically, they did.

So, I cut out pasta.

Then, I farted again.

Now what? Another inquiry was conducted.

Could it be bananas. I thought they only made monkeys fart. I ate a banana.

I farted.

I hate farting. Some people enjoy farting, but I hate it. The worst part is I don’t fart in daylight. No, I fart at night. How am I supposed to sleep with the sheets flapping all night long?

When I do doze, my farts wake me up. Oh hell, they wake up the neighbors.

Rose Marie sleeps under the sheets, so I kept checking to be sure I hadn’t gassed her to death.

I stopped eating pasta and bananas … and whole wheat bread, cauliflower, beans, cottage cheese, chocolate, cake, pie crust, sour cream, plums, walnuts, and any kind of lettuce, and the list just kept getting longer and longer.

I could just eat what I wanted and fart to my heart’s content. But, I’m single, and if I had any hope of getting married, I needed to nip this fart problem in the bud.

I finally managed to alter my diet enough to eliminate the eight-hour farting spells. But, with that came another problem.

Eating out.

I recently visited my friends, Danny and Mike, in Michigan, and they picked this restaurant with one of those weird menus where all the dishes are made with dozens of ingredients – seventy-five percent of which make me fart.

I picked something and picked at it. Danny made fun of me, saying I couldn’t eat anything and how could anyone cook for me because I am so picky. Then, he leaned to the side and farted, right there at the table.

I wish I was as comfortable in social situations as he is. It takes a brave man to be a pig in public.

Milton Stern is a writer and columnist and thinks he is a humorist: www.miltonstern.com.

Stand in Line or Unplug Completely?

2014-09-29T10:21:00.001-07:00

Last week, the iPhone 6 was released, or was it the 7? Maybe it was the 8. I don’t even know which one I have anymore. As you can tell, I was very excited about the release of yet another expensive phone, which will be obsolete and replaced two times before you finish reading this.

Did our parents or grandparents go through this hassle? Nana had an avocado green, rotary dial wall phone for as long as I can remember. She died in 1985 having never owned a push button phone. Grandma had a white table top rotary phone for as long as I can remember, and she died in 1992 also having never owned a push button phone.

I remember when my mother had the phone company replace our flesh-tone rotary phones with white push button phones, so we could have that wonderful feature “Call Waiting.”

I hate Call Waiting.

I think there is nothing ruder than Call Waiting. “So, what did Marge say … oh wait … I’m getting another call. Hold on.” In other words, I will talk to you until someone more interesting or important comes along.

Dear Abby, who is also dead, said when one is put on hold by Call Waiting, only wait for thirty seconds then hang up. I still do that. I don’t know how many times I have been called back and heard, “Did I disconnect you?” No, asshole, I hung up.

I never take the other call. I hate being interrupted, so I just let it ring.

I have a friend who calls, and if another call comes in, automatically says good bye and hangs up. He is more of an acquaintance now that I think about it.

I have another friend who when the Blue Tooth ear piece came out refused to go anywhere without wearing his. He wanted everyone to know he had this thing in his ear, and when he got a call, he would loudly start the conversation to be sure you knew he was on the phone. The conversations weren't even interesting.

I have a neighbor who always has her Blue Tooth in her ear. She is walking her dog at 4:30 am while wearing that damn thing. Who is calling her? We live in a trailer park. The only calls we get that early are when Scooter needs bail money.

I am the only person I know who will let a phone ring if I am having a conversation with someone. I have never said, “Hold that thought; I need to answer this.” I had a boss who found this disturbing. She would be talking, well more like barking, and my phone would ring. I would ignore it. That is why they invented Voice Mail. Ironically, this same woman would always interrupt me when I was on the phone.

None of this is relevant anymore because everyone texts these days. I still talk, and when I do, it is on one of five rotary phones I have in my house.

Back to the lines. Mother didn’t wait in line to trade in her flesh-tone phone. By the way, flesh-tone is more like cadaver-tone. The phone man came out and exchanged them for us. We also leased the phones. They were warrantied and weighed a ton.

I never stand in line. If I go to a restaurant and there’s a line, I leave. If I am at a car club event or Bar Mitzvah and everyone is standing in line for the food, I wait until everyone has gone through the line. Why stand? The food will be there when they are done.

I also hate being behind people at a buffet, especially when there is a sandwich assembly thing going on. People are so stupid and rude. Just pick up your meat and bread, slap some mayo and mustard on your plate, grab some tomatoes and lettuce, and keep moving. You don’t need to completely assemble your sandwich while standing in line and hold up everyone else.

The worst are the half people. You know these people. They take half of everything. They cut bagels in half, muffins in half, donuts in half. No one eats the other half. I repeat, NO ONE EATS THE OTHER HALF. Just take the whole goddamn thing! They are just trying to act demure as if they have never eaten a whole donut. Please. I can see your ass. Everyone on the East Coast can see your ass. You’ve eaten a dozen donuts while watching The View.

How did I end up talking about food? Oh right. I’m Jewish. All we care about is food – regardless of the venue.

“Aunt Ida, I went to a Klu Klux Klan meeting last night.”

“What did they serve?”

This is about phones and our planned obsolescence.

The iPhone reminds me of the 1955 Chevrolet. This car was so perfect they redesigned it the next year and the year after that, and for 59 years, they have been trying to recapture the essence of the 1955 Chevy.

I understand technology is essential to an ever-changing world, but do we go too far? What can this phone do that mine doesn’t? I can call, text, check Facebook every five seconds to see if another picture of Rose Marie got any likes, and I receive emails – 90 percent of which are ads and junk.

The worst part is the expense. Grandma and Nana had a gas bill, an electric bill, a water bill, a phone bill, and rent. That was it. The television was broadcast free over the polluted air waves and received by their antennas. They even got up to change the channels. They didn't need 600 channels. No one needs 600 channels.

I have the above bills plus an iPhone bill and cable bill, which includes fees for Internet and phone. I love my cable bill. I wanted to cancel my cable land line at one point (replacing it with an old fashioned land line), and they said my bill would increase by $50 a month. I wanted to cancel 596 of the 600 channels I receive, and they said my bill would increase another $50 a month. I am paying for channels I have never watched to save money?

Bundling.

I hate bundling. My life is one big bundle of wires. The more bundling and wireless I go, the more crap I have plugged into the walls.

And now, you expect me to wait in line for a phone I don’t want or need?

Never.

What I really want to do is unplug. Completely unplug.

If I got one of those converter boxes for the television, I could watch the five channels that broadcast my shows. I could pay for internet access alone, and with the Roku, I could watch other shows as they are released. I would get rid of the DVR. Is it that important that I never miss a show? I could wait for the show to appear on Hulu. I could get a normal land line.

Well, I did the math, and basically, I am screwed, and so are you. To get a normal land line, I need to pay for installation of phone jacks in three rooms, since the kitchen has the only phone jack. They don’t put phone jacks in houses anymore. I had to buy a brand new home. Getting rid of the cable and going with only internet access and Hulu and Netflix would end up costing more.

Why don’t I just watch whatever is on my five channels when I am awake? I used to do that before they invented the VCR. Maybe I should get a VCR? I wonder if my Betamax is still in the shed?

I could be really radical, and I could get rid of the iPhone and not have any cell phone at all. I lasted 42 years without a cell phone. Yes, I was the last guy to get one.

Or, I could just sit here and kvetch.

But, don’t expect me to stand in line and kvetch. I do my kvetching sitting down.

Before you unplug, order my books: www.miltonstern.com.

KEEP OFF THE GRASS!

2014-08-19T12:41:00.001-07:00

The older I get, the less tolerance I have for people. Dogs, yes, people, no. I also thought dog owners were better people than non-dog owners, but this past year has taught me even assholes are allowed to adopt pets.

From the moment I adopted Miss Rose Marie, I have encountered everything from the sublime to the ridiculous. For those who don’t know, she has three legs. She’s fine. All of you only have two, which is why she feels sorry for you.

“What happened to her leg?” You ask.

“Nothing.” That has become my answer. “Nothing.” If you think that is rude, it is much better than what I want to say, “None of your fucking business.”

Then they get insistent. “Her leg, what happened?”

I look down and say, “Nothing. Her legs are fine.”

“No, I mean she’s missing one leg.”

“Yes, I know.”

“What happened?”

“Nothing.”

Then I usually get, “Asshole.” “Jerk” and even “Faggot.” Yeah, I got that from a kid. Lovely. I can only imagine that one’s parents.

People stop their cars to ask me what happened to her. They never say hello. When I refuse to tell them, they tell me I am rude. I’m rude? Seriously?

What if I were walking with a disabled child, and someone stopped his car and asked, “What’s wrong with him?” Who would be rude?

What if I had one leg and someone stopped to ask me what happened? Who would be rude?

To those of us who have pets, they are part of our family, and your nosy questions about our pets bother us. Of course, 99 percent of you reading this wouldn’t be so rude.

One day, a bus driver slowed down, opened the door and said, “I don’t know what happened to your dog, but I just want you to know she is beautiful.”

Now, that is an appropriate thing to say.

I just don’t understand the fascination with her missing leg. I am more fascinated with the parts she has. I can’t do anything with a missing leg.

I have experienced this before. Miss Serena Rose Elizabeth Montgomery went deaf at eleven years old and blind at twelve. For the last two years of her life, I would carry her across the street when we were out for a walk. She could smell grass, so I was always sure to have her walk on my left with the grass to her left, but curbs and streets were an obstacle.

Once after carrying her across the street, some smart ass said to me, “What? Is your dog too prissy to touch pavement.”

I said, “No, asshole. She’s blind and deaf.”

I know. One of these days, somebody is going to punch me in the mouth.

When I first adopted Miss Esmeralda Rose Alice Ghostly, she was thin and her teets were sagging due to being a puppy mill bitch for eight years. As I was walking her around the armpit of Maryland, otherwise known as Rockville, somebody screamed at me, “Did you breed that dog enough? You should be ashamed of yourself.”

I was dumbfounded. I flipped him the bird.

I know. One of these days, somebody is going to reach over and break my finger.

While Rose Marie is a magnet for rude and nosy people, she is also a dog to be feared.

She isn’t aggressive or rabid. She walks on grass, and she has only three legs. Fear the tripawd on the lawn!

Take that in for a minute.

Yes, she walks on grass.

Before I go on, keep in mind, Esmeralda lived in the trailer park with me for a year. I walked her at least six times a day. This takes me back to Mount Pleasant, which is neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss. I used to walk Serena at least six times a day, and I can’t begin to tell you how many people were concerned with how often I walked my dog. Again, whose business is it anyway? I lived in an apartment, and that was how she got her exercise.

Why is everyone so fascinated with everyone else? Do I criticize how you raise those future serial killers?

Where was I? Oh yes, Esmeralda in the trailer park.

No one ever gave me grief about walking her. Esmeralda had four legs, but she was very timid and she would walk right next to me, never behind, never ahead. She didn’t sniff. She just walked. She did her business and went on.

I also am one of the few people who cleans up after his dog. In my neighborhood, there are no swales. That is the grassy area between the sidewalk and the road. Apparently, it is a Florida term like lanai. This means they do their business in a yard. I am a good citizen, so I make sure she does her business as close to the sidewalk as possible. That way I am not standing in someone’s yard while she puts herself in a north-south position to pinch a loaf.

On Rose Marie’s adoption day, I walked her every ninety minutes to get her used to the neighborhood and going outside. She was house trained in twelve hours.

Sidenote: If you adopt a dog, walk it every ninety minutes the first two or three days, and he or she will be house trained quickly. Making a dog sit in a cage for five hours or just hold it for five hours is not house training. When I was an adoption counselor at a rescue organization, I can’t begin to tell you how many people would bring a dog back because it couldn’t be house trained.

“What did you do?”

“I made him hold it for four hours in his cage, but he went anyway.”

“Can you hold it for four hours?”

“No.”

“You just answered your own question.”

Also, a crate is a cage. Call it what you want, but it’s a cage. I refuse to say crate.

This world is full of idiots, and I have to live in it.

Anyway. Back to Rose Marie’s first day.

I walked by a dog-owning neighbor’s yard, and she came running out. She saw my little three-legged dog, and she said, “You need to keep that dog off my grass.”

Rose Marie was just sniffing around and had already gone near the mailboxes.

“Oh, she’s just sniffing around.”

Then she hesitated and said, “Well, the vet said my grass has fleas, so you don’t want her on my grass.”

“What do you do with your dog?”

She didn’t have an answer.

A few days later, I found out she thought my dog had leprosy and her dog would catch it and lose a limb. I wish I could make this shit up.

I decided to keep Rose Marie off her grass in case her dog had moron-cooties.

Then, we had another winter from hell. This was Rose Marie’s first winter. She loved it. We couldn’t spend enough time outside. The only problem was finding a place to poop. Peeing was easy as that is a squat, but with only one front leg, she needs to find a place where she can keep her balance while in pooping position.

The easiest thing about having all that snow is cleaning up the poop. You can scoop all the snow around it or, better yet, it just sits on top of the ice. It is much easier than trying to clean it up on a wet un-mowed lawn. You dog owners know what I mean.

One neighbor actually had some exposed grass in her yard. Again, Rose Marie had already done her business, but she wanted to feel grass under her feet, so she walked on the grass. No sooner had she taken a step when this ancient battle axe came running out her door.

“Keep that dog off my grass.”

“She is just walking on it. She isn’t going to do anything.”

“I don’t care. Keep that three-legged dog off my grass.”

My jaw dropped. I froze, which was easy since it was six degrees with a wind chill of minus twelve.

We moved along.

Do you know that bitch had the nerve to wave at me every time she drove by after that?

One day, she was having trouble unfolding her husband’s wheelchair after she retrieved it from the back of their Ford Escape. I walked over and asked if she needed help. While I unfolded the chair, Rose Marie stepped on her grass, and she said, “Keep your dog off my grass.”

I locked the chair for her, looked her in the eye and said, “Go fuck yourself.”

Her husband thanked me. Poor guy. He had to screw that at some point.

Then the piece de resistance happened. I got a call from my dog walker telling me someone called the police on him because Rose Marie walked on his grass.

Before I go on. We rent our lots. This grass, crabby, weedy, dandylionee as it is, belongs to the park, not us. We mow it. There is only one descent lawn in the entire park, and the lady who lives there has a dog and doesn’t care if I take a dump on it.

Again, I was dumbfounded. The police thought the neighbor was ridiculous, but they had to answer the call.

We never found out which neighbor called, and no one has stepped forward.

But wait, there’s more. Just last week, I was walking Rose Marie, and she peed on the common area of grass near the mailboxes, and a neighbor, another dog owner, who never walks her dog, just lets him pee and poop in her driveway, yelled at me about letting my dog pee on the grass.

“Where is she supposed to pee?”

“In your yard. Pee kills grass.”

That did it. I was done.

In front of a couple of neighbors, who were retrieving their latest issue of Redneck Monthly from their mailboxes, one of which was the flea lady herself, I calmly told this wrinkled, chain smoking dog owner (who is probably younger than I am) – yes, she also owns a dog, “Dog pee killing grass is the oldest wife’s tale in the book. Dog pee kills ants. It is a natural fertilizer. In order for it to kill grass, the dog would have to pee in the same exact spot for two months straight at least three times a day. And another thing. She was born this way. She has no disease that your mangy, flea bitten, non-exercised, neurotic yappy dogs can catch. Leave me and my dog alone. I clean up after her, which is more than I can say for most of you. I will walk her where I want, when I want. And the next one of you who calls the police on my dog walker better grow a pair and step forward.”

Then I snapped my fingers, turned on my heels, and Rose Marie and I sashayed up the walk.

The following Sunday, as we walked by the wrinkle’s house, she yelled over to me, “Good morning.”

I pretended I didn’t hear her, so did Rose Marie.

If you want to pee on my grass, visit my site first, and by one of my books: www.miltonstern.com.

People Can’t Read … or Listen

2014-06-10T09:22:00.001-07:00

Have you ever had a conversation with someone who spends the entire time formulating a reaction to what you are saying but doesn’t actually hear what you are saying?

Do you tell someone something, and then you hear that person tell someone else the same thing, only to hear it told completely wrong?

Are you a writer who gets letters to the editor about columns you’ve written, and they supposedly quote you or put words in your mouth you never said?

If you answered yes, you are I.

The other day, one of my four bosses – the joys of contract work is the blurring of the chain of command – asked to see me, and he said, “Well, do I have hell to pay?”

“What?”

“You said, if I you weren’t offered this position, there would be hell to pay.”

Let me be clear. I have NEVER said “hell to pay” in my entire five-plus decades on this planet. I have said some pretty nasty things and made some pretty idle threats using language that would make a crack whore blush, but I have NEVER said “hell to pay.”

He even said he had a witness. Well, the witness proved him wrong.

By the way, the position was eliminated when the alcoholic abandoned it, so there wouldn’t be a way to offer it. Therefore, there was no hell to pay, imagined or not.

This is my life.

When one is loud and opinionated – Who? Me? – one spends a lifetime being misquoted.

A few years ago, I was in a meeting with a hotel representative planning a conference with someone from my organization who is known to be pretty shady. I said, “For every 50 nights we reserve, there should be a comp room; therefore, we should have three comp rooms since we have reserved 160 nights.”

Before the hotel rep could say anything, Mr. Shady yelled, “We aren’t giving rooms to the entire board!”

I thought, where in my sentence did I say “board”? There he was getting ready to react to something that wasn’t said, but reacted anyway. Well, one shouldn’t do that with me because my next comment was, “When did I say board? Did anyone in this room hear me say board? Now, you need to shut up because you have been given a free room, meals and drinks for five years without informing anyone in the organization, which is essentially stealing from us as that was our room, food and drinks. It says so right here in this contract in black and white that they have provided you these things.”

Some people forget I actually can read. They also forget I actually listen … when I want to.

Growing up, family members would ask me to recall conversations. What always amazed me was what they didn’t remember. My mother was famous for selective memory. My father on the other hand had no listening skills. He would hear a sentence on the news and go off without any context.

Reporter: “A man riding a bicycle was hit by a truck during last night’s thunderstorm.”

Dad: “There go the Russians, screwing with our weather again.”

OK, he was one aluminum hat short of a trip to St. Elizabeth’s.

Recently, I wrote a column about the mid-1970s, mid-size, rebadged Plymouth Fury for Hemmings Classic Car. In the article, I mentioned how I remembered watching The Tonight Show with Johnny Carson and Jay Leno and Clint Eastwood were guests on the show. Jay Leno mentioned that Clint Eastwood drove used Plymouth Fury police cars.

A few days after publication, I received a letter forwarded by my editor. The author said in an angry and condescending tone intended to get me in trouble that I “specifically mentioned Dirty Harry driving Plymouth Fury police cars,” and I was wrong. He then went on to set me straight (good luck with that) and listed all the cars Dirty Harry drove, none of which were Plymouth Furys.

Well, I kind of freaked out at first because I am a huge Clint Eastwood fan, and I have seen all his movies, and I know Dirty Harry never drove Plymouth Furys, but had I accidentally said that and it was overlooked by the fact checkers? I did an electronic search of the publication and the words “dirty” and “harry” never appeared.

You now have proof I don’t write for a porn magazine. Think about it.

I was furious. My editor said this was normal, so I laughed about how I was sitting at home getting angry in a room with Rose Marie while eating egg whites and Brussels sprouts (I am always on some weird diet).

However, I decided to write this illiterate car nut and let him know I never mentioned Dirty Harry in a letter that thanked him for supporting our publication and reading my column. He responded that he equates Clint Eastwood with Dirty Harry and that was the excuse for the mix-up. Never once did he apologize or admit he was a moron.

My favorites are doctors. I have been to too many doctors who don’t hear a word you say. They just think you are crazy or they are waiting for a break to look up what they think you said on the internet. Recently, I had to change primary care physicians after going to one who would look up symptoms on Google images; he didn’t even use WebMD, which always leads every symptom to cancer.

I especially appreciate the doctors who act as if they don’t have time to listen and just want to see the next patient, so their day will end soon. I had one who seriously heard nothing I said, and when I asked for a prescription for estrogen just to see if he was listening, he gave me one. I was an emotional wreck with tender nipples for months, but the hot flashes did subside.

When I went to my current doctor for the first time, he listened to every word I said, which almost gave me cardiac arrest. And, he heard me when I told him that, too.

My faith in actually finding people with listening skills was restored.

The saddest part is when you put information in front of people, and they choose not to read it. I edit and write a car club newsletter. Recently, I included an article about an upcoming event – The 25^th Annual Orphan Car Tour. I included it in two issues of the newsletter, meaning it appeared for two months.

Ask me how many emails I got from people in the club, who have access to the newsletter and get emails announcing events that essentially said, “Hey, did you hear about this Orphan Car Tour? You should write something about it for the newsletter.”

I especially enjoyed the post on Facebook, where a member wrote, “The car club should promote this Orphan Car Tour.” He then included a link to last year’s tour!

A board member wrote, “I wish I still had my Corvair, or I would go.” I about spit up.

Instead, I responded, “That is last year’s tour. This year’s tour has been written up in the newsletter for two months now. A Corvair is not an orphan. Why in the hell do I bother?”

When I posted pictures of the tour on Facebook, which by the way, no one from the car club attended, one comment was, “Oh. Was that today?”

Maybe someday, I will find somebody who can read.

If you can read or listen, visit www.miltonstern.com and buy a book.

Don’t Use Me to Check Your Balance

2014-05-21T11:51:00.001-07:00

If you are into drinking games, drink a shot every time I say crap or drek in the following!

When I lived in Mount Pleasant, which was neither a mount nor pleasant – discuss, there was a bodega on the corner owned by a nice Korean family. I don’t know if they were North or South Korean. They had different hairstyles, so I am assuming South. Also, a bodega refers to a Latin owned store, but we called this a bodega. What is the Korean word for Bodega? Sijang is the Korean word for market. So, let’s say they owned a sijango.

Anyway, one day I went into to pick up some items, and amazingly, they always had everything. I mean everything. This place was one-third the size of my home. The customer before me left with no bag, and the owner said, “Don’t use my store to check your bank balance!” Apparently, the person kept taking away items in hopes of getting his debit card approved, and when he reached the magic number, decided to forgo any groceries.

I asked if that happened often, and she answered in the affirmative. I wondered why they didn’t go to the ATM. Then I thought about it. These are the people I end up behind at the ATM. They punch every key hoping to get cash, and even when the machine tells them they are broke, they keep trying until I usually say, “It is obvious your card isn’t working; mind stepping aside?”

I think it would be easier for them to rob a store with a pocket potato.

These same people end up in front of me at the Metro kiosk. They keep slamming their Smartrip on the reader and will not accept the fact that it has no funds. “Just jump the turnstile already, I have to get to work!” That is the first time I have written turnstile, and I had no idea it was spelled that way.

Not only do people check their balances in the most annoying way, but also they gauge the market this way as well.

Here is an example. How many of you shop on eBay? How many times have you bid on something only to see that the reserve is ridiculously high? When someone sets a reserve at a wishful level, they really have no intention of selling the time. They are just testing the waters. They may tell you they refuse to take less than what they have invested in the item, but that is bull shit.

If you really wanted to sell something, you would start the bidding at a reasonable price and have no reserve. That is what I believe.

Do you go to garage sales? The people may be trying to make a few bucks selling all their old crap to you, so you can have new crap, but the real reason for a garage sale is to get rid of the old crap without having to haul it away.

Years ago, when we would hold rummage sales for charity, around 1:30 pm when the crowds died down, a Fred Sanford type would show up and make us an offer on all the remaining drek. We would take the offer because the whole point was getting rid of the drek. It was already donated by people who didn’t want it, and we didn’t want it either.

I have never held a garage sale, so I don’t know if this still happens. I am the guy who donates his crap to charity or a dumpster depending on how crappy my drek is.

If you really don’t want something anymore, are you going to price it so high, no one else will either? Some people do because they think their shit smells better than your shit. Well, darlings, all our shit stinks, and the same goes for our old, crappy drek.

I am not a hoarder, and I hold no sentimental attachment to objects. I have a table that belonged to Nana. It is a nice table, but both Esmeralda and Rose Marie chewed away at one of the legs. I have it in my bedroom, where you can’t see the leg. I only keep it because it makes a great night stand. However, I would put it on the curb as soon as I found a table with two drawers that could replace it. If Nana were really attached to the table, she would have taken it with her when she died.

I had a Greek boss tell me once. “You only own one thing your entire life – the plot where you are buried.” You don’t even own the casket. Your family will be making payments on that until they pick out their own then their kids will make payments, and so on, and so on. It is like Heather Locklear and her Faberge Shampoo.

Wow, I am really aging myself. Perhaps, I should only shop for furniture with a lid?

This market research doesn’t just apply to clothes, furniture, National Geographics and unintentional sex toys. I think it happens most often in the hobby world – especially car collecting and the like.

Antique car prices over the last several years have become ridiculously inflated. This, of course, is a discussion for another time. As many of you know, I write a column for Hemmings Classic Car called “Detroit Underdogs.” I focus on the cars you can still buy for less than $9,000 and be a part of the vintage car hobby. Personally, I think $9,000 is still way too high.

Some call these cars crap. Well, any queen can drive a Cadillac. It takes a real man to show up at Pebble Beach in a Ford Granada.

Browse the car classifieds such as Hemmings, eBay or Auto Trader, and you will see that even the most mundane daily drivers from our respective childhoods are listed at very high prices. If you go to a vintage car insurance site, you will see the values listed for these cars are still realistic. That means, if you buy a Mercury Monarch for $18,000, your insurance company will give you an agreed-upon value of about half that amount. And if you do buy a Mercury Monarch for $18,000, you won’t be able to drive it because the men in the white suits will come and take you away with a net.

Around six months ago, a man listed a 1961 Rambler American Super four-door sedan with 16,000 original miles on a Rambler Car Club site for sale for $4,000. The car’s only options were full wheel covers and automatic transmission. It was a radio delete car with no driver’s side rearview mirror either. Had it been all original, he might have sold it for that price, but it had been repainted at some point, though not very well but, granted, in the original color. There were dings, a dent and lots of thin areas in the paint. It is better to be all original with dings and dents than repainted with them. The bottom had its share of surface rust, the engine and transmission leaked, and the engine compartment needed some serious cleaning and detailing. The spark plug wires weren’t even a matched set.

At the time, a Rambler guy offered him $3,350 for the car. Considering the seller bought the car for $2,500, that was a pretty good offer. Also, a 1961 Rambler American Super four-door sedan in #1 condition, which means, flawless, pristine, concourse quality, or in laymen’s terms, fabulous, is valued at $3,125. In #2 condition, it is valued at $2,750. This car was a #3, and I will be generous and say closer to a #2 than a #4. It was going to need at least $2,000 worth of work and the addition of a driver’s side rearview mirror to make it safe enough to drive in modern traffic.

He refused to let it go at that price because he wasn’t quite ready to sell it yet. When he told me this, I decided not to make an offer but did tell him to contact me if he ever did decide to sell it.

So, why did this shmuck list it? You know why, and he got his answer.

Six months go by, and I get an email asking me if I am still interested in the 1961 Rambler American. He contacted the first bidder, but that guy went ahead and bought an AMC Hornet Sportabout instead. I wonder if he bought that beautiful, all original, mint green one I saw for $2,750? See? The deals are still out there.

He should have sold the Rambler when he had the chance.

We exchanged a few emails on the car, and he sent me a picture of the original owner standing next to it. He told me how he had to sell it because his kids were in braces and the expense of owning an old car was not a good idea now.

When will people learn that their personal financial situation does not figure in the actual price of an item? After all, I didn’t fuck his wife, so those aren’t my kids, and their teeth aren’t my responsibility.

I should whine that I have to maintain a mobile home lifestyle with Rose Marie at my side.

Knowing already what his answer would be, I explained the condition of the car and what it needed to be road worthy. I offered him $2,800, which was more than the value of a #2 condition car, and it was $300 more than he paid for it.

His answer was he couldn’t let it go at that price, and he was going to keep it.

If his kids’ braces were that important, he would have sold it and saved himself the expense of insurance, registration, etc., for a car he didn’t need that was going to cost him money in repairs if he wanted it to remain roadworthy. So much for straight teeth.

Fortunately, I saved myself four hours at the MVA (Maryland’s version of DMV, which is still a pain in the ass) had he actually said yes.

Yuckduck had no intention of selling the car, and he also knew his asking price was still way too high.

I wanted to say, “Don’t use me to check your balance!”

If he contacts me again, I am going to offer to shove the car up his ass.

Visit www.miltonstern.com to see what else I write.

Rules Are Not Made to Be Broken

2014-01-06T11:00:00.002-08:00

Dr. Sheldon Cooper is right. If we don’t follow the rules and keep things in proper order, the entire world will dissolve into chaos, and we might as well just forage for food and kill or be killed. At least that is how I feel after this past weekend’s snow storm.

For the last two winters in the Trailer Park, we haven’t had much winter weather, and I complained. Me and my big mouth. On Friday, the meteorologists predicted we would get a dusting of one inch of snow on grassy areas. I shouldn’t be angry because the television meteorologists are usually drama students who couldn’t make it in New York or Hollywood, and I don’t know about your home town, but all of them here are Gay! I know firsthand. Don’t worry about how I know, just know that I know.

What we ended up with in Jessup was around six inches of snow and freezing temperatures creating an ice rink on our streets in the ‘hood. One of the 400 rules, which first attracted me to this community, was that your walkway and the sidewalk in front of your house were to be shoveled no more than eight hours after the snow ended. I would like to report that most of my neighbors complied, but I cannot.

Curiously, everyone shoveled their driveways, creating mounds on either side, but on my street, only three of us actually shoveled the sidewalks in front of our homes. I was the youngest. The other two have a combined age of 162, so there was no excuse for what Rose Marie and I encountered.

To compound matters, the park management hired a redneck with a Ford F-250 Super Duty and a snow plow attached to the front to clear the streets. Well, he managed to pile all the snow onto the sidewalks and create a sheet of ice on the street. What is the use of plowing if you don’t treat what you leave behind?

I have never been snow climbing or glacier climbing or whatever extreme sport involves climbing up icy mountains, but after this weekend, I don’t feel a need to add that to my bucket list.

Rose Marie with her three legs managed quite well and like all dogs enjoyed the weather. She also carried around her share of ice chunks. She loves ice cubes, so this was an ice cube buffet for her. I, on the other hand, with only two uncoordinated legs, managed to slip and slide and fall a few times. Do you know what they call a Jewish ballerina? A klutz!

The last time I had to deal with a situation like this was when Serena Rose Elizabeth Montgomery was alive, and we were hit with a huge snow storm in DC in March 1999. Serena died before Snowmaggedon in 2009; she must have known it was coming. The 1999 storm was another one that caught everyone off guard, so streets weren’t cleared. In Mount Pleasant (which was neither a mount nor pleasant, discuss), drivers were leaving their cars all over the place, and the streets weren’t plowed. However, everyone in the neighborhood shoveled their sidewalks. The problem was you couldn’t walk across the street because of the snow banks and cars left every which way. I called the police to complain about all the abandoned cars and the unplowed street. They came out and plowed the street, but did nothing about the abandoned cars.

I then learned of the city policy that if a car is parked in front of your driveway or let’s say some moron left his car in gear, causing it to roll downhill into your car, not causing damage but keeping you from getting out because every time you moved, his car moved, it was your responsibility to have the car towed, not the city’s. Can you believe that?

I once parked in the driveway because Serena was having a health crisis and I needed to get her to the vet (the psychos upstairs had the use of the driveway, and I usually had to park on the street). When I came out, there was a car parked on the street blocking the driveway. I didn’t know whose it was, and when I called the police, they said it was my problem. Yet, when I parked 22 feet from the corner rather than 23 feet, they didn’t hesitate to give me a $50 parking ticket. Get this. It was right after they passed the law that you could park 15 feet from the corner. Did I fight it? You better believe it – just as hard as I fought the speeding ticket someone got using plates I had turned in to the DMV. That gem of a situation took three trips to DMV and two trips to court to prove I didn’t own a white Toyota Rav 4. Did they care that the plates were stolen, probably by a DMV employee? No. When I moved to Maryland, I obviously didn’t turn in my DC plates. I didn’t want to get a ticket for driving a Hyundai Accent through a red light on New York Avenue.

Anyway, when I made it out to 16^th Street during the March 1999 storm, I noticed the street was plowed with all the snow piled up on the sidewalks. I was just amazed at how much they did to make it easier for drivers to get around, yet pedestrians had to traipse through an obstacle course. What made me angrier was they kept telling everyone to stay off the roads. Bitch, the roads were the only safe place to be!

So here I am 15 years later, and I am dealing with the same issue. I have to walk Rose Marie, so she will go pee and poop. By the way, that whole thing about dogs pooping in a North-South direction? So true! Rose Marie always faces North or South. My toilets face West, which may explain my irregularity.

Everyone made sure they could get out of their driveways, but few made it possible for us to walk. What I did notice was that the older the resident the more likely the sidewalk was cleared. One thirty-something smart ass said as he saw me sliding around, “You should get spiked shoes.” And in the next breath, “I need to go get a snow shovel.” Really, dude?

One of the first things I bought when I moved in was a snow shovel. It was July, and I got a Lowe’s employee to drive one of those forklifty things with a ladder, so he could climb onto the top shelf to get me one. I am sure he had a few things to say about the OCD queen who just had to have a snow shovel ready when the temperature outside was 92 degrees.

Well, the rules said shovel your goddam sidewalk, and I follow the rules.

I should thank the selfish thirty-something because when we returned home I remembered that I had bought a pair of soccer cleats back in my Mount Pleasant days to help me negotiate the icy conditions when walking Serena. They still fit, and I was finally able to walk without falling on my face. I always fall forward. I even have a scar on my chin from falling on my face. This makes no sense, since I have a large built-in airbag in my trunk.

One other thing happened during that 1999 snow storm. I was walking back from the market with bags of groceries, including three dozen eggs in preparation for Passover. I couldn’t tell where the road ended and the sidewalk began, and I slipped and fell on my face, breaking all the eggs. Some driver, who was able to get through because the main road was paved and treated, laughed at me. If I could have moved fast enough, I would have mooned him.

I managed to get out this past weekend, since the roads were cleared of course. Then, another unfollowed rule popped up. Why is it so difficult for people to brush the snow off the roofs of their cars. You can do this with a broom, people! I really don’t appreciate having ice projectiles hitting my truck and windshield while I am going down the road. These same people would be pissed if their windshields were damaged – the narcissistic bastards. I consider this the height of inconsideration.

On Sunday, I had to meet my publisher at a Starbucks in Chevy Chase, Maryland. I expect when I go into a coffee shop to find adults either having conversations or working on their laptops. What I found surprised me, and now, I know why I rarely go to Starbucks.

I know it was a crappy snowy day, but why are you bringing your little obnoxious loud children into a coffee shop? Is this how you entertain them? Take them to Chucky Cheese or Gymboree or that place with the box of balls they can play in. Oh wait, I go to the place with the box of balls – well the one with a sling and a recovery room.

Not only were there a dozen kids in there, they were all over the place. I ordered a large coffee, which confused the barista because it wasn’t a double half-caf espresso latte with a cinnamon stick, nutmeg and a hint of whipped cream resembling a cumulous cloud. As I turned, holding my extremely hot cup of coffee (how the fuck do they get it so hot?), a child charged to the counter in front of me. I almost burned her. Then I went over to the cream and sweetener station, and this yuppy mother kept reaching back from her table for napkins and pushing me out of the way because her ill-behaved devil spawn spilled something. She was giving me dirty looks because I was apparently in her way. Then her kids proceeded to run all over the coffee shop to the annoyance of the few mature adults in the place. My mother would never have allowed this or taken us to a place like this had they existed in prehistoric times.

They think they are perfect parents because they brought their kids to Starbucks. Seriously? You were two lazy or self-absorbed to take them where they could be entertained and not disturb people who were looking for a quiet place to work or have a conversation.

The rules clearly state that kids do not belong where adults go to escape. Period.

This is nothing new. These “mother of the year” parents have been around for decades. When I waited on tables in an upscale restaurant in Williamsburg, Virginia, in the 1980s, we had such a mother, who was pissed when we expressed our concern at all the food her unruly children had thrown all over the floor and the mess they made of the booth, upsetting all the diners around them. She yelled, “You should be ashamed. Your restaurant does not cater to children.”

I responded, “No, we don’t. They don’t have wallets. And, if you don’t control your children, I will.” I actually got applause.

Follow the rules, or we will continue to dissolve into world of chaos! And, shovel your goddam sidewalks! And, brush the snow off your cars! And leave your horrible children at home with a babysitter … or a wolf dressed as a grandmother. You decide.

Can you tell I am already over winter?

Follow me, join me, tell your friends. Happy New Year!

The War on Christmas – You Brought This On!

2013-12-16T11:52:00.000-08:00

Warning: Some of you will find this highly offensive. Well, I have spent 40 some odd years being offended, so be it.

I like the holidays as much as the next guy, but enough already. From the beginning of October to the end of December, Christmas, Christmas Christmas. What’s more, and I need not remind you as you can read my prior post, Jesus was born in Elul, which falls around late August/early September. You are celebrating a pagan holiday. As a former practicing Wiccan, I can appreciate that, too.

Since fourth grade when I opened my mouth at how sick I was of Christmas crap – yes, I wrote a letter to Mrs. Tillman telling her exactly that (I think that was my first blog post) – I have been made out to be the bad guy for complaining. So, I quit complaining … about Christmas.

Seriously, why should I, a Jewish kid, have to make Christmas tree ornaments? Where am I going to hang it? On my shmekel?

After being dragged into the hall and being told I was inappropriate, Mrs. Tillman actually let me make a menorah ornament. It was still hung on the classroom Christmas tree, but it was a small victory. It was better than when Mrs. Motley, my third grade teacher, told everyone I killed Jesus. Killed him? I didn’t even know him.

Over the years, I have calmed down and drudged my way through the season. On Christmas day, I do volunteer work, so my gentile friends can have the day off. Then, I take myself out for Chinese food and have one of the few cocktails of the year, which I sip while the other people look at me with sympathy. The middle-aged Jew, drinking alone on Christmas. Please, that is how I like it.

I have endured forty years of dealing with trees and music and all things Christmas … until now.

What is it about this year that is irking me so much? Am I getting old and cranky? No, that can’t be it; I have always been old and cranky.

The problem started on Rosh ha Shana when I was asked to perform a task by someone who should have knowledge of the fact that it was a Jewish High Holy Day. I was aghast when she didn't understand I would be off. And, I think this has been boiling up ever since.

Then on November 22, my 51^st birthday and the 50-year anniversary of the Kennedy assassination (by the way, he’s still dead), three radio stations here, one I listen to regularly in the car, decided to go all Christmas music until January 15. Oh my God! Christmas music 24 hours a day seven days a week for two months! I am surprised the DJs aren't sticking knives in their ears. What’s more, this area is probably one of the most diverse in the country. How many listeners will you lose in those two months? I already found a new station and will never change the dial again. Can you tell I’m old? I said “dial.”

Maybe it is the so-called “War on Christmas” that has people going even more Christmasy? Really? If there is a war, why are stores opening on Thanksgiving? Whose war is it anyway?

The only war I have seen is the shopper-on-shopper violence in the stores. People getting shot over sweaters, people getting trampled for stretch pants, people getting stabbed for scarves. Knife fights, car jackings and taser attacks. Who brings a taser to the mall? What could you possibly want that is causing you to taser someone? Or is it tase?

On an unrelated note, when I go to a clearance sale, I carry a cross bow. It is much more effective.

Then, I hear this commercial on the radio asking for donations, so this woman, who is crying her eyes out because her baby daddy ran out on her, can have a nice Christmas for her five children. Forget Christmas. If she is that broke, she needs food and clothes and toiletries and medicine, but her biggest concern is having enough presents under the tree. Where are your damn priorities?

Once they open the presents, where does that leave you? You can’t live in a Barbie Dream House although a friend of mine’s sister does. Those Legos cannot build you a financial future. That Tonka truck isn't going to carry your ass to a job.

How spoiled are your children that you have to get everything on that list? What are you teaching them? Why do you let them write those damn lists in the first place? And, why do you let them sit in a pedophile’s lap? This man knows when they are sleeping, when they are awake, when they’ve been good or bad, and you leave him milk and cookies after you let him break into your house. To put your children in further danger, you take them to the mall, so they can ask this pervert for presents. My God, people! Are you fucking insane?

I know you are insane because your children now work for the government as interns, and I have to sit in meetings with them. You know what you taught them? You taught them that if they don’t get their way, they can throw a tantrum and be disrespectful to people who are twice their age. On the plus side, since they always got what they wanted, when something doesn’t go their way, they quit. On the negative side, we end up with a new set of interns.

Here is the best example of all. When I was young, the telephone was rented to you by Ma Bell. We had the same rotary phones in our house, one in the living room and one in my parents’ bedroom, from 1962-1973. They were both flesh tone (that was actually the name of the color). We kept them for eleven years! When call waiting became available, we switched them out for push button phones, which we kept for the next dozen years. Not today. Now you own your phone, and you can pay as much as $600 for one, and in twelve months, it is obsolete, so what do you do? Demand a new one for Christmas. And if you don’t get one, you throw a tantrum – no matter your age.

Funny, I always keep my phones until they absolutely fall apart, which explains why my iPhone has a rotary dial and weighs thirteen pounds. It is difficult finding a long enough cord, too.

The last time I got what I wanted for Hanukah, Uncle Stanley gave me a fire engine pedal car. That was 1967. I loved it so much that I haven’t asked for anything since. This may also explain my love for base model antique cars. Funny thing is my brother dared me to ask him for the fire engine pedal car, so I did, and I got it. I remember as if it were yesterday. We were watching black and white television in my parents’ bedroom while the adults were downstairs, and I was wearing blue footie pajama with little football players all over them. I loved those pajamas.

Later, if I had asked for something, it wouldn’t have mattered. My mother was the last person to climb over a bunch of goyim to get me a … what did we have back then? Oh yes, a Hot Wheels set. I eventually got one, but I didn’t ask for it.

Today was the final straw. I walk into the office and see a Santa, lights and a manger scene made out of wooden dolls. I said nothing, but two Christian co-workers actually mentioned how they found it offensive.

Then while standing near the holiday potluck – let’s call it what it was – Christmas potluck, the same individual who asked me to work on Rosh ha Shana asked me, “So, what are you plans for Christmas?” Normally, I would have thought she meant, “As a Jew, what do you do?” But, this clearly wasn’t the case. All of a sudden, it was 1973 again, and I was explaining to Mrs. Tillman why I was tired of all this Christmas crap.

But, I didn’t say a word. I was raised right, so I smiled, walked away and didn’t participate in the pot luck although I contributed. They also held a gift exchange, but after years of ending up with cheap gifts including a pair of women’s slippers that someone regifted, when I made the effort to get the perfect gift, I decided for the first time not to participate. Someone ended up with a bottle of Gold Bond Medicated Lotion. Seriously. That is just wrong.

If you want my opinion, and if you’ve read this far, you do, the only reason there is a War on Christmas is because year after year, there is less and less true meaning of the holiday, and it all gets shoved down our throats whether we like it or not beginning in October.

Next time your kid hands you a Christmas wish list, tell the lazy bastard to get a J-O-B and earn it.

One final note from the world’s greatest bargain hunter: Shopping, no matter how good the bargains are, is not worth losing your life! Vaysmir.

P.S. Rose Marie did not make a list. She is being raised right.

If you are offended, good, buy my books: www.miltonstern.com.

My Annual "Eight Myths of Hanukah"

2013-11-29T17:54:00.002-08:00

(About 12 years ago, I gave a drash during Shabbat services on Hanukah, where I presented for the first time my “Eight Myths of Hanukah.” A few years after that, I was asked to present them again. For your reading pleasure, I present them as I do every year.)

Introduction

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now, I present:

The Eight Myths of Hanukah

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

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

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

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

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

Hanukah is a holiday when Jewish people eat bland, colorless foods that are fried in oil and difficult to digest. True. This can actually be said of all Jewish holidays, except Passover, when the foods are not fried but still difficult to digest. On Hanukah, we eat latkes (potato pancakes) or sufganiot, if you are Sephardic. Sufganiot are similar to jelly donuts. I am part Sephardic, so I like donuts, just not jelly ones.

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

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

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

If you like what you just read, get on my email list, join me, follow me, tell your friends, and hang up a string of blue and white lights! Buy my goddamn books! www.miltonstern.com.

Now, That’s How You Throw a Wedding

2013-11-19T09:02:00.003-08:00

Over the years, I have been to my share of weddings, and you know how I feel about weddings, especially the gift registries. I am still waiting for my “I Didn’t Marry that Moron Shower.”

Some weddings are more memorable than others. My cousin Lisa’s for one. This had to be the most elaborate one of all, complete with a melting ice sculpture that almost killed Mrs. Minkoff. They showed a slide presentation of their undying love, and I still remember the Best Man’s toast: “Mazal Tov, you two deserve each other.” They were divorced within eighteen months.

There was my cousin Carole Sue’s wedding. I think it was her third, or was it her fourth? On the buffet table, they had fried chicken livers, a bowl of gravy and a bowl of strawberries. It was at this reception that my mother discovered that fried chicken livers dipped in chocolate are not that tasty. I can still see her spitting it out. You probably guessed the gravy was chocolate dipping sauce. I still laugh when I think of that moment.

My friend Kendra’s wedding ranks among my favorites. Her mother told her she could have $10,000 for a wedding or a down payment on a house. This was 1988, so you could still put a down payment on a house for that kind of money. She took the down payment. They were married in their living room in a private ceremony, and afterward, all their friends joined them for a barbecue in their backyard. No silly bride’s maid dresses, no formal wear, just a good time.

One of the most bizarre ones was my co-worker Brenda’s wedding. The guests were all white Southern Baptists, except for one Black girl, my friend Kathy, and one Jew, me. Surprisingly, they had the most elaborate buffet of just about any affair I ever attended – all Southern deep-fried fare, my favorite! And, they say Baptists don’t serve food. However, none of the guests ate a thing; they just drank. The line at the bar was always a dozen deep. Kathy and I attacked that buffet like a couple of bears at a Boy Scout Jamboree. We even asked for to-go containers. The other guests were all drunk, so we skipped protocol and took home the reception. I can still taste that fried chicken and macaroni salad. Yum.

Charles, my good friend in New Jersey, threw a lovely wedding. This was one of my first Gay weddings, too. He held a reception in a friend’s backyard complete with gourmet porty potties – yes, those exist. This kept people from trampling dirt into the house. He cooked all the food himself, and it was just wonderful. Everything was decorated with yellow roses and very beautiful. I sat with his husband’s family, who are from Baltimore. Get this. His husband came out to his family by sending them invitations to his wedding. “Oh by the way, I am Gay, and I am marrying a white boy from Philly!” I sat with the Ken’s family. You want to have a great time, sit at the Baltimore Black girls’ table, especially when they are just discovering their cousin is Gay! One of his cousins said she started photographing the wedding, and when Ken kissed Charles, she couldn’t stop snapping pictures. Sadly, no parents of either groom attended. What a shame. This was a beautiful wedding with fantastic food.

Other memorable weddings occurred. At one, the mother of the bride picked up the cake and threw it into the street, then a melee broke out, and a few of us shoved all the guest out the room, onto the street then ran back and barricaded the doors. I was pissed. I really wanted a piece of that cake.

My all-time favorite was the Gay wedding where at the end of the reception, we were handed separate checks. Yes, we paid for the reception. Yes, you read that right. This self-absorbed couple, who had already lived together for more than a dozen years, also had the balls to register at one of the most expensive stores in town. Want a good laugh? One of them worked as a wedding planner. I spent more on their wedding than a New Jersey couple pays for their kid’s Bar Mitzvah. They felt we should be honored to have been a witness to their nuptials.

Of all the weddings, Gay, Straight and Bi-curious, the one I attended the past weekend was the first “legal” Gay wedding I ever attended in these United States.

A little background.

Minnesota recently legalized Gay marriage, and then the wonderful city of Minneapolis started a campaign to get Gay people to come there to get married! This is where the conservatives are screwing up. Gay people spend money. You want to improve the economy? Let them get married, you morons!

One of my oldest friends, Danny, and his marvelous and patient partner of many years, Michael, decided to get married. When their home state of Michigan refused to make a decision, Minneapolis came a calling. With only a couple of months to plan, they managed to put on one of greatest weddings ever. And dear, this bitter old trailer park queen has seen his share of affairs!

We stayed at the Minnesota Grand Hotel, a 100-year-old structure that is as magnificent as a hotel can be. Of course, I am used to Motel 6s, but you get the idea. The room was so classy, I walked out of it each day with personality. They had all these snacks on the bar, including a can of Pringles. When I saw the Pringles were $15, I did not partake, although they were calling me every time I walked by. In the short time they had to plan, they managed to get a room block for $75 a night – that is less than half the going rate. I told you Minneapolisons are brilliant!

Soon after your arrival, they handed everyone a gift bag, filled with snacks, bottle water, maps of the city, a deck of cards, note pad, pen and an itinerary for the wedding complete with walking directions. This is why every wedding planner should be Gay, with one exception – the cheap queen in the abovementioned affair.

While standing in Danny and Michael’s suite and holding my gift bag, I noticed something. Nobody in the wedding party was taller than five-three. Everyone was looking at me as if I was either going to eat them or destroy their city. I made a hasty exit when one of them lit a torch.

I promised Danny a couple of things would make it into my blog, so here goes. When we prepared to leave on Friday night for the opening meal at a Thai restaurant, Danny put his family in cabs because his mother, a lovely Italian woman, who could pass for any of the Jewish women I grew up admiring, was wearing heels. It was then obvious Danny and Michael come from different backgrounds. Danny’s family is of Bostonian extraction, while Michael’s family is of Midwestern stock. I joked that it was like the Kennedys meeting Honey Boo Boo. Being the good trailer park queen I am, I walked over with Michael’s family, since I come from a similar stock. I took one step, they took six, and continued to look at this giant with suspicion. The temperature was a pleasant fifty-five and clear, so it was a nice walk through the cleanest city in the United States.

We were treated to dinner – no separate checks, please!

The first thing I did notice about my new favorite city is that regardless of the weather outside, they keep the inside a toasty 102 degrees. I am not kidding, and upon further investigation found out this was their thing. Had I known, I would have ditched the sweaters for a tank top and hot pants.

The following day, I trotted over the Target because I had already run out of face cream. That three-ounce rule is for the birds. I sweated my way down the aisles then returned to the hotel to take advantage of their gym. Now, most hotel gyms consist of a stationary bike, a Soloflex and a bacteria-ridden yoga mat. This gym? Ha! In the basement was a pool, and on the third floor – the entire third floor – was a gym. Yes, a complete gym. I can honestly say I was the oldest guy working out.

Come to think of it, the only people in the entire city over thirty were those of us in the wedding. What do they do with their middle-aged and elderly people? Do they melt inside all those hot buildings? Is that why the city is so clean?

The wedding and reception were held in a private room at Crave. You must go there when in the city. Have I told you they only had a couple of months to plan this? The tables were decorated with huge angled snifters, sitting on a tree trunk cut-out base, and inside were a bed of pine cones topped by a bouquet of white roses. Each place setting had a pine-cone and card with the guests’ names on them. I don’t think I have ever seen anything so elegant.

The ceremony was beautiful. I hope so. I wrote it.

Speaking of writing. I gave one of the toasts, and to put it mildly, I bombed. I seemed to have used all my best lines every other time that weekend except where it counted. I was going to throw out what I wrote, and my gut told me to, but for some reason I went through with it. I realized three seconds in, I was in trouble. I haven’t laid an egg that big since I tried to sing “You Make Me Feel So Young” during Junior Cabaret at Rodef Sholom Temple in 1971.

The worst part was that Danny introduced me as Shecky. My cousin Lisa, of the “you two deserve each other” wedding above, used to introduce me to her friends as her funny cousin, then she would say, “Say something funny.” Yeah, it was like that.

Fortunately, no one cared but me.

At the end of the reception, no separate checks, please, and they had an open bar. I must say the delicious food was restaurant quality.

Sunday morning, we were treated to a goodbye breakfast, and we were on our way. Again, no separate checks, please.

I want you to realize that Danny and Michael are two hard-working guys. They aren’t rich or pretentious; they are just generous. They wanted us to have as good a time as they did. And, we did.

They didn’t even register for presents and asked people not to give them any, which is why they are going to kill me when they see what I got them. Rule: Never mention to me that you always wanted something then tell me not to buy it. I love giving presents and I give the best gifts, if I do say so myself.

I wish them the best and many years of happiness. I also wish Minneapolis the best, too, because they get it! What a great place even if the median age is twenty-one and the average indoor temperature is the setting for heating up a Lean Cuisine!

If you were handed a check at a reception, follow me, join me, or buy my damn books: www.miltonstern.com.

Menopause Puppy

2013-10-28T08:56:00.002-07:00

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

2013-10-13T07:21:00.000-07:00

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

2013-10-07T11:56:00.003-07:00

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

2013-09-24T09:07:00.002-07:00

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?

2013-09-03T10:08:00.004-07:00

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

2013-08-21T10:09:00.000-07:00

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

2013-08-05T09:09:00.000-07:00

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

Actually, I would post something like that.

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

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

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

But, I am not bitter.

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

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

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

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

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

But, I am not bitter.

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

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

But, I am not bitter.

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

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

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

But, I am not bitter.

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

Mental Pause

2013-07-16T08:25:00.002-07:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let the games begin.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fancy Dining and Fabulous Hats

2013-06-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

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

2013-06-13T08:56:00.003-07:00

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

2013-06-05T08:29:00.002-07:00

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?

2013-05-19T08:44:00.000-07:00

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.