My Own Private Mile High Club

I'm an aerogeek - a person with an airliner fetish. No, I don't run around dressed up like a Braniff flight attendant circa 1967, asking "coffee, tea or me?" but I have been known to stop my car in order to watch a plane land. And if I'm at an airport waiting to board a flight, you can be sure to find me in a trance-like state by a window near the runway.

So when I found Airliners.net, it was like joining the Mile High Club all over again. Seriously, this site is a never-ending multiple airgasm. There are thousands of photos of airliners. All kinds, too. Vintage, military, commercial, private - you name it, they've got it.

During the Second World War, my dad was a gunner on a B-17 bomber and became a bit of an aerogeek himself. When I was about five years old, he started taking me to the airport to watch the planes take off and land. We'd sit in his Chevy convertible just beyond the fence where the runway ended, and stare in awe at the propeller-driven DC-6s and Lockheed Electras as they roared over our heads. Since then I've been hooked.

And here's something I'll bet you didn't know. At 239 feet, 3 inches long, 79 feet, 7 inches high, and the capacity to carry 525 passengers, the Airbus A380 is the largest passenger aircraft in flight today. (Thanks to fellow areogeek Cleocatra for pointing that out to me.)

Yeah, I know - Nerd Alert!

It's Not Easy Being Green

I need to understand why the geniuses at Toyota who developed the Prius engine felt they needed to add an annoying beeping sound to the reverse gear. Every time I put the gear shift in R, my little hybrid wonder sounds like a giant piece of construction equipment on the jobsite of yet another condo complex in progress.

But only inside the car.

Here's the thing. I can hear it and my lucky passenger can hear it, but if you're behind me and about to get hit, you're not going to hear it. You see, I know I'm in reverse. I'm the one who moved the damn gear shift. So who's being warned here?

And I've been putting up with this since July. Finally fed up, I found instructions on About.com that explain how to disable that relentless beep. I haven't tried it yet but if it works it'll feel almost as good as going 500 miles on a tank of gas.

Gayata, Mini Poofter or Lezbaru - Which One Are You?

Yesterday's New York Times presented an interesting perspective on the theory "you are what you drive." Apparently, certain types of cars can reflect one's sexual orientation.

According to the article, Miatas and Mini Coopers are perceived as gay boy cars, and if you drive a Subaru Outback you're probably on your way to the Michigan Women's Music Festival.

This sounds like fodder for a Learning Annex class on "How to Develop Your Gaydar."

Okay, I understand that stereotyping isn't going away any time soon, but I have a hard time believing one example in the article about a hetero woman who drives a Subaru Outback. She claims she lost her chance for a second date because the guy she was with perceived her as a lesbian. Give me a break. Maybe she needs a copy of "He's Just Not That Into You."

Or maybe Subaru should rename the car the Coming Outback.

It's Like Deja Food All Over Again

It's Pesach - that time of year when we Jews remember our ancestors' exodus from Egypt by telling the story and eating foods symbolizing both the struggle and the celebration. And we do it for two consecutive nights. The same food. The same story. The same shpilkes when we realize we've been sitting for three hours.

It makes sense. We're Jews; we make suffering into a celebration. You ate too much last night? Fine, you'll eat too much tonight, too. And no kvetching, already.

If G-d had given us just one night of Passover, Dayeinu! (It would have been enough.)

P.S. Next year in Jerusalem.

Big Trouble For Moose And Squirrel

My ancesters were from a little town near Kiev and fled the Cossacks like every other Jew from that region, but I don't speak or read a word of Russian. Still, for some reason I'm getting a boatload of Russian spam.

Maybe they know that my last name is really an "Ellis Island Special." Or maybe they know that both my mother and my grandmother always had a gallon of nasty-looking borscht fermenting in the refrigerator. And my grandmother was born in Russia, but we had to practically bribe the rabbi to keep that on the down low at the funeral. She didn't want anyone to know, and made us promise to let her take it to her grave.

So, I hate to tell you, Boris and Natasha, but you're two generations too late. Your cryptic Russian messages don't mean a thing to me, and I can't imagine that your erectile dysfunction drugs are any better than the ones I hear about in English eight million times a day. Now maybe if you offered them in Yiddish. . .

Reaching Nude-Vana

I practice Bikram yoga between four and five times a week. For the uninitiated, Bikram yoga is also known as "hot yoga" because the classes are held in really hot rooms - like 105 degrees. My studio likes to keep their thermostat hovering around the 115 degree mark, and the best part of the workout is peeling off my sweaty clothes when it's over.

But if I were to take naked yoga, I wouldn't have to worry about my sweaty clothes, or anybody else's for that matter. I'd heard rumors of naked yoga classes popping up here and there, but a friend recently sent me an article that was published in the San Francisco Chronicle two years ago about one such class in the Bay Area.

It's not what you think. You won't find an orgy of writhing bodies tangled up with yoga mats. It's about experiencing yoga in the buff, which apparently helps you to hold the postures better because you can see all your parts. And it's also about learning to feel good about your body.

To be honest, I don't want to see all the parts of the people in my yoga class, especially when we're all bending forward, legs spread apart with our hands grasping our ankles. There's only so much I can take at 6:30 in the morning.

I Feel the Earth Move

Today is one of my favorite days of the year because at 12:07 am GMT, or sometime tonight in San Diego (don’t make me count backwards from GMT. I’m confused enough with this year’s over-eager Daylight Savings Time) the Vernal Equinox will occur.

Vernal Equinox, a Latin term meaning “equal night of spring,” marks the date when Earth rotates on its axis giving those of us in the northern hemisphere more direct exposure to the sun and longer days, and the rest of the world in the southern hemisphere the start of fall. Pretty cool, huh?

And if you’re a big geek like me, this stuff is fascinating. I also get a daily report on the moon’s size and position so I can track it in relation to each season. Yeah, I know – nerd-o-rama.

During my days as a baby dyke, I hung out with a group of women who celebrated the Vernal Equinox by dancing naked under the stars (it’s a new moon so there’s only a sliver up there tonight). As much as that sounds like a really fun thing to do, I live in a fairly urban area, and there’s nothing worse than sitting in the back of a police car with nothing on but handcuffs and a smile.

So Shoe Me

These shoes look like the spawn of my grandmother's orthopedic clunkers and hookerwear. Trust me, I'd love to be a few inches taller but I'm afraid if I put these on I'd be walking around at a 45-degree angle, if I could walk at all. And they're not exactly flattering.

But these tres hautes souliers are being featured at Fashion Week in Paris. It seems that really, really high heels are de rigeur if you want to keep up with the latest trends.

So I guess this means if you want to wear shoes like this you'll need to have someone carry you to your destination, prop you up near a wall, bring you drinks all night, and then carry you home.

Hmmmm. I wonder if I can find a pair at DSW.

Coffee Kvetch

Will someone please explain to me why the number of cups etched on the side of the coffee maker carafe never, ever correspond to the number of cups you actually get?

When I make coffee, I fill the carafe up to the line indicating four cups. Now I know it's highly unlikely I'll ever drink four cups of coffee in the morning, even if it's decaf, but I know that in Coffee Maker Land, four cups really means one and a half cups. So this means making coffee requires doing a little math. Not something I do well when I'm awake, let alone half asleep.

Maybe it has something to do with the metric system, or maybe the designers at Cuisinart have really small bladders. I just want to understand why they think most people drink coffee from a thimble.

Toss The Baby Shower Out With The Bathwater - Part 2

Baby showers have always been a real mystery to me. For the most part, any kind of shower is a very heterosexual event filled with traditions and rituals that are nowhere to be found in the Lesbian Handbook. And the shower I attended last Sunday was no exception.

I knew I wasn't in Kansas anymore when I got out of my car and walked up to the house. All the straight girls were wearing dresses, heels and make up. I was in typical Sunday attire: capri jeans and a t-shirt. What's up with getting all dolled up for a baby shower, anyhow?

But I knew I was truly in a foreign land when the games began. There was the clothespin game and the guess how big around the pregnant woman is game. And then there was a game where labels were removed from several jars of baby food and you had to guess what type of food was in each jar. Some were orange, others were a sort of yellow, and then there were a few jars in varying shades of green.

I picked up one of the green ones and said, "Oh yeah, I remember my little brother projectile vomiting this one. I think it's either spinach or green beans." No one paid attention to me after that.

Toss The Baby Shower Out With The Bathwater - Part 1

Have you ever been to a Babies 'R Us store? It's a cavernous place, sort of like a Costco with an inventory made up entirely of tiny pastel colored items. And then there's the totally robotic staff who accosted me the moment I stepped through the doors and immediately led me to a seat in front of an enormous desk in the shape of a half circle (a uterus, perhaps?). There I was greeted by a Stepford Shopping Assistant who insisted I needed a tour of the store.

I was looking for a shower gift and all I wanted was the list of gifts on my friend Laura's daughter's registry, but Miss Perky Promoter of Procreation wanted me to know everything about every teeny, tiny package of cuteness they sold. I just kept repeating my mantra of "no thanks, I just want the list."

Finally, once she'd figured out how to send the document from her computer to the printer, I was given a thick stack of pale yellow paper. Quickly scanning the first couple of pages, I pointed to something that didn't require a translation and said, "please show me where I can find this."

Meanwhile, the store was filling with mommies holding screaming infants and whining toddlers. I grabbed the gift from the shelf (a rather adorable snuggly), listened to the chirpy pre-programmed shpiel from the checkout robot, and ran for the parking lot.

Nine years ago when my GYN doc told me I needed a hysterectomy, I understood it would be very painful at the time, but once I was healed I'd be provided with unlimited rewards. Now I know exactly what she meant.

ESL For Spammers

As a sanderson
By tudor do marjoram
Go aurora on sanicle
Or by subsitent
Go cartwheel he atone
Go shattuck by uppercut

Nope, this is not remedial haiku or some sort of interplanetary greeting. These are actual examples of message headers I found in my inbox this morning from spammers. What are these people trying to tell me?

Should I record them, play them backwards and figure out if Paul is dead?

Okay spammers, it's time to learn English if you want to get anywhere in the land of sleazy email scams. Maybe I should offer an online course in ESL for these poor fools. I mean, if they want to get the coveted 2% repsonse, at least their message headers should make sense.

And to boost enrollment I could throw in a Rolex or a few Cialis tablets as an incentive.

The Hills Are Alive With The Sound Of Homos

Finally, someone has found the link between music and homosexuality! Donnie Davis, leader of Love God's Way, an ex-gay ministry, has posted a list on his website of bands that make you gay. And it's a damn long list. Apparently all kinds of music can drag an innocent teen into the shame and debauchery of the homosexual lifestyle.

Okay, I get that bands like Queen and the Pet Shop Boys are on the list, but Cole Porter? Ravi Shankar? The Grateful Dead? And where are our favorites like Babs Streisand and Judy Garland? In fact, big lezzies like The Murmurs (featuring the very, very hot Leisha Hailey), Yer Girlfriend, and Cris Williamson are nowhere to be found, either.

Elton John has the warning "really gay" after his name. I didn't know there were varying degrees of gayness. And then there are Eminem, Jay-Z, and Ted Nugent. Apparently Nugent's on the list because he wore a loincloth at one (or more) of his appearances. And everyone knows that loincloths are de rigeur in the homo wardrobe.

So, thanks to Donnie's insight, I'm adding every Elton John album to my iPod. I want to know what it feels like to be "really gay."

But I Have a Question. . .

I don't mean to get all Politcally Incorrect on your asses, but I'm getting sick and tired of the ever-growing acronym that's used to describe our homo community these days. Back when I was walking five miles to school during a snowstorm, we were called lesbian or gay. Then the bi-sexuals joined our cozy little Brownie troop. And then, more recently, the trannies.

Okay, so at that point we were LGBT. Kind of sounds like something on the menu at Carnegie Deli to me.

And then we became LGBTQ. I thought, "queer," hmmm. Isn't that a little redundant? But the Q is for "questioning." Okay, if you're questioning your decision to pick L,G, B or T, then you're simply labeling yourself to ponder your future label, right? It seems a little over-categorized to me. And unnecessary.

Heck, I must be questioning too, because I ask myself questions all the time. Is it cold enough for a jacket? Should I make a right or a left? Where the hell are the car keys?

Look, I don't mean to belittle a group of people who are unsure about their sexual orientations, but I gotta say, I'm dog tired of trying to spit out an acronym that feels more like a mouthful of alphabet soup than a description of a community.

Birds of a Feather

Can I just say that as a very ticklish person, this would be my worst nightmare.

But if it tickles your fancy you can visit artist Sandro Porcu's creation, called "The Bed," at the Alexia Goethe Gallery in the Mayfair section of London. In fact, you can even give it a try.

Kind of gives "going down" a whole new meaning.

Burn Baby Burn

I'm one of those people who's required to give the local fire department a heads up every time I attempt to cook. Years ago, when my mother tried to get me interested in cooking, I blew her off to shoot baskets in the backyard. At that age, I considered cooking to be about as useful as algebra.

Although lately I'm hard pressed to find a time when I've had to figure out the solution to (x2 + 2xy) + y2, I probably could have used a cooking lesson or two. Take today, for instance. I had a craving for a grilled cheese sandwhich so I went online to find a good recipe. I know, grilled cheese isn't exactly the Pythagorean Theorum, but if I'm going to turn on the stove, I want explicit directions.

The Kraft website made it sound so easy: all I needed were two slices of white bread, two slices of American cheese, and some butter. I improvised with whole wheat bread and brie. Following their directions to the letter, I buttered the outside of the bread, put one slice butter side down in the skillet, added the cheese, and then added the other slice of bread.

How hard could this be?

And the moment the bread hit the pan (at medium heat per directions) it burned like a red-headed kid on a July day, and stuck to the skillet preventing me from gracefully flipping the sandwich like in the photo on the website. The skillet required surgery to remove all the burned bread, and I'm back to shooting baskets and using the microwave.

New Year, New Kvetch

I know, I know. I haven't blogged since last year. It's not that I've been lazy. Well, maybe a little lazy, but I've also been busy. I recently ended a long relationship, and I'm living in a small apartment with an air mattress, one comfortable chair, a folding table and two folding chairs.

Let's face it - I'm camping. And we all know that Jews don't camp.

I do have indoor plumbing, and it's not like I have to rub two sticks together to cook or anything because I don't cook, unless you count microwave popcorn and whatever can be thrown into a Toast R Oven. But for all intents and purposes, this is camping. My life is in boxes, my furniture is in another city, and sleeping on the floor makes me feel a little off kilter. But my ability to kvetch? Sharp as a tack.

No wonder it took us 40 years to cross the desert.

Latkes Roasting On An Open Fire

It's time again for the annual Christmas vs. Hanukkah Debate. I can't tell you how many of my Gentile friends think we Jews threw together a December holiday just to compete with Christmas.

First of all, there is no competing with Christmas.

It's not as if you're ever going to find yourself standing on line at Wal Mart listening to an endless loop of "Dreidel, Dreidel, Dreidel" playing from the PA system. There are no menorah flags hanging from lamp posts, no Stars of David attached to car grills, and you'll never squeeze into a crowd to watch a Hanukkah parade go by. Not even in Miami.

It's not like I have a problem with Christmas. Every year I have a Pavlovian reaction to Starbucks' red holiday cups because that means it's the season for eggnog lattes. And I love to visit my non-Jewish friends' homes in December just to inhale the piney smell of a Douglas fir.

But let's face it, Christmas takes over from September through December. While we Heebs are hunting around in every Judaica store for the right size Hanukkah candles that don't have to be hammered into Grandma's menorah, the rest of the country is swathed in red and green.

And, no matter how much we hope and dream, it's unlikely we'll ever see latkes popping up on the menu at Appleby's nor will we ever get the chance to win big playing dreidel at an Indian casino.

Hail Mary (and Heather)

Mary Cheney, lesbian daughter of sharpshooter Vice President Dick Cheney, is pregnant. She and Heather Poe, her partner of 15 years, are expecting this spring. And wouldn't you know it, the Christian Right is all fatootzed about it. There hasn't been this much excitement about somebody named Mary having a baby without playing hide the salami in, I dunno, 2,000 years or so.

Carrie Gordon Earll, spokesperson for those geniuses at Focus on the Family said, “Mary Cheney’s pregnancy raises the question of what’s best for children. Just because it’s possible to conceive a child outside of the relationship of a married mother and father doesn’t mean it’s the best for the child.”

Okay, Carrie, here's the thing about gays and kids. A drunken one night stand between two homos will not result in someone getting knocked up. When we queers get pregnant it's because we really want to have a kid, and that lucky child will most likely be swaddled in the love of two people who've probably spent a lot of time planning for parenthood.

But hey, I guess if you're part of the Christian Right, what's love got to do, got to do with it?

From The "WTF Were You Thinking?" Files

Yo, OJ. Years ago you were one of the most amazing running backs in the history of football. Then you tried your hand at a little acting. From there you went to wifebeating and finally became a crazy-ass murderer. So what makes you think you can write? And that title - "If I Did It" - come on, dawg, we know you did it. You can do better than that.

How about "Okay, I Did It. I'd Rather Go to Prison Than Face Another Rejection on Match.com."

From dumb to dumber. A guy in Arkansas tried to steal a guitar from a music store by sticking it into his pants. The store owner noticed a suspicious bulge in the would-be robber's clothing and managed to retrieve the instrument before anyone had to listen to any badly played Woody Guthrie tunes.