Vacation in Palm Springs

"You need a vacation," my sweetie said to me one evening.

Where had I heard that line before? "Vacation? What are you talking about?" I screamed. "We just came back from three weeks in St. Maarten."

"Oh, that was four days ago. I'm getting bored. Pack your bag and let's drive to Palm Springs for a few days. I'm dying to see that show, The Palm Springs Follies, and they have casinos there, and … "

"Not so fast," I protested. "We can't just run off on an impulse. Things like this need planning."

"What a stick in the mud you are," she laughed derisively. "You need two days of planning just to get your mail. Why can't you ever do anything spontaneously?"

"Don't make me out to be so uptight," I said. "I can be as loose as the next person."

"Yeah, right. Now shut your trap and let's go."

My sweetie can be very persuasive when she puts her mind to it. So, off we went. Well, I thought, it would be nice seeing Palm Springs again. After all, I hadn't been down there since I was a reporter covering a convention during the Roosevelt administration (Franklin, not Teddy Roosevelt, that is).

The town sure had grown since that time. The streets were paved and everything. And the first thing I noticed was that just about every one of those streets was named after some personality. There were streets named after Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, Frank Sinatra, Dinah Shore, Buddy Rogers … in fact, just about the only celebrity without a road named after him was Oklahoma Johnny Hale. However, this might soon change. The Palm Springs City Council recently received a petition with 5,000 signatures demanding that Palm Canyon Drive be renamed Oklahoma Johnny Hale "The Seniors" Boulevard. There would have been even more signatures if OK Johnny hadn't run out of pens and then suffered carpal tunnel syndrome after signing in all those names.

The next thing I discovered was that driving in Palm Springs can try your patience. About 90 percent of the residents there are elderly retirees, and the average speed is about 14 miles an hour. And that's in the express lane, too. Most of these geezers have to sit on pillows while they're driving just so they can see over the steering wheel.

The next day we went to see The Palm Springs Follies, which has been running for 13 years now, and I have to admit that it is one hell of a show. All the performers are in their 60s, 70s, and 80s. They are spectacularly costumed, they all sing and dance like the pros they are, and they all look terrific. The oldest in the show is an 86-year-old lady who dances up a storm. In fact, and this is the truth, she is listed in the Guinness Book of Records as the world's oldest stage performer. Compared to her, Dirty Wally would be considered a juvenile actor.

One of the acts is a dog show, and one canine, believe it or not, performs three consecutive back flips. What's even more amazing is that the pooch is 50 years old.

But the most satisfying aspect of the show for me was the realization that for the first time in many, many years, I was the youngest person in sight. Almost every member of the audience had been bussed in from Sun City or from various rest homes. Some of them even knew where they were. The only annoying thing was that, given the age and medical condition of the audience, it was necessary to have a bathroom break every 15 minutes. And it was a little hard to hear the music with all the snoring.

As you may know, Lou Krieger lives in Palm Springs. Before we left for the springs, I e-mailed him and suggested we get together because I had some great suggestions for his books. I guess they have very poor phone service in the city, because every time I called him, the line went dead. I could have sworn I once heard a voice saying, "Shhh, it's Max," but it must have been my imagination.

One of the arguments my sweetie used for a Palm Springs visit was that it was a great place to walk and get some much-needed exercise. Yeah, right. The first time we set out on a "five-mile-minimum" walk, we hadn't gone a block before she spotted a sightseeing carriage powered by a guy on a bicycle. Lots of exercise, all right – all his. He was huffing and puffing, driving as fast as an arthritic turtle, and still passing up all those old drivers sitting on their pillows.

Eventually we got to visit one of those Indian casinos they have in the vicinity. I got into an Omaha game, and once again I was the youngest one at the table. If I didn't know better, I'd have sworn the game was lowball – or maybe bingo. After an hour or so my sweetie walked over to see how I was doing.

"The game is great," I informed her.

"How would you know?" she said sarcastically. "You wouldn't know a great game if you fell over one."

"Everyone here keeps saying what a great game it is," I whispered.

"Oh, then how are you doing?"

"Not too bad. I'm down only three racks."

My sweetie dragged me out of my seat and grabbed my few remaining chips. "You idiot!" she screamed. "The reason everyone is saying it's a great game is because you're in it."

That ended our trip. All in all, I have to admit I had a pretty good time. The only scary thing is that my sweetie is now trying to get me a job peddling one of those bicycle cart things.