I have a fair number of friends who are in the dating pool.
I don’t envy them.
I can’t imagine at my age, putting myself out there like that.
I also missed dating apps, as the closest things to that in my day was AOL Chat rooms.
Adam and I met before Grinder, Tinder, Bumble, Match and Christian Mingle.
I think at this point, I’d embrace my singleness, or join a convent.
As I said, I do have a number of friends who are in the dating pool. And IT IS fun to live vicariously through them.
I’ve sat at a bar, swiping left with a female friend before.
Another friend just dated someone from online, and I was excited as she was when he texted back. I was probably not as disappointed as her when she discovered he was a jerk.
I was texting with another friend yesterday, and she said she was going on a date with someone this weekend.
I asked all the questions I ask.
1. What’s his name? 2. How old is he? 3. Does he have a job? 4. Can he support himself. 5. Is he married. 6. Does he have kids? 7. Where does he live? 8. How did you meet? 9. What kind of car does he drive? 10. And most importantly, have you stalked him on social media? We need to know what he looks like.
I start asking the questions, and I get to question 2 and she says he’s 61.
And I think, why the fuck are you dating someone so much older than you. He’s too old.
About 90 seconds later, I hear the sound of a record scratching. Breaks applied.
OMG.
That’s how old I am. That’s almost how old she is. He’s not old. He’s age appropriate.
When the fuck did 61 become age appropriate for someone my age?
In my head, I’m 35.
But when I’m 59 and they are 61, that’s exactly the right gap.
I didn’t share any of this with her.
But I have thought about it a bit over the past 24 hours.
I will say, at my last job, we hosted several wedding dinners for people much older than me, so there is still hope for my single friends.
But.
The moral of the story is, I’m glad I’m not single, but if any of my dating friends want to chat, I’ll be happy to listen, and live vicariously through you.
About six weeks ago, I stumbled across this Facebook page, called Gay New York 1970’s and 80’s.
Actually, Facebook pages have a been a great addition to my life. If you haven’t checked it out yet, the Dull Men and Women’s pages are the most brilliant thing to be on social media in years.
It’s posts about the dull things we do in our lives, like watching paint dry.
Seriously, a guy posted a week or so ago about working in a paint factory and his job was to make sure the paint matched the sample.
Brilliant.
However, the Gay New York in the 1970’s and 80’s is a very, very, very close second.
The page is a walk down memory lane for anyone who lived in NYC during the heyday of the 70’s and 80’s.
For some people, that might be considered the heyday of crime, prostitution, and drugs in Times Square.
For a lot of people who lived there, especially for gay men and women, it was a time of awakening.
Sexual freedom. Gay liberation. Life before AIDS.
The Stonewall Riots had occurred in 1969. Although, the gay rights movement had been around for decades prior, it WAS a turning point.
In the early morning hours of June 28, 1969, the gay bar Stonewall Inn was raided.
It was mafia owned, and therefore usually considered untouchable. They were typically warned of coming raids and appropriate steps were taken.
On June 28th that didn’t occur, the police arrived unannounced and started arresting folks.
Because of a breakdown in communication, the paddy wagons were slow to arrive, and a crowd began to gather outside. Soon, there were more than 500 people gathered on the street in front of the bar, the police were outnumbered 10 to 1.
The crowd was unruly from the get go.
Folklore has it, that a lot of the tension came from gay men, who’d attended the funeral and memorial of Judy Garland, who’d died only days before.
Some say it was the trans women and drag queens that started the fight.
Other say, it was years of mistreatment that started the push.
No matter who is right, the truth is, the crowd began to taunt the police.
The police were used to being paid off, so the crowd threw coins at them. Then a lesbian, was manhandled out of the bar. Stories of trans women being accosted inside the bar spread.
One thing led to another and the crowd became disruptive.
And violent.
Bricks were thrown.
Then, Garbage cans, garbage, bottles, rocks, and bricks were hurled at the building, breaking the windows. Witnesses attest that “flame queens”, hustlers, and gay “street kids”—the most outcast people in the gay community—were responsible for the first volley of projectiles, as well as the uprooting of a parking meter used as a battering ramon ton the doors of the Stonewall Inn.
The police barricaded themselves in the bar.
Then back up arrived.
“I had been in enough riots to know the fun was over … The cops were totally humiliated. This never, ever happened. They were angrier than I guess they had ever been because no one else had rioted … but the fairies were not supposed to riot … no group had ever forced cops to retreat before, so the anger was just enormous. I mean, they wanted to kill.”
The riot police formed a line to push the rioters back.
The rioters formed a kick-line and began to dance and sing further humiliating the cops.
The police became violet and began to beat the dancers with night sticks.
The riots continued for several days. With the crowds growing more each day.
When all was said and done. Things had changed.
The following year there was a gay rights march on the anniversary of the riots. Within two years of the Stonewall riots, there were gay rights groups in every major American city, as well as in Canada, Australia, and Western Europe
Many years later, on the anniversary of the Stonewall Riots the president of the United President Barack Obama declared June 2009 Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual, and Transgender Pride Month, citing the riots as a reason to “commit to achieving equal justice under law for LGBT America.”
This brings me to the gay flag. It was first flown after the creator Gilbert Baker met Harvey Milk. The original flags were flown first in 1978.
After the assassination of Harvey Milk, the first openly gay person to hold political office in California, the demand for the flags grew.
The flag has been flown during the month of pride for decades. It has also gone through transformations as it now includes the trans community making room for the entire queer population.
This is a long post about us hanging a gay pride flag outside of our home.
In 2020, in South Portland, a number of homes, displaying the flag got hate mail. The letters were insulting, threatening, and totally uncalled for. There were enough of these letters sent, that it made the local news.
I saw the report, and told Adam that we needed a flag.
Here’s the thing, I had a sticker on my car back in 1995, but that’s a whole other story.
But for the most part, we aren’t really rainbow people.
But suddenly the community is under attached.
And I wanted to be supportive.
So, Adam ordered a flag and we hung it on our home.
And we’ve flown it each summer for the past four seasons.
Then, last fall we had work done on our garage. And we had to take down the flag.
And we debated all winter about whether to put the flag back up.
Adam had been pushing back, as it doesn’t work in the old location, and we didn’t want it on the front of the house as it didn’t work with the aesthetic.
The gays are more about aesthetic than pride.
For me, it’s about the kids in the neighborhood.
To my knowledge we are the only gay couple in the area.
Statistically, I know that’s probably not true, but in our area, it’s all families, with two straight parents.
I want the 15 year-old that rides their bike by our house to know that queer people exist. We are proud. We live out loud. And they have nothing to fear.
So today, Adam was talking to our neighbor across the street about their American flag which they hung to push back from the coopting of the American flag by conservatives.
And he realized we need to fight back with our own flag.
When I got home today, our pride flag was flying proudly.
I haven’t posted a real restaurant post in a while.
So here goes.
I may have written about this, but it was two years ago, so hopefully if I did you don’t remember it.
Tonight, on the Facebook, a friend posted that she didn’t like dining out with friends who give the waiter a hard time.
One of her friends commented that she wouldn’t even send something back if it came out wrong. And said she’d ordered a burger medium well, it came out mooing so she ate her fries and left the burger.
First and foremost, you should never be afraid to send something back. Restaurants get it wrong. We know this. We undercook or overcook a steak. We forget that the dressing is supposed to be on the side. We miss the note that you wanted no onion and tomato and you get the whole set up.
These things happen.
Just politely call your server over, explain the problem and know that it will be a minute before you get what you wanted. The key is to not be an asshole. But always, always, get what you ordered. We want that. It’s fundamental to who we are. If the restaurant gives you a hard time, it says more about their hospitality program than you.
That being said, also remember that sometimes you make the mistake. You ordered the chicken when you meant the steak. You forgot the dressing on the side. You ordered pinot noir when you meant pinot grigio.
So always own that as well.
So.
Two years ago, this fall, I went home to Kentucky for the first time since my mom died. 2018 – 2022.
I saw the relatives. I saw friends.
I visited my Aunt Doo in her nursing home, picked her up and took her to Jim’s Seafood in Frankfort, Kentucky. It has beautiful views of the water, and serves up the best fried frozen food in the area. It was her favorite restaurant. Adam and I love it, as who doesn’t love fried food.
My aunt order fried banana peppers, and even got an order to go when we left to take back to the nursing home.
We spent the afternoon laughing, and after lunch we drove around looking at the beautiful Kentucky countryside.
When we got back to the nursing home, she begged me not to take her back to jail. She laughed. I laughed. We all laughed.
I got her back to her room. Said goodbye and that I’d see her tomorrow for lunch again.
At 7:00 a.m. the next morning, I received a call that my Aunt Doo had died in her sleep, overnight.
I like to think she was holding on till I got home as it had been four years since I’d seen her. We were super close, and I was one of a few people who remembered to call her on her birthday, and send her flowers.
Adam is convinced the fried banana peppers killed her. He also was the last to hug her when we left. He was touched that she wanted to hug him. She’d accepted him into our family from the very beginning. When we chatted on the phone she always asked about him, something my mother never did.
That morning, after we gathered at the nursing home to say our goodbyes, my Aunt Debbie, Adam, and I went for a late breakfast at the Cracker Barrell. It was my idea, as I wanted breakfast, it was close by and we just needed some place to unpack the previous 24 hours.
We get there, are seated, and order breakfast.
The server is cute as a button, and very sweet. You can tell she is new, and a little nervous. We’ve all been there, and didn’t think anything of it.
Our food took a while, enough that we were starting to comment on it, but once again, we only noticed because we were hungry, not because we were impatient.
Finally, the food is carried out of the kitchen. In fact, like 12 people come out of the kitchen at the same time, all carrying food.
The food is placed on the table.
It takes about 90 seconds to realize this is not what we ordered. It’s kind of what we ordered. But not really what we ordered.
We look across the dining room and realize that our order, and the table across from us have had parts of our orders mixed up.
We decide to go with it. We don’t expect them to recook two orders. We are hungry. And so, we eat.
The manager comes by to apologize and we assure her that all is well. We are hungry. The food is good. And none of that is a lie.
We finish eating. Drink our 5th cup of coffee. And we realize that we need to get on with our days.
We ask for the check.
The server brings it over, and we realize that it is not what we ordered. It’s not what we ate. It’s an entirely different check.
And I said fuck it, we are not giving the new girl a hard time.
And I paid the check. And I tipped 25%.
And we all went to the parking lot, where we hugged extra hard, and extra loving. Said our goodbyes and went our separate ways.
So, to summarize.
We ordered food. We got different food. And we paid for food that was neither what we ordered or what we ate.
And fun fact. I didn’t complain. I didn’t yell. I made no one feel stupid.
And why you ask?
Because life is fucking short.
Do you really need to get upset that the dressing is on your salad? Do you need to get upset that your steak is 1* past the temp that you ordered? Do you need to get upset that your egg is over medium, instead of over easy?
That day was not the day.
We needed to have a place to unwind. To unpack and be with each other.
Adam and I have sent things back. In Boston, we got something we didn’t order. We asked for it to be corrected, and it was. Once, we got a bad bottle of wine. We mentioned it, they corrected it.
There is absolutely, no reason to give the waiter at your table a hard time.
Not even in jest.
Waiting tables is not for the faint of heart.
It’s not for the meek.
You get beat up every day. Every day.
Not to mention the number of people who ask what your real job is?
Love that one.
I had a server come to me crying because a “bro” asked her if her parents were proud that she was using her college degree waiting tables.
Those of you feeling obligated to challenge me on the tipping structure in America. Don’t. It’s the way we do things. Change it.
Those who don’t think it’s a hard job.
You are the same folks who complain about your five-year old driving you crazy.
I challenge you to just watch what the servers and bartenders are doing.
They are managing four to five, to ten tables. They are keeping all their balls in the air. They a remembering your extra ranch, your blue cheese olives, and the change you need for the valet.
They have gotten all the drinks to the table, without spilling them. They remembered the 6 different kinds of martinis your guests ordered. And they even remembered the birthday candle for your husband who’s birthday is three months away, because you just wanted to embarrass him.
I watch my team every day, and am amazed at how talented they are.
Of course, sometimes, I have to remind them that grandpa Jeff, back in the 00’s, was just as talented. They don’t believe me, but my HRC folks can assure them that I indeed handled station 12 with no station 11 which was a counter with 10 chairs and 5 four tops. And I kicked ass, ran no food, pushed people out of my way, and made a living for 5 years. Selling 3,500 dollars a night in 15-dollar cheeseburgers.
May 27th is an important day in the life of Jeff and Adam.
12 years ago today, with our truck packed, we drove north to Maine.
On the 26th, several of our friends from Maine came down to help us finish packing and oversee the movers loading our truck.
Around 10:00, on May 27th, we left NYC.
Adam was mad at me because I wouldn’t let him drive the truck. He hadn’t driven much in the previous 15 years and I was worried he’d wreck it.
It took about 6 hours to get to Maine.
When we got here, we parked our truck at our new apartment, and went to our friend’s home where we were served up steak and lobster. It was an awesome welcome to Portland. (We had steak because at the time, I didn’t eat lobster).
That night, was the last night we slept at our friend’s Michelle and Lisa’s home. We’d spent countless nights there prior to moving. We’d show up every 3 months or so, and would spend a long weekend. We’d hang out with their friends, who are now our dearest and closest friends.
The next day, the movers came and unloaded the truck. Everything survived the move in one piece.
We were exhausted at the end of the first day, and went out for dinner. I know this because somewhere I have a photo of that dinner.
The following days were spent unpacking and arranging our new life.
I have so many photos I want to include with this post, but alas, the files are not labeled, and they no longer have their original date as I just downloaded them from a computer from 2008.
A couple of days ago, I saw a meme about moving without a plan.
That is exactly what Adam and I did. We’d planned to move in September, after banking money for the summer. But we found a place, the moons aligned, and we moved at the end of May.
It was a tough first year.
I was hired for a lighting gig, that fell through. Adam was working a job, that proved to be lucrative, but took a while to get there.
I was unemployed for 6 months.
Then, we turned a corner.
I got a job.
Adam got promoted.
We bought a house.
We got cats.
We planted roots.
And 12 years later here we are.
I can’t imagine moving again at this point. We love our home. We love our jobs. We love each other.
So, take my advice, if you long to see the world, put your shit in a truck and go.
I wrote the body of this post in May of 2021. It was only posted on Facebook. I’ve been trying to find it for a year now, and it finally popped up in my memories.
About three months before my writing career really kicked off, I’d just opened a new restaurant, something I’m on the fence about ever doing again.
We opened about 10 days before the mask mandate was lifted, along with the need for spacing tables for safety.
In fact, someone called the police on us because they felt that we were seating people too close. Life in the time of Covid.
The opening was a success.
We went from 0 to 100 in about 14 days. Business couldn’t have been better. We were short staffed. I only had one manager, me. And it was a zoo. But we were making money, and that was what counted.
Now for the post from 2021.
My new restaurant just finished week three.
It’s a very big success and we are doing quite well. Through continuous conversations with guests, it often comes up that I moved from NYC, and in a previous life I was a theatrical lighting designer.
A pretty good one at that.
I’m often asked how I got from designing lights to restaurant manager.
Well.
Fun fact.
In grad school, while obtaining my MFA at the University of California, San Diego, one of the best theatre schools in the country, I ran a very successful bar out of my office.
I hosted happy hour every Friday for two years, from 4:00 to close.
Which was sometimes 5:00. But more often 1:00 or 2:00 am. And at least a couple of times, the sun was coming up when we all wrapped up the evening.
I’d often open up for days that were stressful, when we needed a little boost to get through the long days and nights. My mentor Chris Parry, would sneak down on Tuesdays and ask for a gin and tonic.
My regulars included classmates, and unofficially our staff and professors who always pretended they weren’t there. Including the chair of the program.
We also had alumni, guest artists, friends, and strangers.
The crowd could be two people if everyone was in rehearsal.
Sometimes it didn’t even include me if I was teching a show.
Sometimes there might be 30 plus people.
We also had glass bar ware and nothing but top shelf booze.
Bombay Sapphire was our gin of choice. Just ask Sarah EC Maines?
We were also known to deliver at least once during tech. Usually during a 10 out of 12. (A 10 out 12 is when you rehearse a show, with the entire team, including actors for 10 hours in a 12 hour block of time).
We’d take orders and bring all the designers and stage managers their favorites.
It’s also because of these deliveries I now drink bourbon. I got sick during tech for my thesis show, and my classmates kept my Diet Coke cup spiked with bourbon as I couldn’t talk and felt like shit. It got me through 8 days of tech and the show looked great.
I also managed to keep the inventory stocked and the fridge full by charging just two dollars per drink. We had an honor system and house accounts for those of us who ran short at the end of the month.
I was a just as proud of doing this as I was the design work I produced while a student.
When I graduated, my cocktail hour was as much a part of my legacy as my design work.
On the day of graduation, I had a cooler stashed off stage. There were about 25 people who graduated in the department graduation. As we were presented our fake diplomas, we were offered the chance to say a few words.
As long as we kept it short.
I started my speech by saying that I’d spent countless hours, and thousands of dollars to be here today, so I’m going to go a little over my time limit. I spoke for about 15 minutes with bullet points on a piece of paper. This was before I-phones so there is no recording, but I was told it was a good speech.
At the beginning of the speech, my friends Tom and Anjee, pulled the cooler out, and together, we distributed Coronas to all the graduates and professors.
At the end of my speech, I popped the top off my own Corona and toasted the team. I was nearly in tears when I finished.
I miss doing design work.
But I like my life in Maine more.
I’ve said a million times that my studies in California made me the person I am today.
My patience.
My ability to see the big picture.
My ability to deal with different types of people.
My ability to know just how much to dim the lights for dinner. And explaining to owners that they indeed needed to spend money on lights that produced amber light AND NOT fluorescent white light.
My ability to not to stab someone in the eye with a fork.
My ability to train new staff.
All of this is an extension of UCSD.
While I haven’t designed lights in a hot minute, my three years were life changing.
So, a big shout out to Mark Maltby for not shutting me down!
And know that I’m forever grateful for my time in California.
And that’s how I went from being a lighting designer to being a general manager.
I posted this, three years ago, and got a few comments. I want to include it in my archives, so that when I write my book it can be included.
And.
I am doing a show in a week. The first since 2014. Small. But I’ll write about that separately.
I was up super early this morning. Well early for me.
Out of bed at 8:15.
I had a meeting about a small show that I’m working on, then met a friend for coffee, then off to grab a soda, head to work, then home for dinner.
The point is that I was in my car more than usual today.
And.
Three times today, I had people step in front of my car as I drove down a street.
Three times with little to no regard for who had the right of way, or that they were blocking traffic.
The first time, a woman got out of her car, with friends, stepped into the middle of the street, and then began to fix her hair. She is literally bent over, dealing with her hair, eventually tying it back, in the middle of the street blocking traffic.
Another couple walked their 2 year-old across the street, diagonally, 100 feet from the nearest crosswalk. The 2-year-old walked exactly as fast as you’d expect a 2 year-old to walk. Traffic stopped in both directions waiting for them to cross.
Then on my way home, a foursome parked, got out of their car, with all the doors open, on a narrow street, and with no regard, blocked the street while they gathered up their groceries.
It made me realize that I’m glad I’m not a me, me, me person, however, I sometimes wish I had the balls that other people have.
You know the people who walk in to an empty restaurant at 2 minutes till close and have a 3-course meal.
The people who run into a grocery store at 2 minutes till close, and do their week’s shopping.
The passenger who takes up all the space in a luggage bin.
The person in line at Best Buy, who cuts the line because their return is more important than mine.
I’ve always been aware of the space that I take up.
I absolutely, would not go into an empty restaurant and have dinner at the end of the night.
I’m super self-conscience of being the last table at the end of the night. And I tip extra when it happens.
I tend to not be pushy. I tend to not take up any more space than I have to.
So where does this come from.
The lack of consideration for others?
Is it nature or nurture.
Is it how you are brought up?
Is it your socio-economic status?
Is it based on gender?
Is it a gay/straight things?
Is it family size?
Is it the geographic?
Is it based on age?
What makes some people less concerned about the space they take up.
The inconvenience they impart on others.
And more importantly, do they just not care how much it makes someone in the service industry hate them?
I don’t expect to gain any insight with this post.
How the hell did it get to be the end of May already.
Memorial Day weekend is next weekend.
The official kickoff to summer.
The official kickoff to tourist season in Maine.
Like the cicadass, the rich folks from Florida are awakening from their 7 months slumber, and migrating to the northeast.
We are made aware of this by the uptick in business at both mine and Adam’s restaurants. It’s funny, because the change is actually not overnight. It’s more gradual than you’d think. Adding 5% to 10% more business every week or so, until we get to the middle of June when it’s full tilt.
Straight out.
I can say that so far, except for tonight, the guests at my restaurant, are so much sweeter than they were in Kennebunkport. The level of privilege. The level of assholery is so much better.
That being said, mine and Adam’s schedules are quickly changing.
We’ve gone from dinner together most nights to dinner a couple of times a week.
We’ve gone from TV at home, together, four or five nights a week, to being exhausted at the end of the day and going to bed early.
As we have for the past two summers, we have lots of fun ventures planned for the next four months. We are going back to NYC for a quick trip in June and then again in September, to see favorite shows of ours.
We bought season tickets to The Ogunquit Playhouse and we see our first show there next Wednesday.
We have dinners planned with friends.
We have nights at home on the patio planned.
We find if we do this, it gives us things to look forward to, other than work.
We are very lucky though, that my new schedule is MUCH more flexible, with me being able to schedule my days off around the rest of the team.
It also means that I’m home most nights and in bed by midnight.
Believe it or not.
It also means, that we are up around the same time and are not going days at a time without a hug, or smile, or a quick conversation.
I consider myself very lucky for the new job, the new drive, and the new situation.
I’m still working on when to write though. I’m not a get up and write at 6:00 a.m. person, like so many of my writer friends. And I’m often exhausted when I come home. I used to write when I got home from work, but now I’m home earlier and actually get to spend time with my bf.
It truly is a work in progress.
I do miss the creative outlet. I miss the built-in therapy. I miss the connection with my friends.
So creative friends when do you do these things? When do you write? Paint? Play the piano? Garden? Ride horses?
I was just starting to write a post about work tonight, when there was a knock on the front door.
It’s 10:00. AT NIGHT.
NO ONE knocks on our door at 10:00 at night.
It takes a second for it to register what is actually happening.
I think for a second that Adam has knocked something on the floor.
Adam is asleep on the couch as I get up to answer the door.
I discover that it’s our next-door neighbor Jill.
She apologizes, says she saw the TV on and us sitting in the living room.
We don’t have blinds on our windows. We sit in a fish bowl. She clearly could see we were awake.
She very excitedly says, you have to come outside and look at the sky. You can see the Northern Lights. She goes on saying it’s never this far south and as a Mainer has never seen them before.
Adam gets up and we both go outside.
It a clear night, it’s cold, and the sky is beautiful.
Our neighbors from next door, and diagonally across the street are standing in the street.
It takes a few minutes, but you can see streaks of light across the sky.
It was not the beautiful greens and amber that you see in photos but there is definitely light pulsing through the sky.
We stood outside for about 20 minutes until we both were freezing.
Have I mentioned that the heat is still on in our house on the 9th day of May?
It was very moving and beautiful.
I’m going to go back out while Adam is showering for bed.
For anyone just tuning in, you might not know that Adam and I see a lot of theater. It’s one of the things that we bonded over when we first met.
We both have theater backgrounds, me a lighting designer, him an actor. We both have degrees in the theater, and it’s been a life-long passion for both of us, even though neither of us is involved with actively producing shows today.
As a result of us seeing theater, we visit a LOT of different facilities. Everything from local productions, to touring houses, regional theaters, and of course Broadway.
As a result of these visits, I’d like to ask that we stop forcing people to sit in theater seats that were designed for humans in 1914.
I’m chubby, so side to side, I’m big. I’m not surprised when a chair is tight.
However.
From top to bottom I’m only 6’0”. This is above average, I know, but it’s not outrageous.
Thing is,I don’t fit in most theater seats in older theaters.
My knees are either buried in the seat in front of me.
Or
I have to sit in some weird angled situation to get my legs out of the way.
At one show last week, a woman apologized because her knees were in my head, saying that she was tall at 5’11”.
Truth is I’ve started noticing this more over the past three years, because unfortunately, even after surgery, I can’t tuck myself into a ball to force myself into the chair.
Right before surgery, there were times where the pain was so bad, from how I had to sit, that I couldn’t enjoy the show.
The first time I saw, Some Like It Hot, I could barely have told you the plot. It was to this day, the most painful seating situation ever.
Adam and I have notes saved on each theater we visit, about how the seats were and did we fit.
I know it will be expensive to fix this problem, but we as humans are getting taller not shorter.
I also know this is a luxury problem, and I’m privileged to see theater in the first place.
I truly don’t expect to have this fixed. It’s mostly me sharing my experience in NYC.
I will say, that when I was in Argentina a year ago, we visited the Opera House, and the original chairs were still in use. They must have been built for super fancy dresses, because they were the roomies chairs I’d ever seen in a historic theater.
I'd Like to Speak to the Manager!!! 