Month: September 2024

September 11th Remembered

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

When I rolled over and looked at the clock it was 6:45 a.m.  I didn’t need to be out of bed for two more hours. I adjusted the pillows, pulled the blanket over my head and willed myself back to sleep. After another 45 minutes of this I gave up. Jet lag is a bitch. I’d flown home from Barcelona two days earlier and in spite of my trying I was not going back to sleep. I was wide awake and I didn’t need to be at work until at least 9:00. I crawled to the end of the bed, switched on my computer and checked the weather. It was going to be a perfect day, and since it was clear that I was not going back to sleep, I might as well get it started.

At 8:15 a.m. I locked the door of my apartment and headed out into the day. My commute to work was insane. It required me to walk one city block to the south, and one half block to the east. Even after stopping at the grocery store for milk, cereal, and cream for my coffee, I was at work by 8:30. I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, started my computer and then performed the most important task of the day, making coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I sorted through the mail that had collected over the three weeks I’d been in Europe on a “business” trip. Finally, the coffee pot was full and I poured a bowl of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran (it’s funny the things you remember), filled my coffee cup and planted myself at my desk. The time was 8:45 a.m. 

I took a sip of my coffee. I dipped my spoon into the bowl and as I took the first bite of cereal my desk moved about six inches. I had no idea what had happened. I sat there. I rolled my chair to the window, opened the window. My office was on the 25th floor of a non-descript office building. It had no view but if I leaned out the window about a foot,  I had a clear view of the World Trade Center 4 blocks up the street. 

I leaned out the window and gasped as I realized that the North Tower of the World Trade Center was on fire. Think Towering Inferno fire. There were flames shooting into the air. I was stunned. I ran down the hall to the office next to ours and shouted, the World Trade Tower is on fire! The women from that office ran to my office and we all stared out the windows. By now it looked as if there were a ticker tape parade occurring. The air was filled with 8.5 x 11 sheets of white paper floating through the sky.  

I immediately picked up the phone and called home. My mother is a worrier.  She is from a long line of worriers.  Even though NYC is a huge place, if it happens here, it happens on my block. In this particular instance she was right. She and my father had visited NYC in May from Lexington, KY and she was VERY aware of my location. She picked up the phone on the second ring. This was a habit from years of working as a bookkeeper. She NEVER answered the phone on the first ring. She was cheery, I suspect because she thought I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. Yes, September 11th is her birthday. Instead, I said, “I have no idea what’s going on, but the World Trade Center is on fire. I’m fine, but I wanted to let you know before you saw the news and got scared. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on here.” 

I had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling to check on me. He told me a small plane had crashed into the WTC and reports were differing on what had happened. I assured him I was fine. He told me he would see me later in the morning and we hung up. I turned, stuck my head out the window again and looked back up the street just in time to see the top of the South Tower explode.

It is 9:03 a.m.

I had no idea what was happening. I did not have a TV or radio in my office and the online sources couldn’t tell me any more than I knew first hand. My boss called back and said that it is now being reported that it was two passenger jets that crashed into the buildings and that from all accounts it is a terrorist attack. I assure him once again that I’m fine. He tells me that he’ll see me later. I’m staring out the window at the fires when a voice comes over the PA system telling us our office building is being evacuated. I immediately call him back and tell him what is happening. I also tell him that since I have to leave the building I might try and work my way closer to see what’s really going on. He tells me to be careful and I hang up once again. By this time the announcement has been made several more times that there is a mandatory evacuation for our office building.

I grab my cell phone, lock the door, and head downstairs. My cereal and coffee are still on my desk. My computer is still on. The lights are still on. There was no doubt I would be back to the office in just a short while. I start the trek down the stairs from the 25th floor as the elevators had been turned off.   The stairwell was filled with people, calmly headed to the lobby.  At this time, things seemed calmer than they were about to be.  

The scene on the street is utter chaos. There are people everywhere. All of the office buildings are evacuating. No one knows what’s going on. People are pushing to get closer. People are pushing to get out of the mess. I start down the street toward the World Trade Center, fully wanting to get closer to see what is happening. By the time I get to the corner of my street, I give up and go home. There are too many people and it’s clear that I’m not getting anywhere near the action.

I get to my apartment, unlock the door, turn on the TV and FINALLY start piecing together the puzzle. Two passenger jets have crashed into the buildings. The idea that this was a freak accident has passed and now there are reports that it was a terrorist attack. I sit on my couch watching the TV in utter disbelief. My phone rings. It’s my mom wanting to know if I’m okay. I tell her that my office building has been evacuated and that I’ve gone home. I assure her that I’m fine.

My phone rings again. It’s my best friend Michelle. She wants to know if I’m okay. I assure her that I am. 

I’m sitting on my couch talking to her as the first tower begins to fall. 

The entire event is surreal. I am chatting with a good friend, while watching this horrible event happen on TV, all of this being accompanied by a tremor of around 2.3 on the Richter scale. My entire apartment was shaking. And just as soon as it started it was over. I was still sitting on my couch, on the phone, still watching TV.  Neither of us is speaking. The awe of the devastation we’d just witnessed is overwhelming.

I realize the air is filled with debris. I go to the window just in time to see the huge billowing smoke that is so often shown in the news footage. My apartment had three 10-foot tall windows facing the street. As I stood watching, the beautiful day with perfect blue skies was obliterated and replaced with the blackness of night created by the smoke and debris. 

I hear loud shouting in the hallway. I open the door to find 10 or 12 people covered in soot. They had been chased down the street by the cloud of smoke and had run into my building. The doorman is letting them use the vacant apartment across the hall to clean themselves. I gather up towels and wash cloths for them to use. 

Looking back, I’m amazed that I still had phone service. Both my cell and land lines continued to function. My phone continues to ring and ring. My boss. My parents. Michelle. Friends from around the country. I’m talking to Michelle again when the second tower falls.

The apartment shakes harder this time. Things falls. What little light that is left of the day is gone. 

My apartment is completely dark. 

I hear silence.  

The sirens have stopped.

The horns have stopped.  

The sounds of New York have stopped.  

There is absolute quiet.

Unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. 

There is a complete lack of sound. This is not our city. New York is always noisy.  There are always horns, and sirens and people yelling.  

There is always sound.  

This is the complete opposite of that.

I sat there speechless.  

Within minutes Mayor Giuliani issued a full evacuation of lower Manhattan. 

It’s 11:00.

I call my mom and tell her that I’m evacuating and that I will call her when I can. 

I call my boss and tell him that I am fine and that I’m evacuating. 

I call Michelle and assure her that I’m fine. 

I grab a backpack and fill it.  

There is little thought of what I need, or how long I will be gone.  

As I leave my building the sky is blue again.  The perfect blue sky of an early autumn day.  Deeper than a summer blue.  Not a cloud to be seen.

I cross the street and pass someone handing out face masks. I take on. 

I put it on and start to walk north and east toward city hall and the Brooklyn Bridge. 

My walk out of lower Manhattan still gives me chills.

There are tens of 1,000’s upon 1,000’s of people moving in mass. 

And again the sound of silence.  

No one is talking. 

There are no cell phones. No sirens. No helicopters. No planes. 

Just the silent movement of people in shock moving toward what they hope will be sanity.

I am forced north with the sea of people not knowing where I was going. I had no plan. I walked. Once I passed Canal Street it occurred to me that with the mass destruction that had just occurred surely there would be a need for volunteers. 

Although I really didn’t care for the Salvation Army’s politics, I thought it would be a good place to start, so I kept heading north, finally getting to the Salvation Army building on 14th street. There were 50 or 60 people there, and we were all told the same thing, you have to go through training to volunteer. 

I exit the building, lost again. 

I was on 14th street and remembered that St. Vincent’s hospital was just up the street. I could go there and see if they needed any help. 

I get within a block and a half of the hospital and find myself in a sea of people all hoping to do the same. There were people as far as the eye could see and they have all had the same thought: Be Helpful. They were there to give blood and volunteer. 

While I was standing there, I hear my phone ring. It was my friend Stacy, who was in town on business. She told me that she was at her hotel and that I could spend the night there if I needed a place to stay.  

Stacy was staying on the Upper West Side. At this point all traffic in Manhattan had been halted. The only way to get anywhere, would be to walk. I began my trek north and spent the next several hours walking to her hotel. 

When I got there, I was hoping they knew more than I knew. At this point, the news stations know very little.  We planted ourselves in front of the TV and didn’t move for what seemed like hours. At some point, we realized that none of us had eaten all day.  We go downstairs into the street.  There were no cars, not taxis, no buses.  In both directions, the street was empy. 

We stand in the middle of Madison Avenue, looking north and south and there are no cars to be seen.

We discovered a restaurant that was open. We ate dinner in silence. Not really sure at this point what was happening, or what to expect.   

I don’t return home for three days. 

When I do attempt to go home it was an adventure to say the least.  

It’s approaching 7:00 p.m..  The sun is setting.  The city is getting dark.  

I got to my first military checkpoint at Canal Street. I explained that I lived in the financial district and that I needed to get home to get more clothes etc. They wanted to see ID. Unfortunately, my driver’s license did not have my current address on it. Luckily, I had a prescription bottle in my back pack and they allowed me to pass. I passed through seven or eight more checkpoints before I got to my apartment building. 

It was dark. There was no electricity. No phone. No water. The entire apartment smelled as though it had been on fire for days. There was a fine dust of soot over everything. The windows were covered as well.  I did not want to stay there long.

As I exited my building, I asked one of the guards on my corner if there was a place in the area to volunteer. He told me that there was a few blocks from away. 

I head that way. People are everywhere. Volunteers were preparing food. Rescue crews on break. I asked about ten people what I could do to help before someone said to me, “You want to help. Go find bread. It doesn’t matter if it’s fucking hot dog buns. Find bread.” 

And that’s what I did. 

I walked several blocks north to a “real” grocery store and I bought all the bread they had. About 150 dollars’ worth. When I got back, the guy that had told me to get bread was in awe. I spent the rest of the afternoon making food, cleaning tables, etc. 

Around 10:00 p.m. they asked if I wanted to go to the site and help at St. Paul’s Chapel. I said that I would.

For those not in NYC, St. Paul’s Chapel is the oldest church in the city. The rear of the church faced the east side of the World Trade Center. It survived. Not even a broken window. It is believed that the large sycamore tree in the graveyard behind the church shielded it from destruction. 

I get to the church around midnight. The next eight hours were long and grueling. It was an endless parade of rescue workers coming in to rest, sleep, pray. Watching these people come in and spend as little as fifteen minutes resting before they went back to work was moving, it’s easy to understand why so many of them face post-traumatic stress disorder today. 

They were worked tirelessly at a job that would prove to be futile.

I spent the night making coffee, emptying trash and trying to be as quiet as I could. There were people everywhere, sleeping on the floor, in the pews, anywhere with a spare inch of floor. 

Once or twice, I wandered outside to look up the street. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and debris. There were huge industrial lights lighting the area where the two buildings once stood. 

It was breathtaking and overwhelming to see.  To think that less than a month ago I’d stood in the area between the buildings and basked in the peacefulness the square provided. At night there were very few people in that part of town and for me it was a quiet place to sit and think undisturbed.  It was me getting close to nature in a concrete city of 8 million people.  

Places like that in New York City are few and far between. 

Now.  It was a mound of destruction that words will never describe. 

Around 10:00 the next morning, I was shuttled back to the volunteer center and I said goodbye to everyone, and started my trek back up town. 

I can’t begin to describe how I felt that morning, once again walking north. 

It was three weeks before I returned home for good.

Jeff at the Psychiatrist, a three-part mini opera

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.

Way back before the internet. Before cell phones. Almost before electricity.

I was an asshole.

A raging, giant, not forgettable asshole.

I can hear all of you who know me now saying, well that tracks.

Seriously, I was.

I was once fired by an assistant principal from a lighting gig because I told him to close the fucking door.

I’ll tell that story another day.

I once threw a watch at a boyfriend, and broke the glass in our French doors.

Another day.

I once ripped up a photograph of a boyfriend’s childhood home, because he pissed me off.

Another day.

I once threw a tray, with four ice tea glasses filled with ice tea, at a manager. (He deserved it).

Another day.

I once rudely told a classmate of mine that he was off key, making fun of his song, because you know, that’s who I was.

Another day.

I once called a cousin a backwoods country fuck.

Another day. (This one might have been warranted, but probably not).

I have a few stories that I’m just too embarrassed to share with you.

But don’t you worry, these stories keep me awake at night several times a year.

Sometimes, I even took pride in being an asshole. Telling actors what I thought of their performances. Telling co-workers how bad they were. Telling family members what I thought of them.

I’m sure there are people in my current life that would assure you that I have not changed.

They are probably a little right.

Truth be told, the one thing that changed for me. That led me away from a life of assholery.

Was being medicated.

April 20, 2001.

I know this, because I started a new journal on the morning after my first dose of the medicine.

The journal was specific. It was detailed. The days that followed, I wrote about the pain and suffering. But it also detailed the changes that followed after I started the medicine.

I bring all of this up, because last night, going through a box, I found said journal.

And I read through it.

I don’t recognize the person who wrote in the journal. Not at all.

The pain. The suffering. The longing to be better.

I don’t recognize the person, but I remember writing the posts.

I don’t remember the pain, but I remember writing about it.

It’s been almost 25 years since I started taking the meds.

I went off of them once in 2012, ruined Thanksgiving, and swore to Adam, I’d never do that again.

Another day.

As I read through the journal, I put it in the trash pile. Along with a bunch of other stuff.

Luckily, the trash was full, and I was too lazy to change it so I kept the whole pile. I put it back in my office.

Today, I decided not to throw the journal away, as there is a whole story there to tell.

When I started taking the medicine, I also started seeing my psychiatrist for the therapy. He didn’t take insurance. He had a fancy 5th Avenue office. And it was a whole bunch of money each month. And more than any money I’ve ever spent on cars, tuition, vacation, this money changed my life.

I didn’t stop being an asshole overnight. But slowly, over the years it waned. And I became a better person. And more than not being an asshole, I learned to like the person that I’d become. After close to 50 years of really kind of hating myself, I realized that there was good guy in there all along.

I sometimes think that the reason I survived my asshole years is because along the way I found people who could see me for who I wanted to be and not who I was currently being. People who never gave up on me. Who knew that I’d find my way.

I had a few who didn’t make it. They gave up. Walked away. Decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Looking back, I’m not sure I blame them, but for those that waited it out, I’m very thankful.

I’ve been lucky enough to let most of the people who stuck it out know how much I appreciate them. To others, there are amends to be made, eventually.

I tell people in my life now, that I don’t argue well. I listen to what’s being said, and I think about it. I’m great at responding in the shower 6 hours later.

It’s not that I don’t argue well. It’s just that if I say what comes to mind in the moment, I have to say I’m sorry later. So, I don’t speak. I shut down, to quote a few people. Listen to what the person is saying, then respond later. In a thoughtful, well-crafted way.

This can be frustrating to someone who is pushing for a response, but I prefer this to having to say I’m sorry later.

In the meantime, I take my medicine.

I think before I speak.

I breathe.

And the writing from the last three years has helped immensely. Should I share my deepest darkest secrets? I say absolutely.

The biggest gift I was ever given, was learning that I was not alone. That there are others who suffer from my diagnosis. There are people out there who are assholes that don’t want to be assholes. They want to be kind and giving and understanding.

So, I share my crap, so the friends I have on Facebook, and my friends who read my blog, will know that they’re not alone, and that there is hope.

I’ll end by saying, if you are struggling–seek help. Seek it everywhere. It might take a while for the right person to come along. I sought help for the first time in 1995. I didn’t find a solution until 2001. I saw a dozen therapists. At least four different psychiatrists. In fact, the doctor, who changed my life, was recommended by a guy I went out with three or four times.

He changed my life.

Keep looking. If you don’t connect. Try someone else. Try someone else. Someone else.

Just don’t give up.

The solution is out there.

If I could do it, then you can do it.

They like me, I think they’re swell. Isn’t it remarkable, How things work out so well?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’ve debated whether to write this story, as I generally don’t write stories about my current job.  

But this one is about me so I think it’s fair.  

On Wednesday, I got home from work early.  

4:00 early.  

I had one thing on my mind. 

A nap.  A two-hour nap.  Before Adam got home to make dinner.  

Seriously, it’s been a while since I’ve napped.  

As I was getting settled on the couch, I get a text from my boss, asking me to take a look and see if I can find an opening for a 7-top on Friday night.  

I open up the Open Table app and I take a look.  We were already busy from the guest count.  Chelsea Handler was going to be in town at our big auditorium, and that always drives business.

I look at all the options.

He reached out to me, because I pride myself on never saying no.  My job is to always get a butt in seat.  

I look, and look to no avail.  

However, as I’m looking at tables I can move, I click on reservations with notes.  

It’s my husband’s birthday can we get a candle.

Quiet table in the back. 

We’d like to be inside if anything opens up.  

Coming from work, might be a few minutes late.

If Jeff Fightmaster is working, please cancel the reservations.  

URRRRRKKKKKK!!!!

What the fucking fuck???? 

I read it again.  Surely, it’s someone I know joking.  

I don’t recognize the name. 

I google them.  Nada.

I look for them on social media.  Nada.

I screen shot the reservation and reach out to Adam to see what he thinks.  

I do the same to my friend Laura.  

Both say to ignore it.    

I delete the comment. 

And decide I’ll ignore them.    

To be honest.  

It’s not the way life works. 

There are lots of people who don’t like me in the world.  There are daresay LOTS of people in Maine who don’t like me.  

However, you need to keep that dislike in your lane.  

Not mine.  

If I’ve done something to offend you, confront me.  Or ignore me.  Or just don’t come to where I work. 

But you don’t get to be a mean girl.  

I did not cancel the reservation.

I did not call them.

I ignored them.  

The reservation time came tonight and five minutes after they should have been there, the phone rings.  It’s them.  I don’t answer.  I give the phone to the host.  

She answers and they tell her they need to cancel.  

Good for them.  

She hangs up and says they were nice, but they weren’t coming.  

The night ended without incident.

I will say, that I was anxious all night.  And I hated that I was letting them get to me.  In the nine months I’ve been at my new job, I haven’t had an issue with anyone. 

At my old job, everyone hated me, but they kept coming back.  

I don’t suppose we’ll ever know who this was.  

But I do know it was not COOL.

NOT COOL AT ALL.  

Oh, it makes you stronger. It makes you you

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I did something last night I VERY, VERY, VERY rarely do.  

I met employees out for a drink.  

We were closed for cleaning, and when I checked in on them, they invited me to meet them at a bar for a drink.  

I arrived late, and joined them at the bar.  

I ordered a boulevardier and he knew what it was and made it excellently.  

I hung out with my team, chatted, learned that the bartender and I had mutual friends and talked for a while.  

I ordered my employees two more drinks, asked for the check and paid it.  

I didn’t pay attention and the bartender was busy when I leaving.  

I said my goodbyes and headed home.  

About an hour later, my phone rings and it’s a Los Angeles number.  

I don’t answer.  

A few minutes later, my phone pings and it’s the bartender from the bar, saying that the transaction timed out and my payment didn’t go through.  

OH NO!!!

I call him back and he asks if it’s okay to take my credit card number over the phone.   

I say of course and give him the number.  

I tell him to make sure that he adds the tip that I left in as well.

He says that he doesn’t feel comfortable doing so, because it was his fault the transaction didn’t go through.  

I tell him of course you’ll add the tip, it’s not that big of a deal, we are both in the industry and it’s how he makes his money.  

He is very gracious.  Adds the tip and we say goodbye.  

It felt good to do the right thing.  

I’m gonna make him say my name. (Make him say your name)

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I don’t have a nickname at the moment.

It’s actually been a while since I’ve had one.

I’ve always appreciated them when I did have them.

Here is a history of my nicknames.

In college I was Fight.

It started when I pledged a fraternity.

Now that you’ve all wiped up the liquid you just spit across the room.

Yes. I was in a fraternity.

I attended a very small. Very conservative college. And if you wanted to have fun on campus you joined a fraternity or sorority. By the time I graduated most of my friends were in frats or sororities.

It was also not very expensive to do so.

It was a couple of hundred bucks in dues. You room and board for the college paid for you to live in the frat house. And to be honest. It was a lot of fun.

It’s the only thing I will ever have in common with Mitch McConnell. Same frat. Different colleges. Different political beliefs.

My fraternity brothers started calling me Fight when I pledged, and it continued till I graduated.

I loved it and it was the name on all of my fraternity gear.

Then I moved to Atlanta and became Jeff Ann.

It started when another server named Clay Boye got hired. He was quirky and weird, in all the best ways.

He was a visual artist and is the person who told me that if you buy your art to match your sofa, you should hang your sofa on the wall and sit on the floor.

Buy ART that speaks to you.

He was called Clay Boye and he started calling me Jeff Ann. It stuck. And I was Jeff Ann until I moved back to Kentucky.

When I moved back to Kentucky, I went to grad school at the University of Kentucky, getting an MA in theater.

One day, my design professor and I were in the the McDonald’s drive through and I saw a friend from work. I rolled down the window and said hello to Lisa Larmour and she said What’s up Maddog?”

It stuck.

No one had ever called me that before.

But from that moment, everyone called me Maddog.

When I went to the department graduation, the chair of the department called me Maddog.

PS. Lisa would have had no idea, that it ever happened and that the name stuck.

When I left Kentucky to go to NYC, the Maddog name was lost in the move.

I haven’t really had a nickname since.

I do sometimes add Anne to the name of the person I’m talking to at work. Less so now, but when I started managing I did it all the time. Kimberly Ann. Laura Ann. Brian Ann. So, there are a few people called it back to me calling me Jeff Ann.

It does make me smile when someone from my pasts calls me by a nickname.

Lights. Camera. Action!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment
I’d like to speak to the manager!!!
Two weeks ago I spoke at a Portland City Council meeting.
We were there to speak about the elimination of the tip credit. The tip credit is the provision that allows servers to be tipped half of the Portland minimum wage.
Three outliers on the city council felt that we should allow voters to vote on the again when it was overwhelmingly voted down in 2022.
Here is the speech I gave off the cuff.

So keep right to the end. You’ll find your goal my friend. Find your friend. Then the prize you won’t fail find your grail! Find your grail!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s the day after Labor Day!!!

I met two employees at a bar tonight for a post cleaning cocktail and the bartender said, “Cheers to local’s summer!”  It’s the time of year when you begin to see the winter locals come out of hibernation. 

They are splotchy white, from lack of sunshine, as they’ve been hiding in their homes, counting down the days to Labor Day when it’s safe to come out into the light.  

It’s a miracle of miracle every year when we get to the date.  

Trust me, we MUST have the summer.  It’s how, my staff pays their rent in January.  

It’s how the restaurant pays its labor in the depths of the winter.  

As manager’s we preach to our staff, save your pennies, because Winter IS coming.  

Although, since Covid, winter has not been as deserted as before.  There are still people in town.  There are more people traveling north.  There are just more people in general.  So it’s not as bleak as it was in 2013, when I had January nights, with a bartender and two servers, and we did 4 guests.  2 two tops.  

And you must never, ever close early.  

My restaurants were closed today for cleaning.  Twice a year, we shut down and power wash the shit out of everything.  Every nook and cranny gets a wipe down, or a coat of paint.  We’ll finish up tomorrow, have a staff meeting, and reopen on Thursday.  

You could sense a difference in the team today as everyone was happy and fun.  We had the music pumping and most everyone was in a good mood. 

We now turn to cruise ship season and leaf peeper season.  

These are NOT the same people who vacation in the summer.  It takes money to summer in Maine.  Hotels are upwards of 600+ dollars, even more if you have a view.  

The people we get now, are retirees, and families, who come to Maine to see the leaves change and enjoy the cooler weather.  

Speaking of cooler weather, it dropped to 48 last night in Portland.  

We still have the a/c on.  

We also start to get a plethora of cruise ships and tour buses.  These are 100% retirees, who have come to Maine to see the leaves.  They come off the ship and buses and go to the closest restaurant selling chowder and lobster rolls for the cheapest price.  We are a little bit too far away from the wharfs to see them, but occasionally they venture up to us.  They are in a hurry, and are not known for tipping.  When I worked in KPT during the teens we saw them, and because we didn’t offer them a discount they often didn’t stay. 

Oh. And they need the whole process to take less than 30 minutes.

The whole point of this post is to say, we made it to Labor Day.  

I 100% guarantee you every hospitality worker in Portland has had this conversation in the last two days. 

 I guarantee you.  

It’s a conquest every year. 

Like passing the bar exam. 

Like killing the Night King. 

Like melting the Wicked Witch.   

Like pulling the sword from the stone?  

Like finding the Holy Grail. 

Like winning gold at the Olympics.  

It’s that.  

Without the fame and fortune.  

But give it to me every hour, Forty hours every week, And that’s enough for me to be living like a king!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s Labor Day tomorrow.  (It’s currently Sunday night).  

The unofficial end to summer.  

For most of you, that means school is back in session, the days are getting shorter, and you can no longer wear white.  

For those of us in the hospitality industry, in a tourist town in the northeast, its the official end of the craziness.  

Tomorrow will be significantly slower than last Monday.  There will still be business, but for those who track these things, the slowdown happens.  If a stranger walked in, they’d think I’m crazy, but a 20% decrease is just enough to breathe.  Sigh.  Know, that for the most part, the worst is behind us.   

When I worked in Kennebunkport, 10 years ago, it was the countdown we did to the end of the summer. The Friday, Saturday, Sunday of Labor Day were insane.  The last big weekend of the year.  On Sunday, we’d keep the whole staff until we were done.  When the last guests were out of the building, we pour beer and wine for the team.  And I’d toast the great job they’d all done to get us where we were.  

Summer there was insane.  Summer at my current restaurant is busy but not like Kennebunkport.  10 years ago, we were doing 600 people for lunch and 600 people for dinner.  We’d open the doors at 11:30 and we wouldn’t stop until around 10:00 when we locked the doors.  It was intense.    

We’d have close to 175 employees for the summer.  That’s a lot of food prepped, a lot of silver rolled, a lot of glasses polished.  We’d push for that first weekend in September. 

Then we’d toast.  We’d breath.  

And we’d come back the next day, to start the count down to Indigenous People’s Day.  

That’s when we could really breathe.  

I hadn’t thought about the end of summer toast for a long time, but I talked to my friend Laura tonight, and she asked if we had toasted to the end of summer tonight.  

We did not.  

We cleaned up, moved some furniture around, so our floors can be refinished tomorrow, and we all said goodbye.  

Happy Labor Day.  

Curtain up! Light the lights!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Most of you know that in a different life, I was a lighting designer.  A pretty good one at that, if I don’t say so myself.  I had a knack for it for some reason, and it just made sense to me.  

In the 20+ years I was active, I designed well over 100 shows.  In all types of theaters and venues.  For many different organizations.  

When I started out, I wanted to design musicals.  In fact, I almost didn’t go to UCSD, as they don’t really produce musicals.  I was assured by Chris Parry, that I’d get what I needed and then wouldn’t you know it, I ended up designing two musicals at UCSD while I was a student.  

However, grad school taught me that I really like the artistic dramas the most.  Especially those, that allow for big bold lighting statements.  There is a lot less demand for those designers.  

So, it was musicals that paid the rent.  

As a lighting designer, I am also the unluckiest motherfucker you have ever met.  As I said, over 100 shows, and three times in my career I had light boards crap out and the shows were lost.  Completely.  Back ups corrupted.  Boards didn’t work.  Nada.  Zip.  

A little background for those non theater folk.  Lighting is run through a computer, that has the settings for each of the lights recorded.  You press go and the lights change as they’ve been programmed and thus the design is executed.  Without those cues, you are basically looking at a dark stage.  

The first time this happened was at The Diversionary Theater in San Diego.  We’d finished up our dress rehearsal of M. Butterfly, been given notes, and the theater was empty. I was left to do a page or two of lighting notes.  Adjustments that needed to be made to make the lighting better.  

I started and about 20 minutes into the process, I hit record, time 4 enter, enter.  And the board shut down.  I rebooted it, and it restarted without issue. 

Except.  

That my show was gone.  Fuck!

I double checked everything. 

Nada.  Zilch.  

I checked.  The disc was in the computer, and it would mean doing my notes over, but I went ahead and loaded the show from the disc.  

Except that it wouldn’t load.  It kept saying the disc was corrupt.

It’s now close to midnight.  I have a light board with no cues.  And we have final dress in about 18 hours.  

Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck.  

I take a deep breath. 

I should say, when stuff like this happens, I go to my calm place.  

I rebooted the computer. 

I tried the disc again. 

I say.  Well.  Here’s what needs to happen.  I have till tomorrow at 7:00 to get the show re-cued.  

I grab my keys and drive to 7-11.  I get a Double Gulp Diet Coke.  I go back to the theater.  I get a new disc…

And I start.  

Page by page.  

I know where the cues go because they are written in my script.  I’ve seen the show enough to rebuild most everything.

And I cue.  And cue.  And cue.  

When the Executive Director shows up at 8:00 the next morning.  I’m still cuing.  

I finish up around 10 or so. 

Go home.  Shower.  Get to class as I’m a student at UCSD. 

At 6:00 I get back to the theater, where we do our final dress.

The show is in.  It’s actually not a bad copy.  

And the show opens the next day without further issue.  

Fast forward to Oklahoma.  The state.  Not the musical.  

I’m there to design the summer season for Light Opera Oklahoma.  The Music Man.  Sweeney Todd. Naughty Marietta.  

In the summer, LOOK tours one of their shows and this year is The Music Man.  Three stops on our tour.  

One of the theaters is on an Army base.  I can’t remember the name for the life of me, but the founder of the theater’s portrait is hanging in the lobby and they’ve captured his gayness 100%.  This theater was built in the 50’s and that’s when the last technology update occurred.  Overheard, the stage is lit with strip lights with red, white and blue roundels.  The best part of this theater is the soldiers who show up to see the show.  Hot.  Hot.  Hot.  

The weird part is that it is required by law that the Star-Spangled Banner be played before any event.  So, the orchestra plays the SSB.  Then immediately launches into the Overture for The Music Man.  It was weird as fuck.  

The next theater, is old.  Old.  Old.  And is big enough for about 20% of our scenery.  The lighting is a little better, BUT there is no air conditioning.  It’s July.  In Oklahoma.  It’s insane.  By the time the crew loads in, we are exhausted.  

The show happens.  

In both of these theaters, the lights pretty much stay on, and the stage manager calls follow spot cues. 

I’m excited for the next space.  It’s a brand-new performing arts space in Claremore, Oklahoma.  Brand new.  1,000+ seats.  All the bells and whistles.  Including a/c.

We load in.  We hang the plot.  We focus.  We cue.  We are ready to go.  

Fun fact:  We are the first group to use the space.  We discover the hard way, that everything said on the clear com, is also heard on the dressing room speakers.  The Music Man children heard a few inappropriate jokes and comments before we realized this.  

We take a quick break to get a late lunch.  We get back to the theater around 6:00.  Show will start at 7:00.  

Just as we get back to the theater, a typical thunderstorm rolls through.  This has never been proven, but it was the consensus as to what happened, but we think lightning struck the building.  The Board crashed.  When it comes back up.  Once again.  The show was gone, and the disc was fucked.  And this time for my theater friends, the patch is gone.  

Once again, I took a breath and went to my calm place.  I started directing people as to what to do.  

You do this.  You do that.  You go over there.  

It’s 6:30. The house is supposed to be open.   We can’t open, because I need to figure what each of the lights do, where they are plugged and get submasters programmed.  

The theater operators are in the booth with me.  I turn to them and say, give me another 20 minutes and we’ll be good to go. I’ll cue the show live using submasters and Kelly, the stage manager, will call spots, and remind me what part of the stage is going to be used, and what scene is coming up.  However, if this is going to work, I’m going to need the largest Fountain Diet Coke you can find.  

I go back to work.  The house is opened.  And just before the overture starts, a Diet Coke appears on the floor beside me.  I cue the show live, and believe it or not, it looks pretty good.  

Fun Fact:  Fast forward 2 years, and Adam and I drive to Texas.  On our way home to NYC we stop in Claremore, Oklahoma to visit his friends from college. We meet at a Mexican Restaurant.  And about 15 minutes into the visit we realize, they were the theater operators, and they are the folks who got me the Diet Coke.  We love them dearly.  

Now it’s 2013.  I’m in Grinnell, Iowa.  I taught there in the winter of 2007, and designed one of my all-time favorite shows for a choreographer friend.  I was asked back after that, and went.  I continued to go until Adam and I moved to Maine and I stopped designing.  

The last year I was there, I designed a show that I am afraid to say I don’t remember the name of.  It’s a lot of fun, I get to spend time with friends and do great design work.  The production staff at Grinnell is second to none.  

The show opens, we celebrate.  I fly home the next day.  It’s a full day of traveling to fly from Des Moines, to Portland.  

When I get here there are a number of calls from Erik.  Seems, that their board, a Marquee, that I always hated using, but had no choice in for this show, has crashed.  They are asking for back up paperwork etc.  As they can’t get a replacement, and the disc won’t work in their Expression.  They are basically forced to re-create the show from memory.  

I thought to myself as I hung up the phone with Erik.  

Fuck my life.  NOT again.  

So yes.  Unlucky.