Author: fightmasterwrites

Climb every mountain!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

My friend Michelle and I have been on many adventures.  

The most exciting, difficult, challenging, rewarding, and overwhelming was hiking the Grand Canyon.  

In the spring of 2002, I flew to San Francisco to join Michelle in driving back home to Chicago.  She’d been there working there for a year, and was going home.  

We left San Francisco, drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, to LA, where I visited my friend Donna Jo. The most memorable part of that visit was how fucking hot it was, “oppressive” to quote Donna Jo.

From there we drove to Santa Fe, to visit a friend, then to Vegas, and from Vegas we drove to the Grand Canyon.  

We checked in to a hotel, knowing that we had to be up early the next morning for our hike.  

We got to bed early, set our alarm and were asleep by 10:00.  

Rise and shine.  We were up and parking at the Canyon at 5:00. 

When we arrived at the top, there was a sign that said, DO NOT TRY AND HIKE THIS IN ONE DAY.  IT CAN’T BE DONE.  

I asked Michelle about this, and she assured me that her friends had done it.  

We walk closer to the beginning of the trail down, passing at least 4 million other versions of this sign. 

I’m assured that it doesn’t mean us.  

And down the trail we start. 

Fun fact.  

We are amateurs.  In the truest sense of the word.  

Our provisions include a back pack, a camera, four bottles of water, and I think 4 power bars.  That’s it.  Why the fuck would we need more water, or food than that.  

Down we go.  Chatting all the way.  We pass a couple of water stations, but we have all we need so we keep going.  

The trail is beautiful and we are bonding as we frolic down the steep incline.  

It was not a short trek down, but after a few hours, the trail flattens out and we are at the bottom of the canyon.  The river is in front of us.  There is a camp ground.  There are people that have passed us, setting up camp.  

We take in the site, I snap a few photos, that are in a box in my bedroom.  

And we start back up. 

Within 30 minutes Michelle realizes that it’s going to be a bit harder than we thought.  We are taking it slow.  And are still having fun.  

However, it’s hot.  And we are drinking our water.  

Soon there is only one bottle left.  I suggest that we ration it.  

And we climb.  And we climb.  And we go slower.  And slower.  And slower.

And soon we are out of water.  

And we climb.  And we climb.  And we climb.  

It doesn’t help that we don’t have a map, so although we are passing landmarks, we have no idea who much further it actually is to the top.  

By this time, I’m getting tired.  Michelle has become exhausted.  

And still we hike.  

Our power bars are long gone.  I’m thirsty, but fun fact, I don’t get hangry.  I can go all day without eating and it really doesn’t bother me.

Michelle on the other hand, needs a sandwich every so often.  

At one point she shouts at me, go on without me.  I’m giving up.    

I don’t.  I walk ahead, then back.    Walk ahead, then back.  

And around 7:30, I walk ahead and discover that we are at the top.

I run back down to her, and say you are almost there.  

And around 8:00 we both crest the hill.  

We sit on a bench.  Exhausted.  

We then notice that there is a visitor’s area with a coke machine.  We are armed with two sodas in no time.  We are sipping our sodas when the bus to take us back to our car comes.  And the driver tells us we aren’t allowed to have beverages.  I assure her that we are breaking the rules today, and she wasn’t happy, but she didn’t argue. 

She dropped us at our car and we drove back to our hotel.  We showered, and then went to dinner, where we laughed and laughed at how crazy it was that we’d just done what we’d done.

And we’ll always have Paris. 

And we’ll always have the Grand Canyon.  

Drivin’ down the road, I get a feelin’ that I should’ve been home yesterday, yesterday!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’ve spent my entire adult restaurant career advocating for my young staff to go live their lives.

I say adult, which means management.

I say young staff, because I’m probably not going to give the same advice to a 50-year-old staff member.

The advice I have given over and over and over and over, is go forth and DON’T multiply.

In 2013, we hired a young kid named Nick, who was desperate to become a bartender. BUT. He’d never bartended in his life. We struck a deal with him. Work service bar for the summer, days only, and we’ll let you bartend. He got to learn how to make drinks. We got a service bartender who wasn’t going to wait on more than 5 or 6 guests a day. And his earnings were meager.

His dream was go get bartending experience and then go to Colorado and be a ski bum. Teaching skiing lessons during the day, bartending at night.

And he worked hard that summer. But alas, he also fell in love.

And at the end of the summer he was living with his girlfriend in Maine, and bartending for me, making no money.

I told him over and over, put your shit in your car and drive to Colorado. But he was in love and said he couldn’t.

Then Christmas came, and his girlfriend broke up with him on Christmas Eve. He came back after the new year heartbroken. He had no girlfriend, a job that didn’t pay well, and he felt it was too late to go west.

I asked him one day: What’s keeping you here? He said nothing. I asked if he was scared? And he said yes. I said, “Nick. Pack a couple of big bags. Put them in your car. And go. You don’t have to give notice to me. It’s winter, we’ll manage. Just go. And I’ll make you this promise. If you can’t find work, get homesick, or worse, I’ll have hire you the minute you get back.

Two days later he was gone.

I heard from him a couple of times, and he was living his best life in Colorado.

On Monday of this week, a sous chef, who left in September, came in to tell me he was going to Colorado to cook for the summer/winter. I congratulated him. He said he was flying out to get a place, meet his new team, and then flying home to drive back across the country.

I encouraged him to tell his new restaurant that he needed an extra week so that when he drove across country is wasn’t a trip to get from A to B but a chance to stop and see the country. Everyone needs to see the Bridges of Madison County. Everyone, should stop and go to Cedar Point and ride a roller coaster.

I can’t wait to hear about his adventures.

I love nothing more than watching young people I know fly and be free.

This is a long way of saying I’m very grateful for the number of lives I’ve lived. Not always perfectly. But I’ve had a blast. I’ve lived in the following states: Kentucky, Georgia, Ohio, Kansas, New York, Iowa, Alabama (for two weeks), California, Oklahoma, and Maine. Each adventure more exciting than the next.

I really only stressed about money a couple of times, and had to ask my parents for a favor a time or two, but I just went. And I didn’t move lightly. I took a 24’ UHaul to Alabama, then two weeks later, loaded it up and moved back home, leaving the keys to my apartment on the kitchen counter. I drove a U-Haul cross country twice to get to California and back.

I have only a couple of regrets in my life. Seriously. And even then, I’m aware enough to know that the experiences I regret helped me make me who I am today. I met lots of wonderful people. I saw lots of lovely places.

I will be eternally grateful for the life I’ve lived. It’s never been boring. It’s never been for the weak of heart.

PS. I promise I’m not dying. Just sharing stories of my life in the fast lane.

Tune in tomorrow when I talk about the Grand Canyon.

Hold me, bat boy!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Serious question, how do writers remember what they’ve written?

Two of the stories I’ve shared this month, I’ve discovered I’d already shared with you.

Whoops.

Onto gay pride.

Adam and I have been together for 16.5 years. Damn. Who’d have thunk it.

He has been the one constant in my life for that time.

Jobs have come and gone.

Dreams have been realized. Dreams have been crushed.

Deaths of loved ones. Parents. Pets.

We moved 6 hours north, bought a house, chased the American dream.

He truly has been the one constant.

I often think back to when we met.

January, 2009.

However…

Fun story.

We actually met in the summer of 2001.

That summer Adam was selling merchandise for Broadway shows.

If you saw Mamma Mia during that time, you might have bought a show poster from Adam.

And this is how I know, we met.

In the summer of 2001, I saw Bat Boy the musical at least twice. If not three times. I was in love with it. And my last time there, I bought the cast recording. I WAS SO EXCITED. And I remember there was a gay boy behind the counter, who was super sweet, and very nice, who sold me the CD.

According to Adam, he was the only male who worked merch on that show.

It had to be him.

I wish I still have the CD, but with modern technology who needs a CD.

But it’s my very serendipitous moment, of knowing we crossed paths in NYC, long before our paths converged.

Pray, pray, pray. I pray I make PA.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I mentioned a few days ago that a lovely lady named Marge, from Chicago, graciously paid me to apply and go to grad school.  Well, my portion of the lawsuit win did.  

I was old by grad school standards.  

I’d be 38 when I started, and 41 when I finished.  MOST theater grad students are in their late 20’s, early 30’s.  Looking back, I can see that more than even wanting to pursue a career in theater, getting my MFA had always been a bucket list item.  

Something, I needed to prove to myself that I could do.  

Around Christmas 2002, I started looking into schools that I wanted to apply to.  

I was lucky, in that I had a bit of a nest egg, so I could travel to take a look at different programs and their facilities, and then decide where I wanted to attend.  

Here’s a little throw back, back story for those who are interested.  

I’d already applied and been accepted to an MFA lighting program.  I’d even attended one semester.  To say it was not a good fit, was the understatement of the decade.  I was miserable from week one.  I did NOT click with the design professor.  I confided in the head of the design department, my concerns, who promptly shared my concerns with my professor.  At the end of my first semester, I was called in to an end of semester review and told that I had a bad attitude.  I looked at my professor and laughed, and said “Oh. My!  I thought it was you with the bad attitude.” When I left, I was on academic probation.  

I never went back.  

I called my professor’s office and told him that I wouldn’t be returning after the holidays.

My favorite bad attitude Jeff story, is that I was walking down the hall, during a work call, with a 2nd year lighting student, who was kinda my boss at the time.  A stage manager walked by, and asked me a question about a project we were working on.  About half way thru my answer, the lighting student, interrupted and said, you’ll need to answer that question on your own time.  Now is NOT that time.  

Needless to say, I never regretted for a second that I left.   And now having the ability to compare two programs, the two weren’t even in the same universe.  The professor I ended up with for all of his faults, was spectacular and he loved working with students.    

But I digress.

I was a bit delusional.  I hadn’t lit a show in three years, although I had a very nice resume and portfolio.  I had been focusing on earning a living, and had not done any theater.  I hadn’t even seen much theater.  

In January, I flew to West Lafayette, Indiana, to visit my friend Russ Jones.  I’d been his first design student as a professor at the University of Kentucky, and he graciously agreed to help me put my portfolio together. 

I’d spent a small fortune, printing about a million photos of my work.  It’s funny.  A photo taken with an I-phone now is a billion times better than the slides I was working with from 35 years ago.  

That being said, I’d done a TON of shows.  Musicals.  Dance.  Straight plays.  An opera or two.  I’d even lit Ben Vereen back in the late 80’s.  

We printed, and cut and glued and 24 hours after I got there, I had a brand-new portfolio case, filled with a pretty impressive portfolio.  

Now for applications. 

I was attending URTA auditions in NYC to see who might be interested in me.  I didn’t think I’d be accepted anywhere, so maybe the University of Detroit, in Wisconsin might be interested in an old man.  

That being said, I made a list of my top three choices.  

Yale.

NYU.

UCSD.  

I thought, if you are going to swing, swing big.  Even if you ARE delusional.  

URTA auditions were first.  And damn, did I get feeback.  Good feedback.  I didn’t feel as obsolete as I had a month ago.  Several schools showed interest.  Schools that I was interested in as well.  

A week or so after URTA auditions I had auditions scheduled with NYU and USCD.  

Full disclosure.  I never finished applying to Yale.  As much as I’d have like to have  gone there, even with the money I had in the bank, I’d be broke, broke, broke when I finished.  

My interview with UCSD went great.  I met with Judy Dolan and had a great conversation.  It was relaxed, comfortable and very down to earth.  

My interview with NYU did not go great.  It doesn’t matter who I met with, but when they asked me who my favorite Broadway lighting designer was, and I told them, the LD in front of me, said, “Well why isnt’ it me?”  The conversation did not flow.  It was anything but fun.  It was a job interview for a job I didn’t want.  

URTA auditions were in January.  

And I made decision to visit the schools I was interested in.  

University of Connecticut

University of Maryland. 

University of Missouri, Kansas City.  

University of California, Los Angeles

University of California, Irvine

Cal Arts.  

I visited all of the campuses.  

University of Connecticut.  (Had a great time.  Loved the visit.  But the theater looked very similar to the University of Kentucky Guignol theater.)

University of Maryland. (Loved the theaters.  Really liked the professor.  But the program was researched based and I wanted to be production based.  Saw an okay production of Hot L Baltimore.)

Cal Arts.  (I actually don’t remember a lot about it.)

University of Missouri, Kansas City.  (LOVED the LD professor, LOVED that it was associated with Kansas City Rep, saw a great production of Guy and Dolls.)

University of California, Los Angeles  (The interview started about 90 minutes late.  That’s all I remember.)

University of California, Irvine. (Loved the spaces.  Loved the LD professor.  All three of them.  Got to sit in on a class, that was awesome.  AND.  They taught Vectorworks which was important to me.)

UCSD.  (Loved, loved, loved it.  Loved Chris Parry.  Loved the spaces.  Loved that it was associated with the La Jolla Playhouse.  Hated that they didn’t teach Vectorworks.  Hated that the school didn’t design musicals, which I thought I wanted to do.)

URTA’s is a big deal for a lot of people.  And the rules are, that you can’t offer students admission until a certain date.  On that date it’s like joining a fraternity.  You get calls from teachers who offer you acceptance, and let you know financially how the school can help.  

I was accepted to all the schools I visited.  

Of the conversations I had, the saddest was with the professor from UMKC who said, I want you to come here, but I know that I can’t compete with UCSD and NYU.  If it doesn’t work out, let me know, we’d really love to have you.  

I didn’t accept anywhere right away.  

I had been waitlisted at NYU, and around this time, I was finally offered a place.  I didn’t take it because once again, I’d be broke, and homeless after paying tuition, and their spaces were kind of meh.  

I was waiting on UCSD. 

And waiting.  

And waiting.  

And waiting.  

I reached out to Chris and didn’t hear back.  

And waited.  

And waited.

Eventually, I accepted that I was not going to be accepted to UCSD.  

So, I called UC, Irvine and accepted their offer.  

24 hours later, Chris Parry called.  

What the fuckety fuck. 

Turns out, there had been a missed email, he’d been traveling, he’d been designing.  He called to offer me a spot.  Not a spot.  THE spot.  The only LD student they were accepting in 2003.  

Fuckety, fuck.  

I said thanks but no thanks. 

He wanted to know why, and I explained that I’d already accepted to UC Irvine when I didn’t hear back from him, AND UCSD didn’t teach Vectorworks, AND they didn’t do musicals.  

Chris ended up calling at least three or four times.  

AND.

At one point my phone rang and it was Walt Jones, the chair of the department at UCSD, explaining that we would figure a way to teach Vectorworks AND the department didn’t do musical but the La Jolla Playhouse did lot of musicals and if that’s what I was interested in, they’d be sure I worked on more than one or two.  

I said, let me think about it.

And for 48 hours, I fretted.

I’d already accepted at UC, Irvine.  

But I really wanted to go to UCSD.  

I called Chris and said, I’ll do it.  

I called UC Irvine back and said, I’ve changed my mind.  The LD professor never spoke to me again.  

In July of 2003, I moved to San Diego.

I lived in Hillcrest, the gay area of town.  Two blocks from Balboa Park.  

And the whole point of this gay article is to say, that for the entire month of August 2003, before classes started, I went to Black’s Beach.  The nude beach in San Diego.  It was not sexual at all.  It was nice normal people, sun bathing nude, and I happened to be in the best shape of my life.  

Trust me when I say, there is nothing better than swimming in the ocean nude.  

In mid-September, school started and I never went back to Black’s Beach.    

My three years at UCSD were perfection.  I made amazing friends.  I became a better artist than I ever thought possible.  I worked on brilliant shows that stretched all of my limits.  And I was never told I had a bad attitude.  

And Chris Parry, god rest his soul, was brilliant.  BRILLIANT.  He made it his mission to make sure the education he promised was the education I got.  

I learned Vectorworks, taught by someone from UC, Irvine.

And I designed two musicals while I was at UCSD, even though they don’t do musicals.  

Go figure.  

But ah! Paree!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

In 2000, I was working a corporate job in NYC.  I was an office manager for an internet start-up company, way back when everyone was working for an internet start-up company. 

It was my attempt at getting out of food and beverage.  I was not waiting tables, I worked a 9 to 5.  I wore my NYC white starched cotton shirt, with a tasteful tie.  And I’d sit in the office answering the phones, helping out wherever needed.  

For the life of me I don’t remember the exact date, but I do know it was summer, and the phone rang and it was my good friend Michelle.  She’d just landed at JFK airport, on her way to Paris. 

She’d fucked up and thought she had a three-hour layover, but it was 9:15 and her flight didn’t leave until 9:00 that night.  

We talked for a few minutes and she asked if she could come in and hang out with me, and perhaps at least grab lunch.  I said okay, but I had an appointment with my boss and we were supposed to have a lunch meeting.  

I asked him if he’d mind rescheduling and instead, he said, just invite her along.  I did.  

At 12:00 that afternoon the three of us were seated on the patio of an Italian Restaurant at the Seaport.  We each had a glass of wine, and my boss spent the whole meal telling Michelle where to eat and what to see in Paris. 

Writing this jogged a memory that let me look up the date.  It was July 24, 2000.  I’ll explain in a bit.  

We finished up lunch and were paying, and Michelle let out a sigh and said, I wish you could go with me.  I laughed and said, well that can’t happen.  

And without missing a beat, my boss said why not?  You have vacation time you haven’t used.  I have a connection at Air France and probably can get you a deal on the ticket.  And I’m sure that we can cover for you while you are gone. 

It was 1:30.  

Operation send Jeff to Paris was in full swing.  

Michelle made sure her hotel accommodations would work for both of us.  My boss arranged for a plane ticket.  

At 5:00 I was at home packing, never having been so grateful that I’d just done laundry.  

I packed a suitcase and an hour later we were in a town car on the way to the airport.  

Not only were we on the same flight, we had seats next to each other.  

The flight was uneventful, I didn’t sleep a wink.  

I was so excited.  

The reason I now remember the date is that the Concorde crashed the afternoon after we landed.  In fact, as soon as we heard we both called home to let everyone know we were safe.  

We got there and made our way to the hotel to drop off our bags.  

First stop, meet Michelle’s friends from college.  It was a reunion of sorts and they did not know I was coming.  We found them, had lunch and then were off to the Musee d’Orsay.  All I remember of the museum was that there was a theatrical exhibit, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. 

We wandered around, and then had dinner, and then were off to hear Vivaldi’s Four Seasons at an old church lit by candlelight.  It was beautiful, but by then I’d had no sleep in over 24 hours.  I was tired.  I napped through the end of it.  

We did all of the touristy things in Paris.  The Eiffle Tower.  The Louvre.  Shopping on the Champs-Elysees.   I remember purchasing a beautiful watch that day, that I wore until about three years ago, when I broke it and it was unfixable.  

The friends we’d met had already been there for a few days, and after a couple of days we said our good-byes and Michelle and I were on our own.  

Our first night was an adventure and we set out to explore gay Paree.  First stop was a lesbian bar around the corner from out hotel.  

There was a girl at the bar who would say au revoir to everyone leaving.  Very solemnly.  To this day we can look at across the room at each other and say, “au revoir.”  And immediately start giggling.  

Eventually, we split up.  I was off to find boys.  She was off to find girls.

Fast forward a few too many hours.  

It’s late.  I’m drunk.  I find my way back to the hotel.  And I realize that I don’t have a key, because we had to turn it in to the hotel when we left.  I knocked and knocked and finally they answered.  And we get upstairs and we knock and knock but no one is answering.  Turns out Michelle has gone to sleep and is not responding.  The hotel guy gets the spare key and lets me in.  

He is pissed.  

The next morning, we are up early.  We have tickets to Versailles and have to be on a bus by 9:30.  

As we are leaving, the hotel manager pulls us aside and tells us we have to go.  No more American noise.  We have to go.  

We explain very American like that we’ll go, just not today as we have to go to Versailles.   

We leave him very exasperated with us and off we go on the bus, very hung over.  

Versailles in beautiful.  And we’d have enjoyed it more had it not been so hot and us so hungover.  

That night we are in bed early.   Long before curfew.  

And when we get up the next morning the manager reminds us to take our things with us.  

We’d hoped he would forget. 

We go back upstairs pack. 

And then go in search of another hotel, which we find, and this one had air conditioning.  

I was in Paris for 10 days.  The day we flew home, you could see the crash site where the Concorde had crashed.  It was very scary.  

The whole trip was a whirlwind.  And fun.   And it’s a great story of how I went to Paris on about 5 minutes notice, got kicked out of a hotel, and learned to say au revoir, very solemnly.  

Knock three times!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I loved living in NYC. It’s very true that you can be invisible there if you want to be. It’s also the biggest small town in the world, as I was always running in to people I knew, some of them only there for the weekend.

I moved in to the Financial District in January of 2000. I mostly wanted to be closer to work, but also I wanted to cut my commute in half. I found a cute little apartment, that to this day, is the smallest apartment I’ve ever lived in.

It was a triplex. In NYC a duplex or triplex means floors, not apartments. I had three levels, each level about five square feet.

In fact, I had to give my sofa a way, because it wouldn’t fit in the apartment.

It was home however, and it was fun to say that I lived in Manhattan.

Because it was no longer an hour train ride home, nor a 50 dollar cab ride, I found myself going out a little more.

One night, I was at Maria’s Crisis in The Village.

For those of you not in the know, Marie’s Crisis is a piano bar, in the basement of a building just off 7th Avenue. It’s not much bigger than my apartment, you can touch the ceiling, it’s definitely a fire trap, but it’s also fun, fun, fun.

I’d stopped there and had bought a beer and was listening (aka singing) to show tunes.

If I loved you.

The Trolley Song.

Suddenly Seymour.

Everything’s coming up roses.

At some point I noticed a guy watching me from across the room.

Unlike so many other times, I actually approached him and said hello. His name was Mike. He was in advertising.

We exchanged numbers and went out a few times.

I wouldn’t say we were ever boyfriends.

The love of his life had just passed away. I was the mess that I always have been.

We moved to just being friends very quickly.

He’d invite me to parties, etc. Dinner out with his friends.

I didn’t have any friends so I did not return the favor.

One night, we were all hanging out and he mentioned that he was being sent to France for work and was going to extend the trip by a week and asked if any of us wanted to meet him there.

I didn’t think twice about it, but then he mentioned it again a few weeks later, and fun fact, I ended up flying to Nice in March of 2001.

It was chilly there, but so beautiful.

We had about 10 days planned.

We were starting in Nice. Then taking the train to Vienna, Munich and Salzberg.

Much of the trip is a blur 25 years later.

Things that stand out:

The train ride was horrible, because Mike’s assistant booked the trip, but didn’t get us a sleeper car. We rode overnight and were awakened every 90 minutes or so to show our tickets.

We ended up in Verona at 5:00 a.m. The only passengers in a closed train station, waiting to transfer. I spent 30 bucks, buying food out of vending machines, because of the denominations I had, and the lack of it spitting out change.

We were the three gentlemen of Verona.

When the sun came up the next day, the views were beautiful as we traveled through Austria and Germany.

Dachau was horribly horrible. I’ll start there.

And the bus driver had a wickedly horrible sense of humor when announcing our stop there.

The rest of Munich was beautiful.

When in Vienna, always bring a tux in case your friends want to go to opening night at The Vienna Opera.

Seriously.

We’d read so much about the opera house, and when we discovered we could see a show there we jumped at the chance.

Tickets were EXPENSIVE, because it turned out it was opening night for Billy Budd.

I however, thought I was on vacation, so I had jeans. Lots and lots of jeans. That I wore, to sit in the orchestra section, five rows from the stage, while everyone else, including Mike was in a suit.

The thing I remember about the show the most, was how the theater smelled like opening night. You could smell freshly cut and painted wood.

The set was beautiful.

Salzburg, was the most fun though.

If you are ever given the chance to take The Sound of Music tour, do it. Three gay boys sitting in the back of the van singing every word to every song on the stereo.

Do a deer.

Sixteen going on Seventeen.

I must have done something good.

We were shown the front of the house, then drove a bit and saw the back of the house. We saw the tree lined drive. The gazebo. The cemetery they hide in. And best of all the church they got married in.

We had a blast.

Later that night, we went out for dinner.

Then a bar.

And somehow, it was late and we were closing the bar. The three of us, were chatting up three boys from Salzberg.

They invited us to meet them at an after hours bar.

They were going home first, but gave us instructions on how to get there.

I’m making this up but the instructions were:

Go to the third traffic light and turn left.

Go two blocks and turn right at the museum.

Then another block and a half and you’ll see a long staircase going down in the middle of the street.

At the bottom of the stairs do a U-turn and go about three blocks to the alley that says Smith.

Turn right there and you’ll see a red door.

Knock three times and say that Steve sent you.

And the directions were 100% correct. We knocked on the door. Said the password. And were let it.

To a tiny, afterhours bar.

It was crowded inside. Our friends were not there yet.

We went in and assessed the room.

There was an older woman at the end of the bar who seemed to be holding court.

And the room was filled with mostly attractive youngish gay men.

There was a bead covered door that lead to another room, that I don’t think you need to know about.

The point of the story is the woman at the end of the bar.

She took a liking to us immediately.

Turns out she was a film star in in the 40’s and 50’s. At some point, the industry moved on without her and she opened the bar.

And now every night she held court as the young men in her circle all had fun.

She spoke English with a very thick accent, but was not hard to understand. We spent the evening drinking, and conversing with a wide variety of people.

If I remember correctly, the guys who sent us there, never showed, but it didn’t stop us from having a blast.

Around 6:30, it was announced that the bar was finally closing and we said our goodbyes.

We hugged our Diva tightly, said thank you for the hospitality and started our venture home.

It really was a weirdly perfect European Night.

I will always love you.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

In 1989, I moved from Atlanta, back to Kentucky.

I won’t say I had a plan, but move back I did.

The first thing I did when I got home was to apply to get my Master’s Degree at UK. I’m not sure why, but I did. And I was accepted.

That same weekend, I went to a cast party for a UK show. If I’m not mistaken it was Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

Funny the things you’d do as a youngin’ that you’d never do now.

There’s no fucking way, I’d just show up at a party, at someone’s house I do not know, and just invite myself in.

But I did. And I I had an okay time.

At the party, I met someone who needed a roommate. I needed a roommate.

It was perfect.

I began the process of looking for an apartment, and found one on Stone Avenue, near campus. It was the first floor of a house, with a basement, that my new friend said he’d be happy to make his bedroom.

Two weeks before school started, we moved in.

It was a perfect home, close enough to walk to school in five minutes, but big and comfortable.

I engrossed myself in classes. I worked as a TA, and worked in the scene shop building scenery.

Life was good.

I was asked to design scenery for a show.

Vampire Lesbians of Sodom.

It’s an awesome show. But I had no idea what I was doing.

Meanwhile, I was doing my thing and going out occasionally.

I WAS NEVER A BAR GAY. NEVER!

I didn’t enjoyed it. Dancing wasn’t my thing. I didn’t groove to the lastest dance mixes.

I would buy a Bud Light, stand in the corner and hope that no one spoke to me.

That’s what I was doing when I noticed a young cute guy across the bar watching me.

He noticed me noticing him.

I continued to notice him until the lights came up. I was on my way out, when suddenly a man pushed the cute boy into me and said, something caddy.

Then he looked at me and said, “Why, he’s even cute with the lights on.”

I introduced myself and said I’m Jeff.

He said, I’m Jim.

And we ended up dating.

It was a fun fall. We hung out a lot, and then he’d head home to his apartment and I’d head home to mine.

Until, one day I arrived home from classes around 5:30.

I realized that the patio doors from the drive way were open.

Then I noticed my bicycle was gone. And I looked around and lots of things were missing. My back pack. My boombox, my box of cassette tapes, my jar of change.

I called the police.

They came and I filed a report.

What I noticed while they were there and I was reporting the missing items, was that ONLY my things were gone. Two bikes, just mine was taken. Two back packs. Just mine gone. Two stereos, only mine was gone.

I’m not a brain surgeon, but it only took about 90 seconds to say fuck this.

By 9:00 a.m. the next morning, I’d moved out, broken the lease, and started the process of finding a new place to live.

Fun fact: When I got to school two days later and reported what happened, I also learned that according to everyone at UK, I was actually my roommates boyfriend and we’d been dating the whole time.

FUCK THAT!

What this did though was make it possible to move in with my new found boyfriend.

And we relocated to a standard issue 1989 apartment complex, not unlike every apartment complex in the country in 1989.

And we set up house. And lived happily ever after.

For about five minutes.

Because fun fact: In my youth I was a very, very, very bad boyfriend.

If you need proof, I can provide references. The list is not long, but it is unfortunate.

And because I was not a good boyfriend, within a year, we’d split up.

But we stayed in touch. And I was a better friend after the break up than I’d been when we were together. I helped him through some tough times, and he helped me as well.

The year plus we were together were a perfect snap shot of the late 80’s.

A trip to Miami to visit a friend, driving my new Suzuki Sidekick.

A concert in Cincinnati to see Depeche Mode. It rained and I ran so fast back to the parking lot to close up my car.

Doing drag at Halloween.

Being out at school and owning who I was for the first time ever.

Working together at three different restaurants, even after we broke up.

I remember so many good things, and yet, they are all overshadowed by the bad, that was almost always my fault.

UGH.

I was an asshole.

Actually, I was an asshole until 2001.

Then I stopped being an asshole.

Well to some people.

For years I wondered what happened to this boyfriend.

And then one day I found him, or he found me on Facebook. And I get to watch him be happy across the country. I’m glad that he is happy.

And I hope he knows, how much I admire him and honor who he has become.

And it’s because of people like him, Adams gets the nice Jeff.

Yeah yeah yeah.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Cole Escola won the Tony Award last night for best actor in a play for starring in the play they wrote called Oh Mary.

First of all, they are hysterical. I mean side splitting, stupid humor, that is brilliant, and off the cuff. In the south we’d call them quick witted.

I love that they own their presence. Their differences. Their humanity.

I’ve not always been able to do that. In fact, I probably didn’t start to believe in the “real” Jeff until I met Adam.

I’d always been the person I put forth, and some people got the real me, most got a version of me.

If you get in the way, way back machine, you’ll discover that I went to a very conservative, liberal arts college.

It always feels like an oxymoron to write that statement. Conservative. Liberal Arts.

When I say conservative, realize that less than 10 years before dancing wasn’t permitted on campus.

Alcohol was a no no.

And only once a semester could a girl come to your dorm room. And the door had to be open. And both feet had to be on the floor.

Here I am. 19, 20, 21, 22 year-old Jeff. Pretending NOT to be gay.

The same Jeff that joined a fraternity. Pretending not to be gay.

My fraternity was 90% baseball players. .01 theater students when I joined.

I still like theater. I still love baseball players.

The same Jeff that signed up to compete in the Beau of the Blue contest in the John L. Hill Chapel.

Back story.

Every year, there was a Belle of the Blue pageant competition.

Girls from each dorm competed to win a scholarship. It was a big deal. Everyone attended.

And years prior, one of the sororities had dreamed up the male version of this pageant.

Beau of the Blue.

If it were held today, it would be football and baseball players, competing shirtless.

I don’t know if this still happens, but if we did this today at least 12 states have outlawed these performances.

Back in the innocent days of the late 80’s, the boys pageant, was a drag show.

One representative from each dorm/frat house would compete for the coveted prize of Beau of the Blue.

In 1986, how could I NOT sign up.

The competition consisted of an evening gown competition, bathing suit, and talent.

Fun fact. I do NOT make a pretty woman. I’ve done drag a handful of times in my life.

I.

Do.

Not.

Make.

A.

Pretty Woman.

But once upon a time I could hold a tune.

I based my entire drag personality for the show on my talent.

For the life of me I cannot remember anyone’s talent.

What I do remember clear as day is my talent.

There is a back story to this song, but I was a hug fan of Julie Brown’s Because I’m Blonde.

The opening lines:

Because I’m blonde, I don’t have to think
I talk like a baby and I never pay for drinks
Don’t have to worry about getting a man
If I keep this blonde and I keep these tan

They continue:

I never learned to read and I never learned to cook
Why should I bother when I look like I look?
I know lots of people are smarter than me
But I have this philosophy: So what?

I somehow convince my friend Jayne to learn this song and accompany me. We rehearsed and rehearsed.

And I was probably pretty bad, but it was funny and it made me laugh.

Along comes that fateful Saturday night.

I bring my costumes to the John L. Hill Chapel. (I think it’s funny that we performed in the colleges chapel).

The show started and I did my thing.

And along comes the talent and my name is called.

I have no idea what my name was, but i come out center stage, grab the mic and say:

Hi my name is________________.

I’d like to dedicate the song I’m going to perform for my talent tonight to Dean Donnelly.

Jayne started to play.

I started to sing:

I took an IQ test, and I flunked it, of course
I can’t spell VW, but I got a Porsche

I just want to say that being chosen as this month’s Miss August is like a compliment I’ll remember for as long as I can. Right now I’m a freshman in my fourth year at UCLA, but my goal is to become a veterinarian, ’cause I love children.

Girls think I’m snotty, and maybe it’s true
With my hair and body, you would be too

I finished.

The audience roared.

Backstory:

First, Dean Donnelly was a judge that night.

She also did NOT like me.

I had complained about some things.

I also made a stink when she suggested that instead of a snowball fight, we all get in our cars and drive to Lexington for some fun.

Cars/Snow. Great combination.

And she was BLONDE. DOLLY PARTON BLONDE. BLEACHED BLONDE. BLONDE, BLONDE, BLONDE.

I did NOT win.

I did NOT place.

Dean Donnelly never spoke to me again.

It was my first time doing drag.

And as I’ve learned since, drag always has a message.

I’m just not sure Georgetown was ready for my message.

Fun fact: I did this performance my senior year. The very next year a REAL drag queen from Lexington won the competition.

I’m alive and I will survive,  show the world that I can take it

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I know I’ve shared about this before but it in 2025 it’s important to remember these things are still happening.  

In 2001, I was working for a little internet start up company.  Well, a smallish, to medium size start-up company. 

In May of that year, my little company was bought by the big company Pitney Bowes.  By the end of August all of my favorite employees had been let go.

For some reason, known only to someone more powerful than me, I was kept on. 

My friends all got six-month severance agreements.  Meanwhile, I kept going to an office that used to house 7 of us that now housed me. 

Then 9/11 happened.  

And if you’d read my post by 3:00 on September 11, 2001, I’d been ordered to report to Danbury, Connecticut on September 12. 

I said no.  And didn’t report until the end of the month.

I continued to commute to Danbury until the next spring. 

On Monday morning at 7:00 a.m. I’d arrive at the Hertz car rental on 34th street at Penn Station and rent a car.  I’d drive north and get to work just before 9:00.  

I’d spend the week at the Danbury Ramada Inn, which also housed an Outback Steakhouse.  I’d get to work at 9:00 a.m.  Do my thing. Leave at 5:00.  Go the gym.  Drive back to the hotel.  Order food to go from Outback.  (They always forgot my silverware). And be in bed by 11:00.

On Friday, I’d leave work at 5:00.  Drive back to NYC.  Return my car.  And take the subway home. 

My life was horrible. 

There is more to the story, but I’ll save that for another day. 

On May 9, 2002, I was called into the HR office, where I was told they were restructuring the marketing team and that my position was being eliminated. 

On the outside I was pissed, while on the inside, I was popping champagne.

They slid the severance agreement across the desk and said here’s what we are offering.

(I had just read a post in Men’s Health that said severance agreements are negotiable). 

I told them, I’d have to read it over, and that I’d get back to them.  

In the end, they paid me 10,000 dollars more than they offered, plus back bonuses.

However, I was happy, happy, happy to never drive back to Danbury, Connecticut ever again. 

Truth be told, 25 years later and I’ve never been back, although I’ve been told the restaurant seen is a little more vibrant now. 

It’s the end of May.  I’m unemployed, and my old boss calls me.  He tells me that he’s just been hired by a company in Chicago that is opening their first New York satellite office.  He wants to know if I want to join the team. 

I immediately say yes. 

My first day is on June 10, 2002.  I arrive and do my thing.  I’m office manager, and I’ve been tasked with setting up a new office.  We need computers, printers, internet, paper, phone etc.

I get to work.

All is well.  

My boss calls me on Tuesday, to let me know that the owner of the company, Marge, will be in town on Wednesday and wants to meet me.  She has arranged for us to meet for lunch. 

I get to work on Wednesday and get to work. We’ve received a million boxes and I get started opening them.  On my fifth or sixth box, I slide the scissors across the tape, only to slice my finger open.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck. 

It’s still bleeding at noon when I am needing to leave for lunch with the owner of my company.  

I wrap a paper towel around my finger, wrap rubber bands around it to keep it in place and leave for lunch. 

Lunch is pleasant enough. 

She’s nice.  She asks about my goals.  Where I see myself in five years.  I talk about theater, wanting to be a lighting designer.  It’s fine. 

When I leave lunch, I go immediately to the St. Vincent emergency room and get five stitches in my finger.  

The next day, I go to work as usual. 

Then Friday, I repeat the process. 

Around 11:00 my old boss calls and tells me to stop work.

Then proceeds to tell me what has transpired in the last 48 hours.

Thursday night, he’d had a meeting with Marge, and her assistant, where she said,   Mike (the assistant) I know you are gay.  Jeff is obviously gay.  Looks at my boss and says, I assume you are gay.  I won’t have my New York office run by all gay men.  Jeff has to go.

My old boss took copious notes.  Said he’d deal with it.  And left the meeting. 

On Friday morning, when he called me he was supposed to be on his way to a company wide meeting where, he’d be introduced to the company as the head of the new New York location.  Instead, he was on his way to the airport to fly home to New York. 

He told me to pack up any personal shit I had, take the new espresso make home with me, and get out of the office.  By noon I was on my way uptown. 

First stop, the NYC LGBT center.  I met with one of their employees, who gave me the number of a civil rights attorney. 

A week later, my old boss and I are sitting in his office, telling him our story. 

Fun fact, it’s illegal in NYC to fire someone for being gay.  

Now to the fun part of the story. 

On Saturday, after the firing, my old boss, talked to her assistant, who corroborated the whole story.  All the details, etc.  My boss recorded the conversation.  Mike never spoke to either of us again, but the damage had been done.  

The lawyer sent the transcript of the phone call to the opposing attorney.  

They asked for mediation.

Mediation was us sitting across the table from her, while she told me all the ways I was unqualified to do the job I’d been hired to do.  Simply because theater was my first love.  I’d like to say, that if you walked into any new office in NYC right now, half the employees at line level want a theater career.  They may never have it, but that’s why they are in NYC. 

Mediation ended poorly. 

By now it’s approaching the end of 2002.  The legal process is not fast. 

Sometime in late November, we were called and told that they other company was settling. 

Each of us would be awarded $250,000 each.  

Hehehehehe.  

We got checks in January. 

It’s the most money I ever made for the least amount of work.  

I took my money and promptly applied for graduate school. 

In the end Marge’s bigotry bought me a new red Mini Cooper 5-speed, moved me from NYC to San Diego, paid for my apartment and got me through my first year of grad school.  

It’s never nice of her don’t you think. 

The point is, I was fired for being gay.  

It’s still happening.

This is why we have pride month.  This is why we fight.  

Right now, my trans brothers and sisters are being asked to leave the military.  Men and women willing to die for your right to be a bigot. 

There are people still being fired.  Silenced. 

So fight.  Don’t be silent.  Don’t be complicit. 

Do the right thing. 

At remember, bigotry doesn’t pay, except when it does.  

I want to ride my bicycle, I want to ride it where I like

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

In the winter of 2000/2001, I was working out at the New York Sport Club in the financial district in New York City.

Before any of you laugh, I weighed 185 pounds, and was in tip top shape.  

One of the physical trainers there was named Rich and he and I took a liking to each other.  He asked not if he could train me, but if I’d be interested in working out with him.  

I said of course, and we did.  

He was in great shape, was very sweet and fun fact, he was mostly deaf.  It was a new experience for me.  

We dated for a bit, but he was far more interested in me, than I was in him, and it didn’t last long. 

That being said, we worked out together for a bit, and stayed friends.

In early spring, he invited me to an event at his apartment in Chelsea, to discuss the bicycle ride from Boston to NYC to raise money for AIDS research.   

I went and thought what great idea.

The funny things is: he decided not to do it, and I decided to DO IT.  

The ride that year was from NYC to Boston, covered over 350 miles and was from July 19 to July 22.  

I spent the rest of the spring/summer NOT training.  

I rode my bike for a hot minute but I was not interested in the heavy lifting.  

The smartest thing I did all summer, was ask my friend Mike if I could borrow his road bike, instead of riding my mountain bike.  It did make all the difference in the world. 

I forget how much money I HAD to raise to do the ride but I exceeded the amount by about 1,000 dollars. 

Lots of my friends/family donated and this was before social media.

In fact, I raised so much money, that on the first day of the ride, I gave “away” some of my donations, so some fellow riders wouldn’t have to pay out of pocket. 

Finally, it was July 19, the first day.  

I had delivered my bike a couple of days ago so it could be delivered to Bear Mountain, New York.  

On July 19, I took a cab to the area for the bus that would take us to Bear Mountain to start the rise. 

Fun fact:  I left my cell phone in the cab.  It was the first and last time I lost a cell phone.  It meant that I couldn’t be in contact with any of the people tracking my ride or coming to meet me.  

I got to Bear Mountain, picked up my bike and with a blow of a whistle the ride commenced. 

It was 350+ miles from Bear Mountain to Boston.  I was disappointed it wasn’t from Boston to NYC as it had been before but I was sure to have fun.  

The way the ride worked, I’d ride my bike the specified route for the day, and when I got there, my belongings would be there.  I would sleep in a designated tent, but I’d also find food, shelter, showers, massage therapists, chiropractor, etc.  

I won’t go in to the details.  The ride was hard.  There were too many hills.  But I was determined to do the ride.  I didn’t walk my bike.  I didn’t ask for the van to take me to the next rest area. I didn’t complain.  

I rode every moment of the 350 miles.  

What I will say, is that it was the perfect idea of society.  There were people to help you.  There were people cheering you on.  When you got to the top of a particularly bad hill, you’d step off your bike, to cheer on the people behind you.  When you got to camp, it was a mutual admiration society.  People cheered you on as you pulled in to camp.  They asked you to join them for lunch or dinner.  They asked how you were doing. The insisted you go ahead of them to the showers etc if you had a bad day.  

To this day, it was four days of Eutopia and what we all want society to actually be.  

And on the last day, early afternoon, you passed in to the Boston city limits.  There were people lining the streets, screaming and the crowds grew as you got closer to the finish line. 

And sometime around 5:00 Sunday afternoon, I crossed the line.  I was tired.  Sweaty.  And beat. 

But I’d done it.  

And.

My friend Michelle and my friend Lou were there to meet me.  After we found each other, we went to the Cheers bar to have a beer, then went to dinner at a restaurant I don’t remember.  

The next day, I flew back to NYC.  And at the end of the week I picked up my belongings and my friend Mike’s bike.  

To this day, it still is one of the best moments of my life.  

A friend on Facebook, mentioned that he is working the crew on the ride in California this week and that it’s the last year it’s happening.  

I highly recommend doing it if you ever get the chance.