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And I will always love you!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Dolly died yesterday. 

I read the news post just as I was getting up.  To say that I gasped was an understatement.  We’ve all known it was coming, but even forty years from now would have been too soon.  She is the best Christian that I have ever known.  Accepting of everyone.  Honoring her roots and yet using her riches for good.  

To quote Spiderman, “With great power, come great responsibility.”  

She spent her life making things easier for those around her.  She donated money in her very poor town in Tennessee.  She donated books to kids around the country.  And in the last four or five hours I’ve read countless posts about her generosity. 

I have loved her since her Porter Wagoner days.  My family watched his show when I was a munchkin and I can still remember his shiny costumes and her big wigs.  I don’t know that I was a fan back then, but by the late 70’s and early 80’s I was sold. 

I have had the lucky occasion to see her in concert twice.  Most recently in Bangor, Maine with Adam.  The show was amazing.  And to quote Adam, “I’m so glad that we saw her when we had the chance.”

But the first time was in 1989 in Atlanta at Chastain Park.  I had gone out on a date or two with a boy name Tony Giatras.  Two would be exaggerating probably.  I liked him a lot, but he came on way too strong and was a bit pushy.  That being said, after it was clear we weren’t going to work as a couple, we remained friends. 

He called me up one night, back when you left messages on answering machines and told me he had a surprise for me.  His surprise.  Tickets to see Dolly.  I was ecstatic, but also a little annoyed as he wasn’t taking no for an answer.  But fuck it, I was not going to turn down Dolly tickets to prove a point.  

A few weeks later, we went to the concert.  We sat in the back of the amphitheater.  We drank the bottle of wine we brought.  And we enjoyed it immensely.  So many costumes changes.  So much energy.  

I focus on this because about two months later, I moved back to Kentucky to attend grad school at the University of Kentucky.  Tony and I stayed in touch, talking often on the phone.  

This would have been the summer of 1989. It’s funny.  I remember, this concert plain as day.  I remember the year. I remember the summer.  But according to AI, there is no recorded concert by Dolly in 1989.  But I know that I’m not wrong.  

All of this is important to me, because three years later, on a random day, I called Tony’s number.  His roommate answered and I asked for Tony.  There was a pause, and in that pause, I knew what he was about to say.  

Tony was HIV+ and had been since I knew him.  Well, I didn’t know it when I first met him, but I learned it not long after.  In 1990, being HIV+ was a death sentence, but I held out hope.  He’d just started AZT and the few times I visited when I went to Atlanta he seemed fine. 

Fast forward to 1992.  I called Tony, and his roommate answered.  There was the pause I mentioned and I knew before he said a word.  He’d passed about a month before.  They had been unable to find my number, so they couldn’t let me know.  I missed his final moments, I missed his memorial service, I missed it all.  

He filled me in on his final days.  His family had relented and finally come to Atlanta to be with him.  He’d gone blind about 48 hours before he passed, but I was told he seemed to be at peace with what was happening.  

I was devastated.  

But.  

Because I didn’t have any sort of closure, I’ve spent the last 35 years just believing that like many people from my past, we just lost touch.  He’s still driving his beat up tiny pick-up truck listening to Skinny Puppy cassettes.  I continue to hope that he’ll call and let me know he is okay.  

Our moment in time, was brief.  Maybe 4 four months total, before I moved back to Kentucky.  When we met, I was living with my friend Shelley, with my stuff in storage, trying to figure out what came next.  

One of my favorite memories, is coming home to discover a vase of daisies in front of our door.  The note was an apology for coming on too strong.  Daisies are still one of my favorite flowers because of that note.  

This is not the first time I’ve written about Tony.  Years ago I wrote about him, and a friend of his found the post and contacted me.  I was so touched.  I miss him.  And will love him forever. He was a bright spot in a moment in time for me.  

And this is my Dolly story.   

Wishing you were somehow here again.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

My latest writing prompt:

Write about a door you’ve walked through that you can’t go back through.

I got this suggestion a week ago and I’ve thought about it a lot, but I keep coming back to the same story. Every time.

In 2007, I spent the summer in Tulsa, Oklahoma designing the lights for The Music Man, Naughty Marietta, and Sweeney Todd. It was an adventure to say the least. I was sleeping in a dorm room, with a roommate, and at 42, it was weird as fuck.

I was doing summer stock, 20 years after I should have been doing summer stock. That being said, as everyone I’ve ever spoken to about summer theater, it was wonderful and terrible all at the same time.

The lead actors in the shows, that played in rep, were all professionals. They were all incredibly talented. The choruses were mostly made up of college kids, who were doing their first professional gigs. I can say that a lot of the people I worked with there have gone on to bigger careers, whether performing, directing or designing.

Eric who ran the theater company, and directed the show, was very creative, and the shows were always a little outside the norm, which made them fun to do. For example, for Sweeney, we pulled all the masking, and upstage soft goods and performed the show on scaffolding in front of a dramatic upstage concrete wall.

The work was fast and furious. The rehearsal period short, tech even shorter. I wrote 400 cues for Sweeney in about 4 hours. At the end of every break, it was like someone fired a starter pistol, and I was now sprinting toward the finish line. Looking back, there are lots of things I would change, but it in the moment, it just felt good to get it where we got it.

The highlight of my summer there was meeting Kelly Irwin. She was the production stage manager, and we became fast friends. Probably because, well not probably, we were the adults in the room. All of the lead actors were housed in donor homes, while the chorus, crew and designers were housed in a dorm. It was Kelly who reminded people to stop drinking and go to bed. It was Kelly, who demanded we all hide in the bathroom during the torrential thunderstorms we got that summer when the tornado sirens were sounding.

Kelly and I spent many nights hiding in her dorm room decompressing from the day. Sometimes this involved drinking. Sometimes vodka.

Fun fact: The evening I’m about to describe, was the second to last night I ever drank vodka. It was bad news. The last time was even worse, a year later. I NEVER drink it now.

On the night in question, Kelly and I hid. And in the process, we began to talk. About our lives. About our professions. About the summer. At one point, it turned to families, and then death and dying.

And then something clicked and we began to talk about become a member of the dead parent club. My father had died four summers prior, her mom the summer before. And we went down a deep, melancholy rabbit hole, and stayed there until around 4:00 a.m.

Ultimately, what we decided was that it’s a door no one wants to walk thru, but that most of us will walk thru at some point in our lives. We don’t think about the mortality of our parents when we are young. They are fixtures in our lives, fixtures that will be there forever.

Then your grandparents fade away. And one day you wake up and realize that when you thought your parents were old, they weren’t. Now that you are in your 40’s they are getting older and much frailer. The summer of my 20-year high school reunion, I had at least three friends, including myself who lost parents that summer.

I can still remember getting the call that my dad had passed. It was quick. It was sudden. One minute he was there. Next minute he wasn’t.

And this is what Kelly and I delved into that fateful night. It was a club that no one wants to belong to, but is inevitable, if you make it yourself. Looking back, I don’t remember for sure, but it might have been the night of the one year anniversary of Kelly’s mom dying.

It’s been almost 20 years since that summer. I’m in the orphan stage now. Both of my parents are gone. That’s even weirder door to walk thru. There is no one to call on Sunday night to talk about the weather. There is no one to call who can update you on the family drama. And suddenly you are alone in keeping the family stories alive.

I know all of this is life. It’s the reality of growing old, for those of us lucky enough to grow old. Once you get that phone call, saying “they’re gone,” there is no going back. It changes you forever, regardless of your relationship with said parent.

So I sit here, reminiscing about that summer. Pete. Travis. Eric. Ron. Brian. Supreet. Jenna. Kyle. Andrea. So many memories. I signed up for Facebook that summer. My first photo was of a bar that we’d been in earlier in the night. I had no idea what Facebook was, but I was able to sign up since my UCSD email address was still valid. We all stayed in touch for a while after that summer. Kelly moved to NYC and we hung out. Others I’d text. Most of them I followed on Facebook, till they moved on or my political posts drove them away. I still like to see what those that remain are up to. Some getting married. Buying houses. Directing shows. Performing on well-regarded stages. Designing beautiful shows. It’s still nice to know they are out there. They were a great group of people.

The two summers that I spent there changed my life. All for the better, although I might not have said that at the time. I’m proud of my work there, and the friends that I made. And the talk filled night with Kelly, is still one of the special nights of my life.

Pump, pop here comes a hill!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

What is something in your life, literal or metaphorical, that you wish would miraculously last for a much longer time than it was meant to? What would you do with that extra time?

Continued from last night:

In the early spring of 2001, I was living in the financial district of NYC. I was five blocks from the World Trade Center, no more than a ten-minute walk. We were 6 months in front of another event that would come to define my life.

I was working out every day, and between the Gold’s Gym a few blocks from my apartment that I sometimes went to, and the New York Sports Club that I also went to, I had lots of options.

At the NYSC, there was a trainer who took a liking to me. His name was Rich, he was super cute, partially deaf, in amazing shape, and he offered to train me for free. We began to work out together, and went out a few times. We both liked each other a lot, but we both realized we’d be better friends than lovers. We continued to work out together, and still hung out.

In early spring, Rich invited me to a gathering at his apartment. It was an informal meeting of people who might be interested in doing the Pallotta TeamWorks AIDS ride from Boston to NYC. I went and had a great time, and met a lot of great people. At the meeting, there was a short presentation about the ride, where the money went, how to approach fundraising, and how the logistics worked.

I listened, promised to support Rich in the fundraising, and left with little else to offer.

Within a month, Rich let me know he wasn’t going to do the ride.

I let him know that I WAS going to do the ride.

It was April. I had three months to train. And I had three months to raise 2,000 dollars.

You had to raise that much to help cover the costs of the logistics of the ride. Basically, you showed up with a bike, and a bag and you were in charge of the bike, and they were in charge of the bag. They’d make sure it got to your campsite, where a tent would be waiting for you. They also provided breakfast, lunch and dinner, as well as hot showers, restrooms, and physical therapy pros. It was a well-oiled machine.

Within a week, I’d sent out form letters to all of my friends. I sent emails to all of my colleagues at work. And slowly the money trickled in. $20 here. $50 there. One friend wrote me a check for $1,000, that put me very close to my goal.

Meanwhile, I should say I was training. But I was NOT. NOT at all. I was riding my bike, but NYC is pretty flat, and I’d say all in all I probably trained 10 days. However, I was in the best shape of my life. I was running every day. I was lifting. I weighed 180 pounds.

The smartest thing I did to prepare for the ride was to borrow my friend Mike’s road bike. I had a dirt bike and it would have not been good.

The days passed. When all was said and done, I raised about $2,700. From lots of donors.

The day before the ride, I rode my bike to Lincoln Center. There, I dropped off my bike, so that it could be transported for the start.

Oh. Did I mention, this was the first year they were riding from NYC to Boston. I was not excited about that, but nobody asked me. The start of the ride was at Bear Mountain about 60 minutes outside the city.

The day of the ride, I wake, grab my bag, and hail a cab. I was to go to a pick-up point where I’d take a bus to Bear Mountain. The most significant thing about that day, was that I left my cell phone in the taxi. I would be communication free for the next four days. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I get on the bus, grab a seat, and chat with the people around me. We are all excited. Did I mention that it’s 6:00 in the morning. Once we were there, we have to sign in and turn in our collections, to prove that we raised enough money. If you didn’t meet the minimum you have to pay out of pocket to participate.

I get there with my surplus, and because I didn’t break any records, I end up donating my excess to others to keep them from paying. It was the perfect start to my four-day ride.

Once everyone is signed in, there is an assembly and then we climb on our bikes and start.

And this is where things got weirdly wonderful.

From the moment we started, to the moment I rode my bike into Boston, the experience was perfection. There was no competition. No one cared if they were first. Or last. No one cared if they had to walk up a hill. No one cared if they had to have a car drive them to the next rest area. No one judged you if you took a break.

On the big hills, bikers would climb the hill, then walk halfway down, to cheer on those that were struggling. On the way into camp, there were people who’d finished hours earlier who instead of showering and eating, hung out at the entrance to cheer people on.

At meals, everyone sat with everyone. There were no cliques. I sat with different people every day. We all laughed, shared storied of the road, and chatted about the good, the bad, and the ugly.

I only saw my tent mate at bedtime. I don’t even know his name. I’m not sure I’d have recognized him two weeks later. But still life was perfect.

Things that stand out:

The first day was the toughest. The hills getting us to lunch were horrible.

I did not own bike shorts. Why would I? I wasn’t a biker. The chaffing at the end of the first day was horrendous. I bought one pair, and wore them every day till the end of the ride.

Being phoneless was scary, but people let me use their phones, and I knew enough numbers by heart to be able to call people.

The people cheering you on, was wonderful. Just like in a marathon, citizens gathered along the route to offer snacks and water. They held signs and encouraged you to get up that hill.

I rode my (Mike’s) bike the whole way. There were a couple of times I wanted to walk up a hill, but I didn’t. I rested at the top, but I never walked.

I was hit on several times, and was invited to spend the night in tents that weren’t mine. I did not. I wanted the ride to be about what it was, and not about casual sex.

I got my one and only chiropractic treatment in my life, because my back was killing me. I wanted a massage, but they were all booked. Chiropractor it was. I haven’t really had a problem with my back since.

Riding into Boston was the most glorious thing ever. I still wish it had been Eighth Avenue in NYC, but alas it was not. I found my friend Michelle, and my friend Louis , in the crowd waiting for me. There were hugs all around. Congratulations. I said goodbye to the people I knew, dropped my bike (Mike’s) at the pick-up place and we were off.

We did a bit of site seeing, dropped by the Cheers bar, and then went to dinner.

And I wish, that the experience could have lasted longer. I wish that I could have held on to the perfection that was that experience. To this day, it’s probably the closest I’ve been to four perfect days. I’ve had lots of good days, but these were perfect.

Even with the chaffing, and the bad back.

From the web:

In July 2001, roughly 2,002 people rode bicycles 330 miles from Bear Mountain, New York, to Boston for the Northeast AIDS Ride. The four-day event raised about $6 million total, with $3 million going directly to HIV and AIDS health centers in New York and Boston.

You left me lists, everything in lists, well, your little lists, aren’t very helpful, I fear

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

A friend of mine and Adam’s is friends with someone who teaches writing. During our last trip to NYC we had a quick meet up and we chatted about my Manager Posts. I mentioned that Adam had been giving me prompts as sometimes I had a difficult time coming up with a subject matter, especially since I don’t write much about the restaurant business anymore, although let me tell you, the things I could write about keep coming.

This is the latest prompt from her.

What is something in your life, literal or metaphorical, that you wish would miraculously last for a much longer time than it was meant to? What would you do with that extra time?

This one has stumped me for a couple of months. For several reasons.

First, my work schedule, as well as my personal schedule, have not allowed me much time to write.

Second, I’ve not been able to wrap my head around what the prompt actually means.

However, I told myself when I went to bed last night, I was going to write tonight, so here I am.

What is something in your life, literal or metaphorical, that you wish would miraculously last for a much longer time than it was meant to? What would you do with that extra time?

There are so many ways to go with this.

For example, I’ve always been allergic to cats. ALWAYS. My face would swell. My nose would twitch. And then I met Adam. BUT with Adam came Harper. And well, Harper taught me that I could love a cat, take a daily allergy pill and be okay. I was lucky enough to get to spend 2 years with Harper. She let me hold her. She would lay next to me after Adam got up in the morning. And when we she realized she was dying she didn’t bother Adam with her crying. She paced on my side of the bed the last night of her life and I comforted her as best I could.

The next day Adam and I took her to the vet and did one of the hardest things either of us has ever done. He held her while I stroked her back as she took her last breaths. We were both inconsolable.

I wish that I had come in to Adam’s life 5 years prior so that I could have that time with Harper. Well. And Adam too.

In my 61 years on this earth, I have lived a dozen or more lifetimes.

1. My childhood.
2. High School
3. College
4. Atlanta.
5. The University of Kentucky.
6. Cincinnati.
7. NYC.
8. Grad School.
9. NYC.
10. NYC w/ Adam
11. Maine the first year.
12. Maine the next few years.
13. Maine since we bought our house.
14. My senior years.

There has also been love and loss during that time.

1. The death of my grandmother.
2. The death of my father.
3. The death of my mother.
4. The death of my Aunt Doo.
5. My first real boyfriend Jim.
6. My second real boyfriend Sam.
7. My third boyfriend Keith.
8. My fourth “friend” Louis.
9. My fifth boyfriend Sam.
10. My 10th boyfriend Curtis.
11. My 11th and last boyfriend Adam.

There have also been so many jobs!

1. Day’s Inn.
2. Wendy’s.
3. The College Bookstore.
4. Martin’s Printing Press
5. J.C. Penney
6. Bennigan’s.
7. Daryl’s.
8. The Italian Oven.
9. Grad Assistant.
10. High School Teacher.
11. Hard Rock Café.
12. College Teacher.
13. Grad Assistant.
14. Lighting Designer.
15. Restaurant Manager.
16. Office Manager.

There has also been trips.
1. New Mexico with the family.
2. NYC in high school
3. Florida for Spring Break
4. Kansas City
5. Myrle Beach
6. Savanah, Georgia
7. New Orleans
8. Miami
9. London.
10. Paris.
11. London, Paris, Barcelona.
12. Drive across the country.
13. Drive across the country.
14. Drive across the country.
15. Maine
16. Texas.
17. California.
18. NYC.
19. Buenos Aires
20. Ireland

I could keep making lists. But I think I’m using them as a way of not deciding on one thing.

I do think though there are a few things that would really make the top three.

1. Grad School at UCSD. It was three of the most perfect years possible.
2. My 10 day spur of the moment trip to Paris with my friend Michelle.
3. My four day bike ride from NYC to Boston to raise money for AIDS research.

And I think #3 it is.

Tune in tomorrow for the actual post.

Everyone’s a LITTLE BIT RACIST!

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I’d like to speak to manager!

I used to think _______________.

But now I know _______________.

While Adam and I were in NYC we had a quick dinner with a friend of ours.  She’s a performer and writer who Adam met years ago.  I met her at Adam’s birthday dinner, three weeks after we started dating.  

She’s funny.  And very insightful.  

While we dined, we talked about a lot of things and my writing came up.  I mentioned that Adam had been giving me prompts since sometimes I have a hard time coming up with something to say.  And that was the end of it.  

A few days after we got home, she texted Adam and asked if she could give me a prompt.  I immediately said yes.  And the prompt was.

I used to think ____________.  

But now I know ____________.

I thought it was brilliant.  And I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.  With my work schedule there has not been a lot of time to write but here you go.    

I used to think _____________.

Now I know_______________.

Several thoughts came to mind when he read me the text. 

I used to think I was fat. 

Now I know I am fat.  

I used to think I wasn’t racist.

Now I know I was racist. 

I used to think I was right.

Now I know I was NOT right. 

It’s a great question though.  

I’m going to go back to the first two. 

I used to think I was fat. 

I weighed 225 pounds.  I had a belly.  I was in NYC walking the streets in Chelsea where every man had a 32-inch waist and .000002% body fat.  And they were considered fat.  I remember being embarrassed that I had a 36-inch waist.  I was too focused on my own body to realize that although I had a few extra pounds, they were no happier than I was.  

I wish now that I had embraced my stocky body.  I would have been so much less self-conscience.  It didn’t help that I had several people in my life that were focusing their attention on getting me to lose weight.  It never seemed that who I was at the time was good enough.  In fact, a boyfriend broke up with me, because he said I had an active addiction to food.  I realize now that what I had was an active addiction to assholes.  

What I wouldn’t give to be as fat as I was back then.  I AM fat now.  And at 61, it’s okay.  I have a boyfriend who tells me I’m handsome.  I have friends who don’t focus on my weight.  I have a healthy view of myself. Do I wish I was skinny?  Fuck yes.  Do I like eating ice cream?  Fuck yes. 

This is not to say I’ll never lose weight again, but I also know that I’m happier when I’m not focused on the negative, and my weight leads me toward the negative.  

I just bought new pants that are in a size larger than the last pair of pants I bought.  And you know what, I don’t mind.  They fit.  I look good.  And the reality is, I no longer care what most people think.  I’ve kind of resigned myself that the only time I’ve really ever lost weight was with the “divorce diet,” so perhaps Adam needs to break up with me so I can be skinny again.  

And the other thought I had. 

I used to think I was NOT racist.  

 But now I know I was racist.  

So true.  

I challenge anyone white person who grew up in the south to prove to me that they grew up without bias.  It’s bred into you.  Like bourbon and sausage gravy.  Seriously. 

It’s like the song from Avenue Q.  Everyone’s a little bit racist.  And it’s true.  Maybe you didn’t not hire someone because they were black, but did you ever tell a black joke?  A Pollack joke?  

I used to say that I wouldn’t watch BET until there was a WET, not realizing that every tv channel was white entertainment television.  I have locked my car doors in a “different” part of town.  I have worried about going to a wrong neighborhood when someone wanted to take me home with them.  

This is all bias.  And we all have it.  What’s funny, is that the people who protest the most that they don’t have bias, are people who have the worst bias.  “I don’t see color.”  If you don’t see color then you are biased.  Wanting to end DEI is biased.  Ending voting rights laws is biased.  As a gay man posting straight looking white men only on a dating site, as a preference is a bias.  

I still have these biases.  The difference is, that when they creep in, I stop them in their tracks.  I say to myself, you are being southern and you need to stop it.  And I do. 

What I have realized though, is that it’s not just southerners.  

It was just announced that Jasmine Amy Rogers will be playing Maria in The Sound of Music this fall at Lincoln Center and OH MY have the racist come out of the closet.  She is a person of color and you’d think someone had just slapped their grandma.  How can a person of color play a nanny in Austria in a play.  Here’s how.  It doesn’t fucking matter!  Have you heard her sing?  She’s brilliant.  She’s funny. She’s charming.  And she’ll kill the role.  

And before someone asks, NO, it is not the same as a white actress playing the lead in Dreamgirls.  Race is not a part of the show.  There are lots of plays that require the actors to be white. This is not one of them.

So please, check your bias. And trust me, even if you are from liberal California you have it. And if you are from anywhere south of Ohio, you were fucking born that way.  Unlike being gay though, you can change.  And it starts with acknowledging it.  Then owning it.  Then changing it. 

As NIKE says, just do it. 

In the meantime, I think I have a pint of ice cream in my freezer with my name on it.   

I’m leaving on a jet plane.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Day 9:

The day started early as Adam and I had to pack to come home. Well early for us. We left our apartment at 10:30.

First stop was coffee with my friend Drew.

Back story:

For the past several years Adam and I would go to NYC to see a City Center Encore production. And every time, I’d see me friend Drew in the restroom. So after the last time we started texting about shows we were seeing etc. and when I told him we were coming to NYC he suggested coffee. So we dropped by his apartment for coffee this morning. It was great to catch up.

After we had lunch at Cowgirl, which neither myself or Adam had been to in years. Hit the spot.

Then it was uptown to see Proof. I knew just enough to be dangerous about the show. But not enough to know what happened next. I enjoyed it a lot.

Afterwards we walked up the street to see Oh Mary! For the 6th time with Mya Rudolph. She was wonderful. And of all the replacements she truly made the character her own.

And then the show was over and Adam Beckworth walked me to 6th avenue and put me in a can which took me to La Guardia where I flew home. The new restaurant I work at opens tomorrow for the season. Lousy timing for a vacation.

Adam drove halfway home tonight and will finish the drive tomorrow. It feels nice to be in my own bed. Especially with Judy beside me. She’s a cat!

I just typed this on my phone so no editing. Screw the typos.

Jellicle cats come out tonight.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Cats. The Jellicle Ball.

Oh. My. Fucking. God.

It’s the most fun I’ve had at a show in forever, if not ever.

It’s the Cats score, but reworked into a Ballroom setting, referencing the Ballrooms of the 80’s depicted in the movie Paris is Buring.

So may queer people. So many body types. Such amazing dancing.

And it’s SOOOOOOO SEXY!

The audience was a part of the show from the moment it started. Clapping. Snapping fans that were sold at merch. There were at least three times that the performers got standing ovations during the show.

And they finally figured out how to get Grizabella to the Heavy Side Layer NOT on a hydraulic tire. It was beautiful.

It was exactly what we needed after the experience we’d had earlier.

I spoke to the manager!

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I spoke to the manager!!!

Yes. I did. I actually asked to speak to the manager!!!

Adam and I had a reservation at 5:30 for dinner tonight. The only reason Adam wanted to go there, was because last year, when we dined there the mashed potatoes, and chocolate cake were some of the best he’d ever had. He wanted to relive that.

However, the rest of the meal last year was less than stellar. The service was weird. It started fine, but at some point, the server got annoyed with us, and basically treated us like crap from then on. The timing of the food was weird. Our second course came before we were ready for it, then we waited almost 30 minutes for our main course. When it did arrive the mashed potatoes were cold. Not like they had been plated 15 minutes early. Cold as in, they’d been in the walk-in and just pulled out. When we finally got the warm potatoes, as I said, they were great. But the meal was just weird.

So tonight.

We arrived and were seated at 5:20 for our 5:30 reservation.

We get situated and start looking over the menu. A server assistant comes by and offers water, and we ask for tap. Then after a longer time than it should have been our server arrives. Guess who. The same server we had last year. And it’s awkward from the word go. It’s like we were being waited on by a high school student. She’s asking us about our show, but asking kind of weird questions. It’s clear she knows nothing about the theater world, which is fine, but she keeps asking more and more questions, then responding with no idea what she’s talking about.

At this point, we discuss leaving. This is not the experience we want to have, and it’s not going to be cheap. However, we don’t want to be those people, and really, once we’ve ordered it will be fine.

Finally, she asks if she can take our drink order. And we ask for two minutes. This was a mistake because it’s another five or so minutes before she comes back. When she comes back she asks for our drink order. Adam orders a Kettle One martini, dirty with regular olives. He specifies regular olives. I order a Bulliet Rye Manhattan, not the one on the menu, but a regular Manhattan. We also order our meal. Shrimp cocktail to start. Two apps to share after that. And we’ll split an entrée. She walks away and by now we have decided it will be fine.

Then at least seven or eight minutes go by and she reappears to say that they don’t have Bulliet Rye, and gives me other choices. I choose Michter’s. She disappears again. 90 seconds later our shrimp cocktail lands on the tables.

No sign of the drinks.

And we wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, a runner appears with our drinks. My Manhattan doesn’t look like a Manhattan, but I’ll make it work. BUT. There are three blue cheese olives in Adam’s martini. Neither Adam nor myself like blue cheese. In fact, we both kind of hate it. So he asks for the martini to be remade.

Did I mention that the shrimp cocktail is on the table. We are waiting for our drinks before we eat.

And we wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

During this wait we are discussing whether we want to stay. As I mentioned its going to be an expensive meal. It hasn’t started well. And we’ve been there for a bit and we still don’t have our drinks.

It’s about this time the martini arrives and I look at my watch. It’s 6:05. We’ve been in the restaurant for 45 minutes and we’ve just gotten our drinks.

I look at him and say let’s go. We don’t want to make a seen, but we’ve decided we’ll walk down the street, have a cheeseburger, then get a drink at The Rum House before the show. He wants to pay for what we’ve gotten even though we haven’t eaten or drunk anything. I push back but I’m over ruled. The server comes by and he explains that we are going to call it a night and would like our check for the things we’ve gotten.

The server walks away.

And we wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, I’ve had enough. I go to the host stand and ask if we can please pay our check. The host looks at me like I’m crazy. Then the server appears and hands me the check. I give her my card and she goes away. At which point I turn to the host and ask him if he can tell me what time I was sat. He looks at me and smirks and says, “You were seated when you arrived and requested to be seated.” I’m not having that so I say, “Yes, and you have a machine at your finger tips, that will tell you exactly what time we were seated at said table.”

He pushes a lot of buttons, and I can assure you, it takes not one button pushing. The counter is on your name; it will tell you. He says you were seated at 5:20. And I say, yes, it’s been 45 minutes and we’ve just gotten our drinks. And NOW, I would like to speak to a manager!!!

I wasn’t angry during any of this. Just annoyed.

But get this.

We wait. And wait. And wait. And wait. And wait.

Finally, she appears, just as the server arrives back with my credit card.

I explain that we are leaving, why were are leaving, and she says, I’ll give you my card next time you want to come in let me know and I’ll make sure you have a different experience. I say, we don’t live here and she say’s well let me get a card for you anyway.

By now Adam has arrived, and we wait, and wait, and wait.

Fun fact: Carry your cards on you.

She brings the card. We leave.

We paid 100 bucks for food we didn’t eat or drink. The manager was nice, but if it had been me, I’d have insisted that the guest not pay anything. I’d have immediately cancelled the charge. And I would have made a bigger effort to apologize.

Then we walked to Joe Allen. Got right in, and 15 minutes from the time we left the first restaurant, we had drinks in hand, and our appetizer had just been delivered.

We really didn’t want to be those people, but it was clear we were not going to get the experience we wanted and sitting there was just going to annoy us even more. So we left.

On Broadway!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Adam and I attended church today. There is no other way to explain what we experienced. We were moved beyond anything we experienced this week or probably ever.

I won’t speak for him, but the show I saw today at 2:00, is single-handedly the best piece of the theater I have ever seen.

Death of a Salesman.

I’ll give you the back story. I’ve never seen this show.

And fun fact. I’ve never read it.

I was supposed to read it back in 1989, when I was a TA at the University of Kentucky. But. My friend Marie Henderson taught my class Death of a Salesman and I taught her class For Colored Girls Who Have Considered Suicide When the Rainbow is Enough.

I knew what the play was about. I knew how it ended. But I didn’t know any of the gritty details. And today, I’m glad to say that that is true. I got to experience the show, without knowing what was coming next and it was stunning.

First of all, script is a work of art. It’s truly brilliant. The way we move from present to past, not always knowing why and when is a amazing. You add to that the performances from today and you get something amazing. I’ve attended lots of serious shows before, but I’ve never sat in an audience where the actors hold the audience in their hands as much as today. There was no noise. No shuffling. No coughing. Complete silence as we watched Nathan Lane and Laurie Metcalf unfold the story we were watching.

When intermission arrived, I felt like I’d been beaten up emotionally. It got worse in act 2.

Adam and I were discussing the choice to have some characters dressed in more modern garb as well as have some props that were modern. I thought it brought home that the play that was written in 1949, is more relative today than ever. We are just wheels in a machine. No matter how much energy and effort we put into our careers, at the end of the day we are all replaceable. Promises made, promises broken. We watch today, as employees are replaced by AI, or let go by DOGE, or their jobs are sent overseas and then we wonder why we are all full of anxiety and depression. You spend 25 years paying on a mortgage, just in time to watch your kids move on and leave the house empty.

By the time we got to the end of Act 2, I was devastated. I couldn’t keep my eyes from welling up as he got closer to the choice he was going to make. I wanted to stop him, but I could also relate to where he was coming from. I wanted to help his boys understand him, but also wanted to punch them in the face and tell them to grow up. The one innocent in all of it was Linda, who did her best.

The design was as terrific as the performances. Not the traditional Death of a Salesman set. It was more abstract, with a red Chevy on stage from almost the beginning. The lighting was evocative and helped tell the story.

When curtain call was over, we walked out of the theater silently. We’d just witnessed something special. It was a good 10 minutes outside, before we really started to discuss the show.

If you can get to NYC, I really suggest you make the effort. Performances like this are once in a lifetime, and I’m so glad I got to experience it

I need a vacation.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Day 8:

Brunch at Pastis. Pastis is one our favorite restaurants in NYC. It’s French. The food is usually very good. The service is usually very good. And we tend to end up at the same table every time without asking. It’s busy, and full of energy and we love it there.

Matinee: Death of a Salesman. See separate post.

Dinner: See separate post.

Actual Dinner: Joe Allen again. We learned the owner lives in Maine. Joe’s daughter.

Evening Show: Cats. See separate post.

It’s 11:23. We see two shows tomorrow and I fly home by myself at 10:00 Sunday night. Adam will drive part of the way Sunday night, and then drive on home on Monday. We are both excited to sleep in our own bed, however it’s been a great vacation.