We slept very late. Almost till 1:00. We were tired from the previous 2 days and the late night last night.
The day started with a text from a friend from Atlanta who was in town. She was on her way home about the same time we were starting our day. It would have been great to see her as we only see each other every so often.
Next up was bagels, at The Bagel Bar down the street. They were delicious.
Then we rushed up town to see Dog Day Afternoon. The reviews had been mediocre at best, and it was one of the last shows we plotted for our trip. We didn’t have high hopes, but we were pleasantly surprised. We enjoyed it a lot. The performances were great and the design was amazing. It’s been years since I’ve seen the movie so I’m anxious to get home and give it a watch to see if it’s as funny as the show today was. We were both very happy to have included it in our list.
We had dinner at Gallagher’s. A must when we come to NYC. We always get the crab cake and the carpaccio. Tonight, we shared entrees and had a small bottle of wine. It was a great way to spend a couple of hours before we moved on to our evening show. (However, for the first time ever, Stu the bartender was not tending bar. We see him every time we go).
Of course, we had to walk from 52nd street to 41st street, so we couldn’t walk by The Rum House without stopping in for a pre-dinner cocktail and to see our friend John. We disappointed to learn after many years he has moved on. We had great service, but it was not the same. And he always remembered us.
We finished the evening with Schmigadoon. It’s the stage version of the TV show from years ago. I actually had to push to get Adam to put it on the list because he was convinced it would be meh. I was excited because it is based on the big dance shows of the 40’s and 50’s and I LOVE a musical with big dance numbers. I turned out to be right. The show is a must see if you like musicals. The performances were great. The design is great. And the songs are toe tapping good. And if you happen to be a musical theater fan there are so many throw backs to all of the shows of yesteryear. Samples of melodies. Jokes that harken back to the shows. And characters that play on the characters from these musicals. Billy Bigelow. Gertie Cummins. The Barroness from the Sound of Music. The audience might have been the best part of the show. They were on board the minute the show started and stayed right there till the last chord of music. It was so good.
We are batting a 1,000 so far with our selections.
We called it an evening early. I’m sitting in my underwear, drinking a soda water, typing while Adam is in the shower. We are going to watch some TV and read the Facebook so we can do Day 3 tomorrow.
It’s the last week of April, which could only mean one thing. Adam and I are in New York. We actually left early and drove to Wallingford, Connecticut. It’s about 3 hours into the drive. We stayed at the Hilton Garden Inn there.
This caused the first argument of the drive because, when Adam got sleepy while driving, we traded places and he hooked up my phone to the car. I, however, had only put in Wallingford, to see how long it took to get there, NOT the actual address of the hotel. We figured this out when we didn’t get to the hotel with the directions. It was only a couple of miles out of the way, but it was late.
We got up early this a.m. and drove the rest of the way, making great time. We were in NYC a few blocks from our hotel by 11:30.
But.
Fun fact. You could not drive east on any cross street south of 34th street today. They were all blocked off. So, we could not in fact drive to our hotel. We finally managed to get close on 6th Avenue, and we parked illegally, while Adam took our bags in and checked us in early. Then we parked the car, and finished getting the rest of our things in our hotel.
Once again, we are staying at the Hilton Garden Inn. Not fancy, but we don’t spend a lot of time in the room. But it is clean, but small, and the a/c works which is always great.
On the way back down to the lobby, we were joined in the elevator by two 20ish guys. They are hucking it up about whether a girl becomes your girlfriend if you spend the night at her house. They were being loud and we were trying to ignore them, when one of them says, Hey. Let’s ask these guys. So he says, “if this dude here spent the night last night at a girl’s house, does that make her his girlfriend.” Without a beat, I said, only if you are a lesbian. They cackled and wouldn’t let it drop. The friend said, I told you. She’s your girlfriend now. As we got out of the elevator I said, let us know where you register for the wedding and we’ll buy you some China. And they started laughing again.
And we were off.
It was raining as we left, so we hustled to the subway. Uptown to Times Square for a snack.
At least once during our NYC trips we stop at Los Tacos No. 1. The line is long but moves fast. The food is delicious. And you can be in and out in no time.
Then we headed around the corner to our first show of the week.
Becky Shaw.
I had no idea what it was about. All I knew was that Jeanine from Handmaid’s Tale was in it. The show was excellent. So funny. And the set had lots of surprises.
The show came down at 4:30 and we ran in the rain to up the street to see Every Brilliant Thing. It was so moving. And sweet. And how they pull off the logistics of audience participation is amazing. I have to admit that I had tears in my eyes for the last 20 minutes of the show. It is a one man show, and Daniel Radcliffe commanded the stage even before the show opened. The audience participants were amazing when being put on the spot.
The 10,000th brilliant thing is “waking up late, with someone you love.”
And then, we had to move it back to the subway to get downtown for our next show.
First though, Adam needed a snack so we stopped for pizza at Two Boots. I hadn’t eaten at Two Boots in at least 25 years. It was perfect for what we needed.
Adam had suggested that since we had about 50 minutes before the show we should stop in Ty’s, a gay bar for a drink. I had not been in Ty’s since the early 2000’s. It has not changed much except that they take credit cards now. The clientele has not changed either. The same men who were going there in the 20’s are now going there in their 60’s. Adam was by far the youngest man in the bar.
Neither of us are “bar” people. At one point Adam leans over and says that he’d forgotten that at bars people just walk up and talk to you. This is after we met a very nice lady named Candy. She moved on, and someone asked if they could stand and share our table. We said of course. We were one and done, and so Adam ran to the restroom while I waited and while Adam was gone the man who had joined us asked, “Are you all going to the Eagle tonight?” I said, I don’t think so, and he replied, well that’s too bad I’d have like to have seen you both naked later.
I thanked him for the compliment and said that we had tickets to the Ken Rex across the street and had to go.
Adam commented that it was the second time I’d been hit on in the past two weeks.
Ken Rex is a one man show, about a true crime in Kansas in the early 80’s. It is a play with live music accompaniment and is very tech heavy. And I thought it was great.
I have to admit that I didn’t know much about any of the play we saw before seeing them today, but so far, we are 3 out of 3 for winners.
The night ended with dinner at a French Restaurant across town called L’Express. It is open late and worked great for having dinner after our show. We were seated next to a couple, who was soon joined by friends, because they’d just flown home from Paris where they had gotten engaged. The ring was a brick.
Now we are home and Adam is in the shower.
Today at the first show, the woman sitting next to us had the best cat shirt on with big black cats all over it. Adam complimented her.
At Ken Rex, the woman in front of us had the best purse and Adam asked if he could take a photo of it for someone at work. I’m glad he did, because while he was using the restroom at intermission, she pulled a burrito out of the purse and ate dinner.
Oh. The times they are a changing.
PS. Today is the one year anniversary of Adam giving me a pre-engagement, engagement ring.
It’s April 21st. The temperature today was in the low 40’s. I just checked and at 7:55 p.m. the current temp is 38*. It’s still fucking cold and we are approaching May 1st. We are ready to turn the off the furnace and pull out the shorts and t-shirts.
When we said we were moving to Maine, AND when we tell people we live in Maine, everyone, and I do mean everyone, mentions the winters. I have to admit that when Adam and I discussed moving here, we never considered the winters. We just wanted to live near our friends and be out of the city.
Next month will mark 14 years since we moved here. Seriously. How did that happen?
And, after 14 winters in Maine, I can honestly say, they aren’t that bad. Yes. They are long. We still have the heat on. Most people are still wearing coats. We had real snow in the west yesterday, and flurries here in Portland. And let me remind you once again, that’s it’s late April.
What I can say, is that Portland winters don’t even come close to comparing to mid-western winters. In 2007, I took a job teaching at Grinnell College in Iowa. It’s in the middle of the state, halfway between Iowa City and Des Moines. For my NYC friends, to get to Iowa, you cross the George Washington Bridge, which is where I-80 begins and drive west for about 17 hours and you’ll find yourself in Grinnell.
First and foremost, my experience in Grinnell was wonderful. Some of the best theater folk I’ve ever worked with. Hands down one of the best TDs. And my first design there, to this day is one of my top 3 shows. It was such a wonderful experience, and was so successful that I aspire every show to be as amazing.
But.
Iowa in the winter is fucking cold.
I lived about a mile from the school. I did not have a car. I would bundle myself up in my heavy winter coat, gloves, scarf, and hat and trek to school on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My path to school took me past a classic bank building with a digital clock and temperature sign. When I first got there, it was just kind of cold. 32*. 24*. 19*
Then winter hit.
First, there was an ice storm. I never lost power on my side of the street, but across the street they didn’t have power for about three days.
Then the temperature dropped. For more than a week it was -20*. I know this, because I would walk by the bank with the sign and it would say, -19*. -21*. -20*.
Two fucking straight weeks.
On those days there was no hope of staying warm. You just held your breath and marched head first into the storm.
Meanwhile, in Maine.
It gets cold, but hardly ever below 0*. It snows, but the state knows how to deal with it. If it snowed a foot tonight, and stopped at 6:00 a.m. By noon, the streets would be cleared. Like, it never snowed at all cleared. My little side street, would have been plowed a dozen times, and the main roads would be completely clear.
So yes, Maine winters are long. But given the choice of wintering in Portland or wintering in Iowa, I’d choose Portland every single time.
Of course, I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that it’s 60* in Grinnell tonight.
Adam and I went to Boston yesterday to see a play. Not a musical. But a play. Miracle of miracles. We went down early, had dinner at The Cheesecake Factory, which we had not done in years, then walked from The Prudential Center, the Four Seasons, where we had a drink in the lobby.
It’s fun to go to places that focus so much energy on hospitality. The doors were held open for us when we entered. The front desk agent walked us to the bar. The host walked us to the table. The server was warm and friends and brought our drinks which were delicious. The host checked back in on us. We paid, and were thanked by at least six people as we exited.
We then made our way to Huntington Stage, which was about a 10 minute walk away. We arrived early, took our seats and took in the room. It was closing night for When Playwrights Kill, and there was a buzz in the room. There almost always is on closing nights as often there are a large number of friends and colleagues in the room.
We did see Laura Bell Bundy during intermission who I assume was there to see here Legally Blonde co-star Marissa. The show was a lot of fun, loosely based on the experience the playwright had years ago when he wrote a show staring a well-known movie actress. The show had lots of inside theater jokes, the cast was insanely good and the audience had a great time.
Now to the meat of the story.
I am a man of a certain age. We’ll call me old. There was a time when I was not old, much thinner, and much more mobile when I might turn a head or two, but those days are long past.
So imagine my surprise, when I’m outside the restroom, during intermission, waiting for Adam, when I look up the stairs to see a man gazing at me. I think to myself, he must be looking at someone behind me and turn, but nope. He’s looking at me. I divert my eyes and pretend not to have noticed. When I look back, he’s looking at his phone, and for a moment, I think he’s with the kids in front of him. But nope. He sees me looking and gazes at me again.
I divert my eyes again. I think to myself, WOW, this hasn’t happened in a long time. I don’t even know how to respond. It actually makes me self-conscious and nervous more than anything.
I look again, and he’s still gazing at me. Perhaps he thinks I’m someone he knows, but I swear I’ve never seen him before. This time I smile, and he smiles back. Now I’m even more nervous.
Finally, the line he is in moves down the stairs and he’s past me. However, he keeps looking over his shoulder at me.
Then Adam arrives.
He grabs my hand, and say, “Don’t look, but I think my next boyfriend is line for the restroom.” He looks behind him and sees the guy who finally has his back to me.
Adam goes, he’s cute. And he was. Probably late 30’s early 40’s. Nice building. Sandy blonde hair. Blue eyes. He’s also about 6’ tall.
Adam and I head back upstairs and watch the room. There once again is energy in the room. Lots of people moving about from group to group.
We take our seats. The second act starts. We love it.
The show ends, gets a rousing standing ovation. (What show doesn’t these days?”).
We have a two-hour drive in front of us so we make our way back down to the restrooms. I finish first, I always do, and am waiting at the bottom of the stairs once again for Adam. It’s still kind of crowded when I notice an older gay man waiting across the room. And what would you know, my new boyfriend comes out and greets him.
Fifteen seconds later, Adam walks out, has to maneuver between them and grabs my hand. I say to Adam, “My new boyfriend has a type.” And wants to know what that means and I reply, “Take a look, his boyfriend looks just like me only shorter.”
And he did. He was older, with a bigger build and bright blue eyes. Only shorter. We were even dressed a like.
Before anyone panics, I’m not looking for a new boyfriend. But I do have to say, that it made my heart patter, to know someone, other than Adam might find me attractive. It has been a long while since this has happened.
As we exited the building, joining the crowd on the sidewalk, Adam grabbed my hand and we started toward our car back at the Prudential Center. We waited the appropriate 500 feet before we really started to discussing the show.
I learned of this hymn when I played Simon Stimson in Thorton Wilder’s Our Town in high school.
I think back on all the plays that I made my parents sit through. Oklahoma. Twice. Midsummer’s Night Dream. The Oresteia. The Nutcracker. Romeo and Juliet. Carmen with scaffolding.
I also think back to how many of these shows were two plus hours longer than they needed to be. I can’t imagine anything more painful, than watching high schoolers perform Our Town in a cafetorium.
I can say, however, that all the kids involved had a blast. I formed one of my closest high school friendships with the girl who played Mrs. Webb, who’d never been in a play before. In fact, the following year she wrecked my car, while we were on our way to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror. For only $1.
Good or bad, I always enjoyed being a part of the process. Theater builds friendships and relationships, unlike anything else I’ve ever participated in. It requires you to reveal parts of yourself that might otherwise go unnoticed. Or you might not otherwise want shared. I think it’s why so many LGBTQ kids end up joining the drama club. Even as a designer, you make relationships that are strong and weird. I believe the only thing that comes close to matching these relationships are restaurant relationships, which also might explain why theater people end up waiting tables. Teching a show is akin to working Sunday brunch hungover.
Back to Simon Stimson.
He was the choir director and organist at the local Grover’s Corner Congregational Church. He was also a troubled alcoholic. And it’s thought that he might be a closeted homosexual. He ends up in Act 3 because he committed suicide, becoming a resident of the cemetery.
I can assure you that we did NOT discuss any of this in my high school production. I was taught how to conduct in 4/4 time. I was told to stumble across the stage as if I was drunk. I’d never been drunk so I mimicked Otis Campbell from Andy Griffith. I don’t think they were the same kind of drunk, and definitely not for the same reasons.
I also remember being terrible bored in the third act. I had six lines and then I was supposed to be interested in the rest of the action. I remember getting sleepy. Whoops. I might have stayed awake if I’d known I was a tormented homosexual, who could play the organ. HEHE.
As I type this, I realize it’s not the only time I was forced to “act” in a cemetery. I was also in a college production of Spoon River Anthology, a play with music. I sat on a stump. I had five or six monologues. I don’t think I was gay in any of them. I do know that by then I was a serious “actor” so I didn’t get sleepy. Instead, I focused on my next lines. I remember one night not being able to remember the Latin phrase at the end of one of my monologues. I got up and said the lines, and wouldn’t you know, it slipped out, just like I had rehearsed it. Crisis averted. Although I didn’t get sleepy in this performance, I’m sure my parents counted the minutes till curtain call.
The last play that my mother saw that I worked on was Twilight of the Golds. I designed this show in San Diego, a week before I graduated from UCSD with my MFA in lighting design. It was playing when my mother and my brother flew out for my graduation. I had dinner with my friends who were there, and then I’d bought tickets for 12 of us to see the show. I didn’t really think about the subject matter until I was sitting in my chair waiting for the show to start.
I have no idea what my mother thought about this show. In 2006, I had not told her I was gay. I was 41. I’m sure she knew. But I had never discussed it with her. The show started. The drama happened. The show came down. The design of the show was nice. And I was proud to have my friends see it. At least it wasn’t in a cafetorium.
I have no idea where I’m going with this story. I just got off the phone with one my bestest friends from Kentucky, Trish Clark, who I did a million shows with. Which sent me down memory lane. She’s definitely one of those relationships that changed my life because we did theater together.
I have many of these friends. These friendships are those that you pick right up with, when you haven’t spoken in 20 years. There are so too many to count. They are the foundation of who I am at 61. In so many different segments of my life. High School. Grad School at UK. Grad School at CCM. Teaching at SCPA. Grad School at UCSD. Freelance at LOOK, City Theater, KOTH, and in NYC.
I really count myself lucky that I have had so many lifetimes. Once again too many too count. What’s really awesome is that my new job, would allow me to do theater in the off season. I’m really excited about the thought of designing a show next winter locally. Who knows, I may ask my local friends to come see a three hour production of King Lear, in a community production.
And you better show up.
Blest be the tides that bind.
The official hymn of theater folk.
My prompt was necktie. I may have gone a little off track.
I’d like to speak to the manager!!!
Blest be the tie that binds.
Our hearts in Christian love.
I learned of this hymn when I played Simon Stimson in Thorton Wilder’s Our Town in high school.
I think back on all the plays that I made my parents sit through. Oklahoma. Twice. Midsummer’s Night Dream. The Oresteia. The Nutcracker. Romeo and Juliet. Carmen with scaffolding.
I also think back to how many of these shows were two plus hours longer than they needed to be. I can’t imagine anything more painful, than watching high schoolers perform Our Town in a cafetorium.
I can say, however, that all the kids involved had a blast. I formed one of my closest high school friendships with the girl who played Mrs. Webb, who’d never been in a play before. In fact, the following year she wrecked my car, while we were on our way to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror. For only $1.
Good or bad, I always enjoyed being a part of the process. Theater builds friendships and relationships, unlike anything else I’ve ever participated in. It requires you to reveal parts of yourself that might otherwise go unnoticed. Or you might not otherwise want shared. I think it’s why so many LGBTQ kids end up joining the drama club. Even as a designer, you make relationships that are strong and weird. I believe the only thing that comes close to matching these relationships are restaurant relationships, which also might explain why theater people end up waiting tables. Teching a show is akin to working Sunday brunch hungover.
Back to Simon Stimson.
He was the choir director and organist at the local Grover’s Corner Congregational Church. He was also a troubled alcoholic. And it’s thought that he might be a closeted homosexual. He ends up in Act 3 because he committed suicide, becoming a resident of the cemetery.
I can assure you that we did NOT discuss any of this in my high school production. I was taught how to conduct in 4/4 time. I was told to stumble across the stage as if I was drunk. I’d never been drunk so I mimicked Otis Campbell from Andy Griffith. I don’t think they were the same kind of drunk, and definitely not for the same reasons.
I also remember being terrible bored in the third act. I had six lines and then I was supposed to be interested in the rest of the action. I remember getting sleepy. Whoops. I might have stayed awake if I’d known I was a tormented homosexual, who could play the organ. HEHE.
As I type this, I realize it’s not the only time I was forced to “act” in a cemetery. I was also in a college production of Spoon River Anthology, a play with music. I sat on a stump. I had five or six monologues. I don’t think I was gay in any of them. I do know that by then I was a serious “actor” so I didn’t get sleepy. Instead, I focused on my next lines. I remember one night not being able to remember the Latin phrase at the end of one of my monologues. I got up and said the lines, and wouldn’t you know, it slipped out, just like I had rehearsed it. Crisis averted. Although I didn’t get sleepy in this performance, I’m sure my parents counted the minutes till curtain call.
The last play that my mother saw that I worked on was Twilight of the Golds. I designed this show in San Diego, a week before I graduated from UCSD with my MFA in lighting design. It was playing when my mother and my brother flew out for my graduation. I had dinner with my friends who were there, and then I’d bought tickets for 12 of us to see the show. I didn’t really think about the subject matter until I was sitting in my chair waiting for the show to start.
I have no idea what my mother thought about this show. In 2006, I had not told her I was gay. I was 41. I’m sure she knew. But I had never discussed it with her. The show started. The drama happened. The show came down. The design of the show was nice. And I was proud to have my friends see it. At least it wasn’t in a cafetorium.
I have no idea where I’m going with this story. I just got off the phone with one my bestest friends from Kentucky, Trish Clark, who I did a million shows with. Which sent me down memory lane. She’s definitely one of those relationships that changed my life because we did theater together.
I have many of these friends. These friendships are those that you pick right up with, when you haven’t spoken in 20 years. There are so too many to count. They are the foundation of who I am at 61. In so many different segments of my life. High School. Grad School at UK. Grad School at CCM. Teaching at SCPA. Grad School at UCSD. Freelance at LOOK, City Theater, KOTH, and in NYC.
I really count myself lucky that I have had so many lifetimes. Once again too many too count. What’s really awesome is that my new job, would allow me to do theater in the off season. I’m really excited about the thought of designing a show next winter locally. Who knows, I may ask my local friends to come see a three hour production of King Lear, in a community production.
And you better show up.
Blest be the tides that bind.
The official hymn of theater folk.
My prompt was necktie. I may have gone a little off track.
For anyone who cares, it’s only 362 days till my birthday. Be sure to mark your calendar. You’ll want to shop early. My favorite color is blue. And books are always a nice surprise.
If you are paying attention, that means my birthday was three days ago. Marking another year around the sun. I’ve made a lot of these trips in my very short life. And the remaining portion of my life is even shorter. I’m well on my way on the downward slope of the eventual outcome.
It’s funny. The older I get, the less afraid of death I become. It’s inevitable. It’s a part of life, like learning to walk, or learning to read. I watch TV now, seeing actors from shows in the 80’s and 90’s who are no longer with us, like The Golden Girls. I often wonder what their take on their inevitable demise was.
Before you get started, I’m not depressed. I’m actually in a very good mood tonight. Work has been going well. My schedule with my new job has allowed Adam and I to spend a lot of time together. And best of all, I’ve been able to see friends that normally I wouldn’t see at all, because of my restaurant schedule.
However.
I AM getting older. And while I don’t fear death, I’m horribly afraid of losing my memory.
I’ve always had great a long-term memory. There are so many events from my past that are seared into my mind. Learning to ride a bike. Getting spanked by Miss Sarah for jumping on her bed, when she babysat me and my brother. My grandma telling me to get back in the bathroom and wash my hands, because if I had washed them, they wouldn’t be dry. Memories of building stilts out of two by fours at vacation bible school, and then walking on them in my backyard.
I could go on and on. So many stories to share.
What’s scary is that my short-term memory seems to be shot.
I get to the grocery store and know that Adam asked me to pick up three things, but I can only remember two of them. They all started with the letter “C.”
Today at work, I was asked what my favorite bourbon drink was. I replied a Boulevardier. And was asked if that wasn’t based on another drink. I could remember that that drink was made from gin, but I struggled for a good 60 seconds to remember the word for Negroni. I see Laura Benanti on TV all the time, and I can never remember her name. Never. I know her Broadway shows. I know she plays Melania on Stephen Colbert. But I can never remember her name.
I truly fear losing my mind. It scares me that I’m going to wake up one day and have forgotten everything. Forgotten my memories.
But even more frightening is forgetting who Adam is.
I know there are a few things I can do. But mostly, I have to wait and see what genetics have given me. I take after the women in my family as I’ve mentioned before. They all lived to their late 70’s and none of them suffered from memory loss. I pray that I got the same genetic makeup that gave me my “big boned” build.
I think sometimes this is why I write the stories that I do. There is a part of me, that wants to look back at where I’ve been. My life has not been perfect, but it has been an adventure. And I hope that by documenting my stories, when I am in my senior years, my friends, and much younger boyfriend can remind me of these stories.
Meanwhile, I plod along. Reminded daily, that life is short. That tomorrow is not promised. However, I do hope that if I have another 20 or 30 years in me that my memory also has another 20 or 30 years. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be a vegetable. I don’t want to be sequestered to a home, where Adam visits out of obligation.
And if that is what is in store for me. I’ve told him that I want him to tap me on the shoulder on a lucid day, and say, “Today is the day.” Then he’ll go have drinks with friends, maybe even dinner, and when he gets home, his memories of me will live forever.
This morning about six minutes after I got up, Adam’s alarm went off. He’d snoozed it when it sounded at 8:30. Both of our alarms go off at 8:30. We both have I-phones, but his alarm sounds about 15 seconds before mine does, I have no idea why.
I digress.
I was getting ready to get in the shower, when I realized he had not shut his alarm off. I waited. And waited. Finally, I went in and said Babe? Babe? He didn’t answer. I then said, Adam? Adam? A little louder. He still didn’t budge. Adam is not a super hard sleeper, so I was surprised he didn’t respond. I have to admit, for about 1/16th of a second I thought he might be dead. Then I tapped him on the shoulder and he awoke with a start. It’s one of the reasons I started out quietly; he is easily startled when he’s asleep.
He had not heard the alarm at all. He was surprised that it was going off, and he was surprised that I had to wake him. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and then went back to take a shower.
As I was trying to wake up in the shower, I realized that calling Adam by his given name was not something I do often. We hardly ever use each other’s names. We both use “BABE” as a term of endearment. In fact, he called me at work today and I said, “Hello, Babe” and my boss referred to him as Babe 30 seconds later.
It always feels awkward when I say Adam, when speaking to Adam. I say his name all the time at work. They probably get sick of hearing about the meals he cooks for me, or the things he did for my birthday. But to say, “Hey Adam, what’s for dinner?, just doesn’t flow.
The only thing worse than using his name to address him is him calling me Jeff. It’s like nails on a chalkboard. He does it so seldomly that I always think I must be in trouble, or something must be wrong. Neither is usually true.
Which brings me to the point of this story.
When we first started dating, and it became clear that we were going to be something more than just a casual fling, he started calling me “Honey Bear.” I don’t know why? I don’t know where it came from. I, however, loved it from the start. At some point, we moved past Honey Bear to Babe. He does usually write cards to me addressed as Honey Bear. And it makes my heart grow three sizes. It makes me smile.
I’ve only ever called him Babe, that I remember.
Which brings me to the question: What do you call your significant other? Your spouse? Your boyfriend? Your girlfriend? Your lover?
I have to go now, because a voice from the kitchen just said, “Babe, dinner will be ready in 5!”
I spend way too much time on Facebook. Way too much.
Mostly it’s a way to waste time, while I’m waiting for Adam to get home. Or waiting for a meeting to start at work. Or waiting for dinner to be ready.
Today’s Facebook is very different than the Facebook of my childhood. Back when you could poke someone. Or were reconnecting with friends you hadn’t seen for years.
Obama changed that. Suddenly, Facebook was political. As a liberal, it brought out the worst of the worst. When Adam and I first started dating, while I was waiting for dinner to be ready, I was battling it out with conservative “friends.” Fun fact, when you point out that your friends are on the “dole” while voting against their own best interest, they unfriend you. This happened several times.
Fast forward 50 years and now it’s ALL politics except for a few posts from friends sharing their lives. In between the political posts and the friends, you are bombarded with shirtless men (perhaps that’s just my algorithm) and Broadway shows.
Today, I was sitting in my car wasting time, and was scrolling and came upon a post from a friend. It’s a post that circulates every so often. It harkens back to the old times, when there used to be lists of questions that you would share you answers with your friends.
This particular post was about states you’ve visited, and states you’ve live in.
It’s below:
Mark an X by a state you’ve actually stepped foot in. Mark XX for states you’ve lived in:
1Alabama XX
2 Alaska
3 Arizona X
4 Arkansas X
5 California XX
6 Colorado X
7 Connecticut X
8 Delaware X
9 Florida X
10 Georgia XX
11 Hawaii
12 Idaho X
13 Illinois X
14 Indiana X
15 Iowa XX
16 Kansas XX
17 Kentucky XX
18 Louisiana X
19 Maine XX
20 Maryland X
21 Massachusetts X
22 Michigan X
23 Minnesota X
24 Mississippi X
25 Missouri X
26 Montana
27 Nebraska X
28 Nevada X
29 New Hampshire X
30 New Jersey X
31 New Mexico X
32 New York XX
33 North Carolina X
34 North Dakota
35 Ohio XX
36 Oklahoma XX
37 Oregon
38 Pennsylvania X
39 Rhode Island X
40 South Carolina X
41 South Dakota
42 Tennessee X
43 Texas X
44 Utah
45 Vermont X
46 Virginia X
47 Washington DC X
48 Washington
49 West Virginia X
50 Wisconsin X
51 Wyoming X
Visited: 43
Lived in: 9
Wow. Not bad. It’s hard to believe that I’ve been to 43 states. And in none of them, was it just stepping foot in an airport. For all of them, it was visiting or at least driving through.
Even more impressive is that I’ve lived in 9 different states for varying amounts of time.
The longest I lived anywhere was in Kentucky. The shortest I lived anywhere, was Tuscaloosa, Alabama where I rented an apartment, moved there, stayed three weeks and promptly moved back to Kentucky. No one needs to live in Tuscaloosa, Alabama as a single gay man.
I love that I got out of Kentucky. I graduated from college and left. There was not one part of me that thought I belonged there. There was a big wide world to explore and I was going to explore it. I knew that I was meant for adventures.
Looking back on my life as a 60-year-old man, I love that I’ve had the adventures I’ve had.
In Kansas, I learned that I could do any horrible job that was thrown at me, for at least a bit, to prove the naysayers wrong.
In Georgia, I learned that it was okay to be gay. That if people cared, you didn’t need them in your life. It’s also the first time I realized that I was above average in looks.
Back in Kentucky, I learned that I was a damn good lighting designer. And once again, no one cared that I was gay.
In Ohio, I learned that I was a pretty okay teacher. Not great. Not terrible, but pretty okay.
In New York, I learned that it was better to be a big fish in a small pond, than a small fish in a big pond. Also it takes too much effort to survive in the big apple. And I’m a dam good slinging hash server. Bring on the volume. I also learned that after a lifetime of being a BAD boyfriend, that I could indeed, care for someone, love them and treat them in a way that fostered a loving relationship.
In San Diego, I learned that I am a really good goddamned lighting designer, when put up against other eally good goddamned lighting designers.
In Oklahoma, I learned that as you get older, comfort is king, and sleeping in two twin beds pushed together does not a queen size bed make. Also, I can work really fast and still produce quality work.
In Iowa, I learned that when you work with amazing people, your art is elevated. To this day, the first show I designed there is still one I consider to be my best.
In Maine. I learned that I’m a good manager. Not great. Not bad. But good. Even on my worst day, I don’t micromanage. I don’t yell. And I don’t treat my co-workers badly.
And now I’m 60. On the downhill slope of life. I don’t know how my friends from high school and college spend their time, but I often think of the choices I’ve made. Would I have been better off to do this? Would I have been better off to do that?
For example:
Should I have gone to graduate school at 30?
Should I have focused on teaching more?
Should I have stayed in Ohio, teaching, where I’d be on my way to retirement right now.
Should I have stayed in NYC and started my restaurant management career earlier?
Should I have applied at the Toyota Plant in Georgetown, that opened the year I graduated college and spent my time there, earning a pension and a reasonable retirement age.
Should I have stayed in Atlanta, and been gay and fabulous and found a non-theater career to focus on?
Should I have stayed in Southern California and focused on my design work. I was working a lot outside of school while I was there.
Should I have stayed in Alabama, gone to the University of Alabama for grad school, and perhaps had a career as an academic?
Should I have gone on a date with John instead of Adam and where would I be living if I had?
Clearly, it’s easy to go down the rabbit hole. I don’t get lost in this train of thought often, but sometimes when I can’t sleep, I get distracted with the what ifs.
But at the end of the day, I truly don’t regret 99% of my decisions.
They all worked together to make me the man I am today.
They all worked together to help me find Adam, who I love more than I ever thought possible. I have friends that love me dearly. I have a house that I couldn’t have dreamt of ever having. I have five cats who tolerate me. I have a great life.
And the moral of the story. I’m not rich. I’m not even close to retirement. I have to work until I’m dead. And, I wouldn’t trade my experiences for all the money in the world. I have had an exciting, adventurous life. And for that I’m grateful.
My time spent gaining these experiences has not been wasted. Even if some of my dreams have not come true. I remind myself when I get down about the dreams, that I could have taken a job that I hated, gotten married, had two kids, been miserable and lived a lie, like so many gay men I know. But instead, I got out.
That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce. Or tomatoes. Or beans. Or broccoli. Or spinach. Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions. Or liver. Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods. I was a very picky eater.
For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like. There was always an alternative for us. As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.
When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly. I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food. I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.
When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia. Completely platonic. I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked. I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.
We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib. I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn. What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table. I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it. In a word, it was delicious. It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it. It was melt in your mouth delicious. And I was hooked. No more shoe leather for me.
Through college I was still a picky eater. I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters. PUKE. The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting. Why would anyone want to do that.
Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky. Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms. I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell. And they were delicious. Yum. Yum. Yum. I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.
Fast forward to New York City. I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner. We go out and he orders salmon. Medium Rare. At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s. Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes. Who knew that fish could be so delicious.
I could keep going. I go out to eat. I don’t want to embarrass myself. I eat the food. It’s delicious. Rinse and Repeat.
Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore. I give him my number. He asks me to brunch. I say yes. We meet for said brunch. I order an omelet. I eat said omelet. New boy says he doesn’t like eggs. 17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.
Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.
Medium-rare steak. Why cook it all? Steak tartare for me.
Oysters. Raw, fried, roasted, baked. Yes, please the more the merrier.
Escargot. Snails. Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.
Fish. All the fish. Salmon. Swordfish. Tuna. Halibut. Yes. Yes. Yes. I don’t even care if you cook it. Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.
Caviar: Fish eggs? Yes, please. I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.
Vegetables. There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat. Salad of all kinds is delicious.
Onions. LOVE em. In all foods. On a burger. In a salad. In soup. Yum. Yum. Yum.
I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like. And even then, I will still eat them.
When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.
I’m not a fan of olives. But they started every meal. I ate them.
Sweetbreads. Look it up. Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor. 50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first. They are fucking delicious.
Blood sausage. Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified. Delicious. Yum.
Which brings me to last night.
For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade. And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.
The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me. But last night, I stuffed my face. It was all delicious.
I’m glad. Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food. I’m very adventurous and will try most everything. I don’t like everything but I will try it. By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.
The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese. I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to. Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.
I’d like to speak to the manager!!!
Nope! Nope! Nope!
That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce. Or tomatoes. Or beans. Or broccoli. Or spinach. Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions. Or liver. Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods. I was a very picky eater.
For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like. There was always an alternative for us. As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.
When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly. I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food. I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.
When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia. Completely platonic. I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked. I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.
We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib. I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn. What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table. I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it. In a word, it was delicious. It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it. It was melt in your mouth delicious. And I was hooked. No more shoe leather for me.
Through college I was still a picky eater. I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters. PUKE. The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting. Why would anyone want to do that.
Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky. Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms. I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell. And they were delicious. Yum. Yum. Yum. I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.
Fast forward to New York City. I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner. We go out and he orders salmon. Medium Rare. At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s. Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes. Who knew that fish could be so delicious.
I could keep going. I go out to eat. I don’t want to embarrass myself. I eat the food. It’s delicious. Rinse and Repeat.
Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore. I give him my number. He asks me to brunch. I say yes. We meet for said brunch. I order an omelet. I eat said omelet. New boy says he doesn’t like eggs. 17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.
Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.
Medium-rare steak. Why cook it all? Steak tartare for me. Hopefully with a raw chicken or quail egg on top.
Oysters. Raw, fried, roasted, baked. Yes, please the more the merrier.
Escargot. Snails. Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.
Fish. All the fish. Salmon. Swordfish. Tuna. Halibut. Yes. Yes. Yes. I don’t even care if you cook it. Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.
Caviar: Fish eggs? Yes, please. I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.
Vegetables. There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat. Salad of all kinds is delicious.
Onions. LOVE em. In all foods. On a burger. In a salad. In soup. Yum. Yum. Yum.
I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like. And even then, I will still eat them.
When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.
I’m not a fan of olives. But they started every meal. I ate them.
Sweetbreads. Look it up. Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor. 50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first. They are fucking delicious.
Blood sausage. Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified. Delicious. Yum.
Which brings me to last night.
For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade. And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.
The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me. But last night, I stuffed my face. It was all delicious.
I’m glad. Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food. I’m very adventurous and will try most everything. I don’t like everything but I will try it. By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.
The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese. I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to. Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.
Today is one of those days where you think you know what you are going to write. Then you sit down at the computer and NADA. Nothing.
It might be because I’m tired. Not exhausted. Not wiped out. Just tired.
I haven’t written about it yet, but after 7 months, of looking, I finally found a job. It was a very long 7 months. As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, there are few things more daunting than entering the job market as a 60 year-old.
I had too many first interviews to count. But none of them seemed to land a second interview. I can assure you my answers to the questions haven’t changed that much in the 15 years I’ve been doing this, when a second interview was almost a given.
What was really frustrating was that every first interview I went on, and I do mean every one, I was promised a second interview.
“Thank you for coming in. I’ll reach out to my team and set up a second interview for you at the beginning of next week.”
Then silence.
There were several prospects that I was excited about. There were many more that would have just been a way to pay the mortgage. But alas, the choice was not mine.
The job I finally got was handed to me on a silver platter. Adam and I were sitting on the couch one night around 10:00 when his phone dinged. It was a former co-worker asking him if he knew anyone looking for a management position. He showed me the text and asked what I thought. I said sure. Less than a week later I was given an offer.
Fun fact. I interviewed with this company in 2019. Was given an offer, and turned it down because the company I was working for at the time, gave me a big raise and a promotion to stay. I wonder now what would have happened if I’d made the jump.
I hate to jinx it, but I’m really liking it a lot. The team is incredible. There is so much laughing, and playfulness from everyone. It’s clear they all like going to work. That they all like the company they work for.
It is a seasonal restaurant. We are only open from May to October. Right now, we are prepping to open. With a seasonal restaurant, it’s like opening a new restaurant every year. There are orders to place. Employees to hire. Training to coordinate. Beverage lists to curate. My friend Laura, who I love dearly, and I call this “playing restaurant.” It’s all theoretical until the first employee clocks in and the first guest gets their martini. Then it’s real.
So here I am at 8:00 and I’m tired. And the reason for this is, because we are not currently open, my schedule is 9 to 4. It’s a more mainstream schedule, that allows for us all to be in the room together and “play restaurant.”
Here’s the deal. I’m not a morning person. Adam is not a morning person. And after 6 weeks, we have not figured out how to get to bed at a reasonable hour. We’ve been getting to bed around 12:30, and by the time the lights are off its pushing 1:30. I have to be up and out the door by 8:45, so that’s not a lot of time for sleep.
I make it to work just fine, and do great, until around 4:30, and then I crash. The first few weeks I had to take a nap when I got home. These days I push through to bedtime, because I sleep better. But boy, oh boy, am I tired.
Everyone who knows me, knows that I don’t like mornings.
But.
My first job out of college required me to be at work at 7:00 a.m.
And I taught at the Lexington, School for Creative and Performing Arts one year and our classes started at 6:30. My alarm would go off at 5:30, I’d shower and drive across town and be ready to teach at 6:30.
Fun fact: NO ONE is creative at 6:30 in the morning. Especially not high school students. And, there was very little heat in the theater where we taught, so imagine doing scene work with kids in parkas and hats.
I have my current 9 to 4 schedule for 4 more weeks. Then I go to a regular restaurant schedule with weekends, and nights and I’ll be able to sleep a little later.
However, while I don’t like being tired, I do like being free in the evenings. I get to have drinks and dinner with friends. I have been able to see local theater that only plays on Friday, Saturday and Sundays. I’ve gone to the movies. I have dinner at home with Adam.
It’s well worth the price of being tired to have a little more flexibility with my schedule and to have a job that I really like.
But please don’t give me a hard time if I fall asleep watching TV tonight after dinner.
I'd Like to Speak to the Manager!!! 