Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’m pretty sure I’ve shared this post before but it’s always worth repeating.

From 1995 until 1998 I taught lighting design at the Cincinnati School for Creative and Performing Arts. SCPA.

Who knew that a high school could have a teacher dedicated to all things lighting. It was a life changing adventure and I’m proud to say that my past students are spread to the far reaches of the US, still doing amazing things.

I had been mostly out of the closet before I moved to Cincinnati and I wasn’t about to walk back in and start hiding again. One of the first things I did was put a rainbow sticker on my car.

I’ve never been a huge rainbow flag person, but at the time, I thought it was important to own who I was.

First semester of my second year there, I was teaching an intro class to a group of 7th graders. I was taking roll, going through my grade book (I still have them by the way, if any of my students want to know how they did back then).

I got to a young girl, who said she was here and then asked me if the red escort station wagon in the parking lot was mine.

I replied, yes it was. I called it my family car. When I bought it, I couldn’t afford a truck and I needed a way to cart students and lights around to projects I worked on.

The girl started to giggle and and hid her mouth behind her hand and said, so is that the one with the rainbow sticker on the back. Hehehehehe.

I said yes it is. Why do you ask?

Hehehehe, I was just curious, she said, still giggling.

She was trying to be passive aggressive, emphasis on the aggressive and I was having no part of it.

I said, Do you know what the rainbow flag stands for?

She really started to giggle then and wouldn’t answer.

I didn’t wait long before I continued, the rainbow symbol was adopted by the great Reverand Jesse Jackson as a symbol to celebrate and encourage diversity. I have the sticker on my car, because I teach in a very diverse school and I want all of my students to know that I appreciate who they are no matter what.

She stopped giggling and stared at me.

I looked at the whole class and said, does anyone else have a question about the rainbow sticker on my car?

Then, let’s get started.

What are the four qualities of light?

I am what I am.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

The summer of 1984.

I worked at Wendy’s in North Park, in Lexington.

I had just finished my freshman year of college.

One hot, humid evening, a car pulls up to the drive thru. I’m on the register, and take the order. I ask the car to pull around.

When the car pulls up to the window, I lean out and give the guy driving the car the price. He’s super cute, and has a huge smile. He pays me, but keeps looking at me, and smiling. I hand him back his change (I’m not even sure we took credit cards back then), and he’s still smiling.

After a bit, I hand him his order and he asks me what I’m doing later.

I look around to see if any of my co-workers are watching. They are cleaning, cooking, not paying me any attention.

Since no one is watching, I ask why he wants to know. He says, he might want to come back later and see me. I tell him I’ll be off around midnight.

He replies, “Don’t be surprised if I come back.”

I didn’t think anything of it, and went back to work.

Sure, enough though, when I walked out to my car 90 minutes later, there he was sitting in the parking lot, waiting.

As I write this, all I can think of is Jeffrey Dahmer, but in 1994, all I could think was impure thoughts. He asked if I wanted to grab a drink with him, but I confessed I wasn’t 21. He said, how about a drink at my place.

Innocent Jeff, followed him to his apartment. And may or may not have spent the night.

The next morning, we got up and had coffee. He introduced me to his roommate, and we sat and chatted.

I said that I needed to get home, but he asked if he could see me again.

I said, of course. I’d love that.

What followed next was a stupid, infatuation on my part, that had no chance of going anywhere.

I was too young. He was too old at 26.

For a few weeks, though, I’d meet him at the Video Library on New Circle Road, help him close up, then we’d go back to his place.

What I didn’t know, when I met his roommate over coffee the first morning, was that his roommate was a drag queen by night. Confession, she was the first drag queen I’d ever met. I’m not even sure I had a word for it at the time.

The affair lasted about 30 seconds, and one day he told me it wasn’t going to work out.

I was devastated. I spent the next week mourning, while I was spending time at my aunt’s house, watching Grease 2 every day on HBO. She’d ask what was up and I’d just say I don’t feel well.

I of course got over it.

School started a month or so later.

Fall of my sophomore year.

The year when students were allowed to pledge fraternities and sororities.

I went through pledge week. And at the end of the week, I accepted the bid from the Phi Kappa Taus.

My friend Kara’s father is a Phi Tau, which is kind of fun.

That fall I did all the fraternity stuff. Parties, events, etc.

Then came hell week.

During hell week, the first chore was to put newspaper over the windows to the lobbies. Then lots of top secret stuff that I’d be killed if I shared with you.

Part of hell week was a scavenger hunt.

It was silly things really.

But one item stood out.

Get a signature from the bartender at Johnny Angels. The gay bar. Still in business today.

I volunteered to go in. It’s funny, it never occurred to me till right this minute that we didn’t get carded, which means I could have gone back at anytime. Alas.

Myself and a pledge brother walk up to the bar and ask for the autograph.

While I’m standing there, I look to my right, and there is the drag queen friend of my summer fling. She winked at me. Watched the proceedings. And then turned back to her friend.

We ran out, and got on with our evening, but at the time I so grateful she didn’t say hello.

I spent the next three years terrified of being found out.

Now, all of the people from that time know me as Jeff. Who lives in Maine with his boyfriend. His five cats. And his slew of lesbian friends.

Seems silly to have worried about it all that time ago.

Look over there. Look over there. Somebody cares that much.

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i’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Picture this!

Perhaps it’s time to rename my blog since I very rarely talk to the manager anymore.

Anyway!

Picture this!

Lexington, Kentucky. 1994.

I’m working at an Italian restaurant called The Italian Oven.

It’s a fun concept, in a strip mall off Richmond Road.

It features a wood fired oven, used to make pizzas, calzones and pastas.

I would often get the pasta carbonara until I discovered it was the dish with the most calories on the menu.

The owner’s name was Wayne. He was a bit crazy as all restaurant owners are.

He had an assistant, who’s named Nina, who was a host, then became assistant manager. She scared everyone but me.

For some reason she liked me, which I appreciated.

Turns out the concept, a franchise operation has gone kind of bust except for one location in Georgia.

Home

Same idea, except we only served beer and wine.

My ex-boyfriend Jim got me the job there, after I walked out of O’Charley’s when my manager was on maternity leave, and the replacement manager was a dick.

The concept included, black and white checked table cloths, with white craft paper on top. When you approached the table, you introduced yourself and wrote you name upside down in crayon. There was a small glass with crayons on the table for people to draw while they waited.

Fun fact, when someone who was artistically inclined we kept the drawings in the back on the walk-in.

We also were way ahead of our time, as we used pasta as straws, long before cities were banning plastic.

I worked there for two years, until I moved to Cincinnati to teach at the School for Creative and Performing Arts.

That was a long introduction to the meat of the story.

On a summer day, in 1994, I was at the restaurant for lunch.

Lunches were busy. Business was starting to wind down, when a table of four was seated in the back of the restaurant.

The server approached the table, we’ll call him Scott.

It’s funny. I can see his face, but for the life of me I can’t remember his name. He was an older gay man who didn’t even try to hide his gayness.

He walked up to the table, wrote his name upside down on the table, and before he could say more, a man at the table stopped him and asked for another server.

He responded, “Did I do something wrong?”

The man responded, “You are gay. We don’t want no gay server waiting on us.”

Scott said, “Of course, I’ll be right back.”

We were all hanging around in the front when Scott approached us, and told the three or four servers as well as Jay the manager what was said.

Jay said, “I’ve got this.”

He walked through the dining room and approached the table and said, “I’m sorry, is there a problem?”

The man at the table spoke up and said, “We don’t want no gay waiter. Give us somebody who ain’t gay.”

“Well sir, that’s going to be a problem. See that woman over there. She’s gay. See that man standing beside her, pointing at me, he’s gay too. See the guy with the beard making pizzas in the kitchen, he’s gay. In fact, I’m the manager, and I’d offer to wait on you, but I’m gay too. So if you don’t want no gay person waiting on you, then I guess you’ll have to just eat some place else.”

With that he walked away.

To be honest, I think they stayed, but I don’t remember.

The thing about Jay was, that if you’d asked me when I started, fuck if you’d asked me 24 hours earlier, I’d have sworn he was a little homophobic. But that day, he did the right thing. I’d never loved a manager more.

This was 1994, conservative, Lexington, KY.

The times they were a changin’.

Look I made a hat, where there never was a hat.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

32, 013 words.

23 Chapters.

A million miles to go.

I called my Aunt Debbie yesterday, just to check in. She is the last of my mom’s siblings. We’ve been close my whole life. Well since her parents passed, and my mother became her guardian.

That was 59.5 years ago.

I check in every so often to see how she is doing. What’s up with the family I never hear from and to have a connection back to Kentucky and home.

Yesterday she asked me if I was still writing.

I assured her I was.

We talked about what I was writing. How it was going. And how much longer till I was done.

It felt nice to be asked. To have someone in my family be interested in what I’m doing.

I had told her about my writing about 6 or 8 months ago, as I needed her help. I needed facts, stories, folk lore about my family. I confessed to her that I was writing a book about my mom’s passing. Of course, that was just the way in to the rest of the story. It’s actually a book about me, my family, and where I come from.

I like to think of it as Hillbilly Eulogy without the eyeliner and hate.

Thing is, most of the people I’m connected to, that know the truth are all gone. This is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing, because there is no one to yell at me for the telling the truth. A curse because there is no one to confirm that it is the truth.

A while back, I reached out to Debbie to ask questions about something I was including. The death of my mother’s father. The details of which I knew with broad strokes, but did not know the exact details. I had written a chapter about his death and wanted to know how close I was to reality.

The facts were there, but I’d invented a good portion of it. Which is fine. It’s far from non-fiction. I was never an astronaut, but when the books starts, I’ve just gotten back from Mars. I kid, I kid.

When we talked 6 or so months ago we talked for about an hour. I was typing notes as she filled me in on the truth about his death, but also the stories of a million other things that I wanted to know.

My mom’s best friends? Who she dated? Where she worked? What kind of car did she drive?

I now have about 10 pages of notes that I took that night.

After we talked, I realized that most of my details of my grandfather’s death were far from factual. The question became, do I make it real? Or do I let it play out in my way?

Anyway.

I talked to Debbie yesterday. And she asked if I was still writing. It felt good to know she cared.

Someday, I’ll let her read it, reminding her that it’s my version of what I remember hearing around the dinner table.

Now on to Chapter 24.

Dear Pen Pal.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

Last night I started out to write a post about my freshman year at Georgetown College.  

Perhaps this will be that post.  

In late summer of 1983, I attended a freshman orientation.  I remember two things about it.  

The first person who saw me on campus that day, walked up and said, and I quote, “Hi, my name is Karen. Are you saved?”

I should have immediately taken a gap year, transferred to EKU, and attended the state of Kentucky’s party school.  

I did not do that.  

I do not remember my response, but I do remember to this day, thinking what an odd way of making friends.  

At some point during the day, I met a guy named Gary.  Without looking through a yearbook, I have no idea what his last name is.  

We instantly hit it off and by the end of the day, had agreed to be roommates.  

Fun fact:  I was told when filling out paperwork to live on campus, that if you said you had asthma you would not be put in the freshman dorm and instead would be in the new dorms on the other side of campus.  Dorms that had air conditioning.  Turns out this was absolutely true.  

In mid-August, I put all of my worldly belongings into my 1971 Ford Galaxy and drove it to campus.  This consisted of clothes.  A few books.  And not much else.  

However, we were determined to have a cool room, so by the end of August we’d bought a cool couch and a recliner at the local thrift store.  The recliner was bright green and the vinyl covering had seen far better days.  Somewhere I have photos of all of this. 

Gary was from St. Louis, was in the ROTC and LOVED Christian rock music.  Petra was his favorite band, and by the end of the first semester, it was a favorite of mine as well.  

Funny, how you get caught up in what everyone else is doing.  The only reason I attended church as long as I did, was because I loved the music.  In fact, long after I stopped believeing I’d attend church, just to sing the hymns I grew up with.  By the end of my first year at Georgetown, I had bought albums by Sandy Patty and Amy Grant and of course Petra.  El Shaddai.

About halfway thru the fall semester, Gary was talking with a friend of his on the phone.  Attached to the wall.  With a cord.  (Remind me to tell you about having an answering machine).  He was talking to his friend Valerie who he went to high school with.  She wanted to know if he wanted cookies or brownies in a care package.  He asked me my preference, and I said brownies, and a few days later a package arrived with brownies.  

We were excited to get them because getting packages at college was fun.  This went on for a few more weeks and eventually, I sent Valerie a thank you letter.  She wrote me back.  I wrote her back.  And thus began the back and forth of letters between Valerie and Jeff.   

The letters were silly.  Lists of questions we had for the other person.  Thoughts about school.  Thoughts about the world.  At the time her favorite perfume was Lauren, by Ralph Lauren, and she’d spritz the letters. She’d send boxes.  I’d send boxes.  

This continued into the spring semester.  With both of us sending three, four, five letters a week.  Multiple letters at a time.  Numbered of course.  

Sometime in mid-February, and I don’t know how it came up, it was suggested that I go visit her over spring break.  And I did.  My Aunt, and her boyfriend at the time, drove me to St. Louis.  With her kids.  We went up in the St. Louis Arch.  We toured the church beneath it.  And on a Sunday afternoon, Val and her parents picked me up and took me to their home. 

It was a perfectly lovely week.  We laughed.  We had fun.  And the ONLY thing I remember about the whole week is that we saw Footloose at the movie theater, with her friends.  It was on Friday night, the last night I’d be there.  Footloose will always be the movie of my freshman year of college.  Let’s hear it for the boys.  

On Saturday, my aunt came back to pick me up.  

On Monday, school started again.  

And I think I got one or two more letters after I visited.  

She stopped writing.  I stopped writing.  

And that was the end of that.  Never to be heard from again.

But. 

Here’s the fun part.  

Every letter that I ever, ever, ever received from the time I was eight or nine until well into my late 20’s, is in a box in my office.  Including every letter I ever received from Val.  

Part of me thinks I should toss them.  

Part of me thinks I should look her up and see what happened to her.

Part of me thinks I should open up ALL the letters and reminiscence.  

Part of me says, wait till I’m dead and let Adam deal with them.  

Gary, didn’t return for our sophomore year.  And I never heard from him again either.  

Fun story about Gary.  One day his alarm went off, he got up, showered, dressed and left for ROTC stuff, only to find out someone (NOT ME) had fucked with his alarm and set it two hours early.  He arrived at 4:00 a.m. instead of 6:00.  We had a good laugh about that.  

In the meantime, I haven’t written a letter in 20 years.  But if in fact, you were one of the people I corresponded with in my 20’s, Jayne Sadlon, and Julia Roberts then I still have those letters. 

Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Picture this. Sicily 1902.

Actually, the date is summer, 1983. I have just graduated from high school. I’m working at Wendy’s and mowing a friend’s lawn to make money.

The weekends are spend going to Rocky Horror in Lexington, to a dollar cinema in Chevy Chase that ceased to exist around a million years ago.

A typical Saturday night involved, picking up my friends. Stephanie. Scott. Kendra. The list goes on. I would drive until I wrecked my car. Actually, Stephanie wrecked my car, as I was teaching her to drive.

We’d drive to Lexington, and then stop at the drive thru liquor store on the way into Lexington. We’d ask for a bottle of cheap vodka and was never, ever carded. The glory of drive through liquor stores and friends who looked over 21. Actually, I don’t think they cared.

The truth was, the county I grew up in was dry. No liquor sales. Not ever. Period.

In college we’d talk about going West which was the name of the liquor store just over the county line, West Liquors. It also had a drive thru.

We’d drive thru the liquor store, and then stop for orange juice at a convenience store.

We’d find parking near the theater, and then pour the vodka into the orange juice. We’d pass it around and it only took a sip or two for most of us to swear we were tipsy.

Finally, at 11:50 we get out of my 1971 Ford Galaxy and walk toward the Chevy Chase Cinema.

The movie is The Rocky Horror Picture Show. I saw that move 50+ times ove the course of the last year. I know all of the lines. I know all of the actors.

We take a seat and then at exactly 12:01, the movie starts.

Michael Rennie was ill
The Day the Earth Stood Still
But he told us where we stand
And Flash Gordon was there
In silver underwear
Claude Rains was The Invisible Man
Then something went wrong
For Fay Wray and King Kong
They got caught in a celluloid jam
Then at a deadly pace
It Came From Outer Space
And this is how the message ran

We brought all the props. We screamed out all of the added dialogue.

We were far from virgins. By the end of summer, I’d seen the movie more than 50 times.

Sometime in the middle of the summer, on a rainy night, my friend Stephanie was driving. She pulled onto the street, skidded and ended up hitting a truck.

It’s when I learned that auto insurance goes with the car, not the driver, her father could pay for the damage, and it was the end of a car that I would give a million bucks to still be driving today.

A 1971 Ford Galaxy, with red leather interior and a creamy off-white exterior. 15,000 miles, only driven by my mom’s bosses, wife.

At the end of the movie, we’d stand and celebrate the success that was our attendance at the movie.

Then we’d find my. The small bottle of vodka, properly disposed of in the trash barrel on the street. Any hope of tipsiness long gone.
We’d laugh about how awesome we were to know all the feedback.
And I’d drive us home.

In Georgetown, I’d drop everyone off at their cars, or their homes.

Then I’d drive Stephanie and me, to Sadieville.

The ritual, repeated itself until we all left to go our separate ways at the end of the summer.

In August, I’d start Georgetown College. Baptist College. No drinking. No girls in your dorm room. Only having had dancing for the past 4 years.

Fun fact. This was a post about my Freshman year at Georgetown, and ended up being about the summer after my senior year of high school.

More to come later.

Go Apes!!!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

A friend of mine, who I’ve known since elementary school, just celebrated her 60th birthday.  This means that I’ve known her for 4,786 years.  

We met in elementary school at Great Crossing Elementary.  GO APES!!!

The school is so old, that they’ve closed it, turned it into an office building and built a great big new high school with the name Great Crossing High School.  PS.  I’m about 99% sure that my elementary school was a first through twelfth grade school when it was built in 1583.  

It was called Great Crossing, because our indigenous friends, we stole the land from, called it that, because buffalo, before we killed them all, used to cross the creek near the location of our school.  

I digress.  

My friend turned 60.  

Which reminded me that I’m about to turn 60.  (Shop early.  Shop often!)

How the fuck am I about to turn 60?

The point is, that for her birthday, and because the world is a great big dumpster fire at the moment, she decided to do 30 days of questions about books, authors, reading habits etc.  

What is your favorite non-fiction book?

Who is your favorite author?

What is the first book you read as a child?

What’s your favorite book series?  

It’s been fun.  It’s been distracting.  

Today’s question and I quote:  Your preferred way to read, with percentages.

Meaning do you read an actual book?  Do you read a digital copy?  Audio books?  Books on tape?  Etc.  

I answered:

Books.  Actual real live books.  Always. 

Except:

In my life I have listened to one audio book.  Actually 2.  I listened to a murder mystery in the 90’s on my cassette player, and I hated it.  And.  I listed to an Audible recording of a book in 2014.  The Talented Mister Ripley.  Didn’t like that either.  

Then.  

In the summer of 2003, my friend Michelle read East of Eden by John Steinbeck, aloud to me, as we drove cross country from NYC to San Diego.  

The back story.  

I was accepted into grad school in the spring of 2003.  And being me, that was full of drama that I should share here, because to my knowledge most everyone who knows me would have had no idea.  And all of you would love to hear the story.  

I was going to attend the University of California, in San Diego, to FINALLY get my MFA in lighting.  I say FINALLY, because I’d attempted this two other times before I got to San Diego and finished it.  

In July of 2003, I flew to San Diego and found an apartment.  Fun fact.  Do NOT go to San Diego during Comic Con and hope to find a hotel under a million dollars, that is clean, safe, and livable. The hotel I stayed in was questionable at best. 

By the end of the weekend, I’d seen a production of Falsettos at Diversionary Theater, and signed a lease on an apartment.  And somehow lost a friend, and I still have no idea why.  

A month later, I put my shit in a 24’ U-Haul and started the trek cross country.  I was driving and my friend Michelle was riding shotgun navigating.   

The first day, we got to Kentucky.  Lexington.  Michelle was there to see her mom.  I was there to see my mom.  A 10 hour stop to hug some necks and say hello.  I also picked up two pieces of antique furniture for my friend Jay from high school and college, who lived in L.A. and I was cheaper than a shipping company. 

Day 2.  We get in the truck and continue our drive west.  

Fun fact.  

As you drive west in a U-Haul truck, there aren’t a lot of music choices.  You are constantly hitting the search button on the radio or you have static.  There was no Sirius.  There was no attaching the phone to the truck.  It was FM all the way baby.  

Fun fact:  As you drive toward the middle of the country, sliding into the south, there are two types of stations available.  Country.  Jesus.  Nothing else.  You might find Billy Joel on a station long enough to hear half of Uptown Girl, before the static kicked in, or it was replaced by country or Jesus.  

By the end of the first third of the second day, we were tired, hungry, and annoyed with the radio.  

I don’t know how it came to happen, but somehow, Michelle ended up opening the copy of East of Eden I’d bought before the trip because it was Oprah’s book of the month.  

She turned to page one, and opened it and read: 


THE SALINAS VALLEY is in Northern California. It is a long narrow swale between two ranges of mountains, and the Salinas River winds and twists up the center until it falls at last into Monterey Bay.

I remember my childhood names for grasses and secret flowers. I remember where a toad may live and what time the birds awaken in the summer—and what trees and seasons smelled like—how people looked and walked and smelled even. The memory of odors is very rich.

For three and a half days she read aloud to me, as I drove across the American dessert.  I couldn’t take a turn as I get violently car sick when I read in a car.  And she didn’t mind that I was driving the big truck.  

She read.  I drove. 

We only took breaks when we were in a city that I had to navigate.  

There were times when we’d pull into a gas station and she’d continue to read to the end of the chapter.  We’d stop for food once, and she’d read another 15 minutes, becaue we were engrossed in the book.  

She got us to the end of Part 3 about 90 minutes before we got to San Diego. 

I have to say it is the best way to enjoy a book ever.  We were able to talk about it while we were stopped for food.  We got excited for cliff hangers when we stopped for gas.  And we were disappointed we wouldn’t finish the book together.

I still hate that I had to read part 4 on my own like a regular person, when she flew off to Michigan after our trip cross country. (Ask me about that story). 

So.  

I highly recommend the book.  It’s awesome.  

I highly recommend letting your best friend read it to you.  

And I highly recommend having your best friend read it to you as you drive across the American Southwest avoiding Jesus.  

New Kid In Town

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t written publicly in a while.  

Privately I’m 30,000 words into a novel about…well something.  

However, I do miss writing for an audience.  Actually, I miss it a lot.  

I have a million ideas.  Seriously.  If I was more motivated.  More driven.  More focused.  I’d have probably already signed a trillion-dollar book deal.  Or at least have published a pamphlet I leave on people’s cars.  I enjoy it a lot.  

So to back up, on Sunday, I worked a very long shift.  And I mean very long.  It was very busy.  It was crazy. We are at the end of restaurant week and to be honest, it’s been a great help to an otherwise boring spring.  

When I came upstairs from the office at 4:00 to check in on the staff, make sure the doors were open and inspect the dining room Cher was playing on the speakers.  I smiled to myself.  Who doesn’t love Cher.  Although, it did make me remember that my 23 year old host from Norway has no idea who Cher is but that’s another story.  

As the night started at 4:00, the music continued.  I learned that the station was a Cher station on Pandora.  The music continued and as it did, the songs I knew continued.  One right after another.  And every song that played had a story.  Dolly, Journey, Billy, The Bee Gee’s, even Elvis.  

My young host and servers were all hanging out waiting for the night to begin and as the songs played I kept them entertained with a story about each one.  And is always the case, I thought to myself, this would be a great writing exercise.  Sharing music stories with all of you.  

This is the first.  It might be my last and only one.  But it IS my first. 

New Kid in Town:  Eagles.  1976/1977. 

For me it’s January 1977. 

It’s snowing.  It’s been snowing for 12 months.  

We missed the last day of school before Christmas break, which was supposed to be the day of our Christmas party.  It’s now the middle of January.  It’s still snowing.  It’s been almost a month, and we have still not been back to school.  For almost 8 days we didn’t leave our house.  Our road, Carrick Road, has not been plowed in a week.  Our yard, stretches out for a 100-yards, even though, 50 feet from our house, it’s supposed to drop 5 feet to the road.  It is snowy.  

When the plows finally clear a one lane path, my parents need to go back to work.  I’m in 6th grade and my mom the worrier won’t let my brother and I stay home by ourselves.  

On the first day of clear roads, we get up at 6:30, get dressed and by 7:00 are on our way to Lexington with our parents.  We’ll stay at my mom’s office with her, while my dad goes to his job.  

It is snowing.  Hard.  The snow in the headlights looks like a scene from some space movie.  There is snow on both sides of the road.  My father has both hands tight on the steering wheel.  He is hunched over, paying attention.  You can tell he knows it’s his job to drive, to get us to our destination in one piece.    

A song plays on the radio station WLAP, 630 am.  New Kid In Town by the Eagles.   The song wraps up and a DJ tells us about the weather.  The news.  They continue to talk as my dad slowly maneuvers the slippery roads in his pick up truck

There is no talking. 

We drive.    

My mother lights another cigarette, she hates traveling in the snow.  She will smoke non-stop until we arrive at her office. 

After what seems like 6 hours we finally arrive in Lexington on Newtown Pike.  The roads clear.  There is a collective sigh of relief as the worst of our trip is behind us.  Finally, we arrive at 200 Cox Street.  A tile and carpet subcontracting building.  

We have made it alive.  My mother is happy.  

We get out of the truck, and climb the icy concrete steps to the cold aluminum sided building she works in. She unlocks the door.  We are the only ones there.  She flips on the over head fluorescent lights and turns on the heat.  There is no plumbing in her office so they keep the heat off when no one is there.  It’s about 4* and won’t be warm till around the time we eat lunch. 

She is a bookkeeper.  She has been a bookkeeper for years.  She started this job, working for my uncle three years ago.  Her office is wood paneled, covered in maps.  There are sample books of carpet and tile everywhere.  The walls, the “art”, the maps on the all are all yellowed from years of smoking in the office.  The office smells of damp cold air and cigarette smoke.  

My brother and I will spend the day here.  I’m 11 but my mother doesn’t trust my brother and I to spend the day alone at home.  We will go to her office every day.  We sit on the floor if anyone else is there, as she only has one chair and it’s hers.  There are two offices behind hers is occupied by the man who runs the business.  The back office, the owner of the company, I haven’t seen in weeks.  We get settled and we countdown the 8 hours wait until we can go home again.  This pattern repeats itself, every day till the second week of February.

I wander around the office.  Looking at calendars.  A map of Lexington.  The blueprints of a school they have been hired to carpet and tile.  I go through drawers.  I open boxes.  It’s 8:45 and I’m bored out of my mind.    My one consolation is that I can read.  Once I figure out where to plant myself, I’ll pull out a book and get settled.  

Today I am reading a book called Today I Am a Ham.  I love reading.  It’s saved me from my life more times than I can count.  

My mom turns on her radio, pours a cup of coffee, lights a cigarette and starts to work.  I can hear the sound of the adding machine and typewriter.  The phone rings, Good Morning, L. Standafer Company.  My mother has a phone voice.  She is a different person when she answers the phone.  Calm.  Kind.  Relaxed.   Not at all how she talks to us.   

She answers the questions.  Takes notes.  Say’s goodbye and hangs up.  She goes back to work.  

I wander around the building.  Into the warehouse, which is not heated.  I can see my breath as I walk around looking at rolls of carpet and boxes of tiles.  I eventually find myself in her boss’s office.  It is filled with blueprints.  Even to this day, I’ve been fascinated by floor plans.  I look through them, thinking one day I might like to be an architect. 

I seat myself in her boss’s empty chair. I pretend to be the boss, picking up the phone.  Opening and shutting drawers.  Finally, I pull out my book to read.  The time goes by faster when I am reading.  I open the book to the first page.   I’m a little old for it, but I had it at home and it’s been a favorite for years.  I read, and read, and read, and read, and read.  I start to get drowsy. I close my eyes for a second, and I’m asleep.  

When I open my eyes, it’s time for lunch.  We eat boloney sandwiches, with potato chips and dessert is a Little Debbie oatmeal pie.  After lunch the day repeats itself, with my mom answering the phone, me reading and my brother doing who knows what. 

At 4:30 my father arrives, to start the drive back home.  It’s as treacherous as the morning drive.  

Everyday for 6 weeks I hear the song New Kid In Town.  And to this day, when it plays, I can see myself squeezed in to the middle of the pick up truck, listening to the lyrics, followed by the news on WLAP.  

I have a love hate relationship with this song.  It’s a lovely song, but the music, the lyrics, take me back to the winter of 1977 and my long trek to the 200 Cox Street.  

Blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue, blue.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Tonight was busy at work.  

Very, very busy.  

We were fully staffed, and ready to go, so I actually stayed out of the way and let the team do their thing.  I was able to get payroll started for the week and catch up on a few things that I’d not done since being back from NYC.  

Around 7:30 I went upstairs, to check in with the FOH manager, who likes to call her kids around 7:30.  While we were at the host stand talking a three top walked in.  I explained that we did not have room for them, and wouldn’t have room for them for about an hour.  

The manager, tapped me on the shoulder and told me I should seat them at table 13, because the reservation for the table was already 15 minutes late and she didn’t think they were going to show.  

I looked at the three top, said what the hell, let’s gamble and roll the dice and I gave them the table. 

At this point the manager took a break from the door and I took over.  

30 seconds after she left, the reservation we thought wouldn’t show appeared in front of me.  

Fuckity, FUCK, FUCK.  

I explained that because they were late, we no longer had a table for them.  They were indignant for about 3 seconds, and then pivoted to the nice routine.  They were so suite and nice about it, that I made it work.  By giving them a table we were going to need in 20 minutes.  

I call this kicking it down the road, hoping against hope that someone along the way, will skp dessert and just pay the check and leave.  

When I told them I could get them seated, the woman I’d been speaking with asked me if I wanted a hug and a kiss.  I jokingly said, I’m not easy, you have to at least buy me dinner and a drink first.  They all laughed, and I got them seated.

5 minutes later their server appeared to let me know they had bought me a bourbon drink, as I’d explained that was my drink of my choice.  They were so sweet.  

Meanwhile, the kitchen calls for hands and I go to the window and pick up the appetizer for table 13.  I approach them and drop off the baked brie and jokingly say, you’ll never guess who walked through the door 5 minutes after I sat you.  The reservation we didn’t think would show.  

They immediately became apologetic and I assured them I didn’t tell them this to upset them, I thought it was par for the course, and that sometimes you gamble and you win and sometimes you gamble and you lose.  

The father asked me three or four times, if I was sure I didn’t need the table.  I repeatedly said, absolutely not, I only wanted them to enjoy dinner.  That’s all I needed.  

He introduced himself and then asked me to join them for dinner.  I laughed and said I had to get back to work.  We shook hands and I casually asked if they were local.  

The father and mother lived in Massachusetts and their daughter explained that she lived in Pennsylvania.  In the blue part of the state.  

I took a deep breath.  Do I respond?  Or do I let it pass.  Never, ever talk politics at work.  

However, It suddenly felt like that she’d shared the secret code word.  

I said that it was awesome that she lived in the blue part of the state and that it was a shame it wasn’t bigger this year.  She agreed and said that she had done her part.  

I replied, “So you understood the assignment.”

She said, “Not only did I understand the assignment but my in laws, who are life long Republicans also understood the assignment and voted blue for the first time in their life.  

I felt goosebumps rise on my arm.  

I told them that they were exactly who I needed to meet tonight after the week that we had.  

She also went on to say, that in her neighborhood on Monday, she had no less that 10 door knockers ring her door bell, and ask who she was voting for all canvasing for Harris.  Not one Republican came to her door, and that she’d been shocked by the results.  

I told her that I was going to tell this story on Facebook tonight, as I think it’s important for all of us to know that we are not alone.  

I thanked them again for being so nice, the father asked me again to join them for dinner, I shook his hand one more time.  Told them to keep up the good work and took my leave.  

I really did get goosebumps talking to them and it really made me smile that they thought that they could trust me and shared this with me.  

Spread the word folks. 

Kiss today goodbye. And point me toward tomorrow. We did what we had to do

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

I’d like to speak to a helper.

Mr. Rodger’s taught me that there always people looking to help.

It’s November 8, 2024.

At least it was when I started writing this post. It might be tomorrow when I finish. It might be Christmas Eve.

You’ll know when you read this.

November 8, 2024 is three days after the presidential election. It won’t come as a surprise to any of you that I was not happy with the outcome. I wasn’t surprised with the outcome. But I was not happy.

To say that I was devastated, is an understatement. I truly had hope that the national nightmare that is the electee would be over on Tuesday. I mean, seriously, the American people had to realize that he was a horrible human being.

Alas, I was proven wrong.

I’m writing, because at least 80% of my friends are artists. That estimate might actually be low. They might not all call themselves artists but they are. My friends consist of scenery designers, costume designers, sound designers, lighting designers, actors, screenwriters, novelists, playwrights, academic writers, painters, singers, guitarists, pianists, drummers, knitters, dancers, film makers, wood workers, teachers, chefs, bakers, cake decorators, directors, bartenders, barbers, hair dressers, makeup artists, photographers, costume construction, craftsmen, florists, landscapers, and poets, to name a few.

Even more of my friends are in roles that support the arts, as artistic directors, professors, teachers, fund raising, ushers, librarians, event planners, box office employees, and my favorite which is actually more artist than they are given credit for stage managers.

I have about 6 people I know who aren’t artists. Yet.

And whenever, things get difficult, whether it’s personal, professional, academic etc, they all insist that the best way through the situation is to turn to art. I’ve seen post after post on Facebook, reminding people who are artists to keep making and sharing art, because it is a coping tool and reminds us all that we are not alone.

I started calling myself a writer about a year ago. There are probably a few people out there that would argue that point, but I don’t listen to them.

I’m a writer.

I’m turning to my art to help me understand the emotions that I’m feeling.

Adam and I went to NYC on Monday. We returned home yesterday afternoon. I went to work today for the first time since Sunday. When I sat down at my desk, turned on my computer, I noticed that my text message notifications showed over 100 texts.

I knew it was a lot, but to be honest I hadn’t really looked at texts since Tuesday afternoon.

I checked out Tuesday night around 11:00 as the results of the election started to come in. I needed to process. I needed to mourn. I needed to pull my thoughts together. Except for show posts, I’ve only posted a couple of things on social media. I didn’t respond to texts, and I didn’t engage on Facebook.

Adam and I had gone to NYC to see Ragtime at City Center. It is my favorite show, and if it’s not Adam’s it’s a close second. It was the last show we would see on our trip.

Wednesday, Adam and I went about our day, relatively quietly. We held hands, but we didn’t spend a lot of time talking. It wasn’t until after we saw Our Town at 2:00 that we started to come out of the funk. It was a nice reminder that life is short, and that the best you can do is appreciate it while you can.

After the show, we had dinner, then walked to a restaurant near City Center, found a spot in the bar, and had a cocktail and dessert. We were able to relax and start to feel better. We were both looking forward to Ragtime.

At 7:15, we walked across the street to the theater, found our seats and got comfortable.

At 7:35 the house lights dimmed, leaving only a piano center stage lit by a single spotlight.

The first notes of music played, and energy coursed through the theater. There was immediate applause.

To back up a little:

Ragtime is a musical with music by Stephen Flaherty, lyrics by Lynne Ahrens, and a book by Terrence McNally. (Fun Fact: Lynn Ahrens wrote the lyrics to a number of your favorite Schoolhouse Rock Songs). The show is more than a musical. It is operettic in scale and its message is life changing.

I have told this story before, but the first time I saw Ragtime was a Sunday afternoon in 1998. I was at TKTS trying to find a show to see. Nothing interested me. A man approached me with a ticket to Ragtime for 100 bucks. I said no. I kept looking. He approached me two more times and the last time I said, sure I’ll take it for 50 bucks. It was 2:50. The show started at 3:00. He said no, and I said, take the 50 now, or get nothing for it in ten minutes. He said okay, I handed him the money and sprinted (this was back when I still ran) and got to the theater to discover the ticket was third row center in the orchestra. I was dressed in cargo shorts and a t-shirt, and I still remember the girl I sat next to me, judging me for my attire.

The house lights dimmed, the orchestra started, and when Audra McDonald sang a song about why she buried her baby in a garden I started crying.

ONLY DARKNESS AND PAIN, THE ANGER AND PAIN,

THE BLOOD AND THE PAIN! I BURIED MY HEART IN THE GROUND!

IN THE GROUND.

WHEN I BURIED YOU IN THE GROUND.

I didn’t stop till the company bowed two hours later. I was hooked.

For those of you who don’t know, Ragtime is based on the book by E. L. Doctorow. It tells the story of an upperclass white family who live in New Rochelle, NY. A black couple, Coalhouse Walker, Jr, and Sarah, who have just had a baby, although they are not married, and an immigrant family consisting of Tateh and his daughter who’ve just come through Ellis Island from Latvia.

It probably goes without saying that its message might have a lot to say about the current state of America.

Halfway through the opening number you hear these lyrics:

Ladies with parasols,

Fellows with tennis balls.

There were no negroes

And there were no immigrants.

Five minutes into the show, the three families become intertwined and the story plays out from there. There is racism front and center with the use of the “n” word sounding like nails on a chalkboard.

COALHOUSE Let me pass.

CONKLIN Gladly. That will be twenty-five dollars. This is a private toll road.

COALHOUSE Since when?

CONKLIN Since some high-falutin’ ni**er and his whore and his whore’s baby thought they could drive that goddamn car of theirs any place they pleased, that’s since when.

Running away, ni**er?

COALHOUSE

I am going to find a policeman. If anyone touches my car before I return, he will answer to Coalhouse.

CONKLIN

Tell him Fire Chief Will Conklin sends his regards!

Two scenes later the immigrant father is offered money…for the sale of his daughter.

Meanwhile, the well to do father, is off traversing the world, while his wife, who he thinks knows her place is at home tending to the family.

As the father leaves for his trip Mother sings:

You have places to discover,

Oceans to conquer,

You need to know

I’ll be there at the window

While you go on your way.

I accept that.

I won’t bore you with the rest of the plot. I will say, if you get the chance to see it, do so. The music is truly sensational.

It’s Wednesday night, the house lights have lowered, the music starts, with just a piano playing the melody of the opening song. The audience shouted their approval.

There was applause a dozen times in the opening number. Applause for actors, but more importantly applause for message.

It didn’t stop there. There were two standing ovations in act one that brought the show to a halt.

First for Wheels of a Dream:

Yes, the wheels are turning for us, girl.

And the times are starting to roll.

Any man can get where he wants to

If he’s got some fire in his soul.

We’ll see justice, Sarah,

And plenty of men

Who will stand up

And give us our due.

Oh, Sarah, it’s more that promises.

Sarah, it must be true.

A country that let’s a man like me

Own a car, raise a child, build a life with you…

Then the end of Act One when a woman with an ungodly voice sang:

Give the people

A day of peace.

A day of pride.

A day of justice

We have been denied.

Let the new day dawn,

Oh, Lord, I pray…

We’ll never get to heaven

Till we reach that day.

There were another two standing ovations during act two.

You were my sky,

My moon and my stars and my ocean.

We can never go back to before.

We can never go back to before!

We aren’t going back!!!

And included a prolonged ovation for the 11 o’clock number of Make Them Hear You.

Your sword can be a sermon

or the power of the pen

Teach every child to raise his voice

and then my brothers, then

Will justice be demanded

By ten million righteous men.

Make them hear you.

When they hear you

I’ll be near you, again.

The song is written to hold the last note a long time. On Wednesday, he held it, and held it, and held it, and held it. When he finally let it go, the audience rose in unison, and stopped the show. The conductor turned to the audience and waited for permission to move on.

You might get a sense from the lyrics I shared that the show was a perfect antidote to the Tuesday election. And everyone in the theater knew it.

City Center in NYC seats 2,257 people. The show has been sold out for weeks. Every seat was taken. You have not experienced live theater until you are a part of an audience that stands in unison, in the middle of a show. When the collective is moved in such a way that they know they are experiencing something special.

That was the feeling Wednesday night.

2,257 people needed love. They needed support. They more than anything needed to know that they were not alone in their mourning.

My favorite part of the evening, was in act 2 when Mother’s younger brother (fun fact, the white people don’t have names, they are referred to as Mother, Father, Grandfather, Younger Brother) yells at Father.

YOUNGER BROTHER: I did not hear such a eulogy at Sarah’s funeral. I did not hear you say then that death and the destruction of property were inexcusable. You are a complacent man with no thought of history. You have traveled everywhere and learned nothing. I despise you.

The audience erupted into cheers. Applause halting the show.

I cried multiple times throughout the show. Because of the music. The performances. The message.

I cried because my emotions were on my sleeve.

I cried because I thought better of my fellow Americans.

I cried not because we lost the election, but because more than 50% of Americans thought a convicted rapist, felon, insurrectionist, adulter was a better choice.

I cried for my female friends who are now subject to laws and regulations that could kill them.

I cried for my trans friends who if they aren’t killed by their neighbors are going to be subject to even worse laws.

I cried for my LGBT friends who live in the wrong parts of the country or are terrified that marriage equality will be over turned with the new administration.

I cried for my friends who suffer from pre-existing conditions who will suffer the consequences when the ACA is repealed.

I cried for my friends raising children who’s access to public education is going to be affected. Who have to find a way to explain to their 9year-old that the man who will be president is NOT a nice man.

I cried for the embarrassment it is to be an American in the world standing when most of the civilized world can see the man who would be president for what and who he is.

I cried because one party offered to help you buy your first home and the other party promised to remove fluoride from water and Americans chose the fluoride party.

I cried because Americans are so afraid of people who aren’t white that they’ll do anything to keep them out of their neighborhood.

I cried because young white men overwhelmingly supported the man who would be president, saying he says what they are thinking, which scares the fuck out of me.

I cried because more than 50% of the country thinks I’m exaggerating as I write these things, even though the man who would be president, ran on a platform supporting these platforms, but we are supposed to know that he doesn’t mean what he says.

I cried that the man who would be president speaks on a 5th grade level, and yet much of America says he speaks for them, and it’s not wrong about the 5th grade level.

I cried because they ran on a platform of America is for Americans and Americans only.

I cried because they want to destroy the American educational system and replace it with a program of vouchers that only helps rich, mostly white, kids.

I cried because I worry that my love of Adam will be used to cause harm to the two of us.

I cried, because it hurts.

Beyond that road,

Beyond this lifetime,

That car full of hope

Will always gleam

With the promise of happiness

And the freedom we’ll live to know

We’ll travel with heads held high

Just as far as our hearts can go

And we will ride,

Each child will ride

On the wheels of a dream!

The audience rose again in unison. The actors bowed. The applause went on and on.

The house lights came up.

And the orchestra played us out.

Adam and I sat in our seats, for the five or six minutes the orchestra played. In silence. Our hands grasped together.

Finally, we stood for the last time, and exited the theater.

As we walked into the unseasonably warm evening and turned right to head home I realized I felt better.

Sitting with 2,257 other people, who were all crying. All for variations of the same reason.

When we sat at the beginning of the show, to get to our seats, the woman next to us had to stand. She was very old, and was none too happy to let us by. But about half way thru act two I looked over, and she was wiping tears from her eyes. She was as moved as we were.

On Wednesday night, art made me feel better. Art made me realize that we have work to do. Art made me realize that I can do my part. Art made me know that the first thing I need to do is to take care of myself.

I’ve been gentle with myself since then. I have avoided text messages. I have mostly avoided social media. And I have reached out to multiple friends to see how they are doing.

They all respond the same, and yet as I said, they are all artists and they are all starting to grasp that reality. My friend Michelle reminded me she had rehearsal for her band on Monday night. Another friend is starting rehearsal for a play with teenagers. Another friend just opened a show that has an equaling compelling message. Another friend just threw out their proposed theater season, and is exploring shows that will offer both a message and comfort to their patrons.

The artists I know are protesting. Slowly at first, but their message is loud and clear.

We have work to do. Get out of our way and watch us create change in the world.

Whether you like it or not.