lgbt

Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager.

The first time I ever had chicken fried steak was in Memphis, Texas. Adam and I had driven from NYC to Memphis, Texas to see his family. It was a two-day drive (should have been three) that started in an intense snow storm.

If you’ve never had chicken fried steak, it is a thin cut of beef, pounded even thinner, coated in flour then pan fried, and finished with cream gravy. When done right, you should be able to cut the steak with your fork. It should also be melt in your mouth delicious.

I can still remember that day clear as anything. It was coldish, and we parked in the city square where Gloria’s restaurant was located. We got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Adam put his hand on my back and told me I was going to love it. We walk in and someone from across the restaurant says, “Hey, are you Kelly’s boy? I haven’t seen you in forever.” Adam waved and said that he was. We were told to sit where we wanted.

We grabbed a table near the middle of the restaurant, that was open. There were several other tables occupied by people enjoying a midday lunch of Texas home cooked comfort food. We looked at the menus, and Adam said he didn’t need a menu, he was getting country fried steak. I told him I was going to get the same, as I’d never had it. He assured me this would be one of the best versions I’d ever had.

A waitress came over and got our order. Two country fried steaks, and two Diet Cokes. She takes the menu and Adam gently reaches out for my hand. He squeezes it and I squeeze his back in return. We sit there talking as I look around.

It is a very simple café, no frills. Plain tables. Paper napkins. In the back of the restaurant, sat a very thin older woman, taking a drag off a cigarette. It had been a long time since I’d been in a restaurant that allowed smoking. For all I knew that might have been Gloria herself.

We sit there holding hands as he tells me what the rest of the afternoon will look like. We are going to see his cousins. He’s going to drive me around and show me the town he grew up in. And we are going to go a little further out of town and he’ll show me the house they built when he was a really little.

I wish I could say, I was relaxed and comfortable during this conversation. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I was holding a man’s hand in a VERY small, very conservative Texas town. Were we going to get beaten up?

Here’s the thing that straight people don’t deal with that the LGBT community does. Internalized homophobia. The paralyzing fear that someone might find out your deepest darkest secret.

As I tell this story, I was 43. I’d been mostly out my whole adult life. I first came out in Atlanta in 1987. But even then, there were people who didn’t know. I was secretive in my professional life. I was secretive with my parents. And I certainly wasn’t walking around holding anyone’s hand.

Yes, I said my parents. I didn’t hide the fact that I was gay from my parents. I also didn’t share the truth either. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment, with several boyfriends. My parents came to share meals at these homes. There were Advocate magazines on the coffee table. There was a rainbow postcard on my fridge. We just didn’t talk about it.

Adam was shocked when he learned this. About four weeks into us dating, he told me that we couldn’t move forward if I didn’t tell my mom about him. I wanted to ask him why.

I loved my mother as much as I could. But she was not interested in my life. She barely knew what classes I had taken in high school, let alone what I was doing in grad school. Our phone calls consisted of how’s the weather, how’s everyone doing, have you talked to so and so, and when are you coming home. She really didn’t need to know that I had a new boyfriend.

Adam was adamant.

A week before Valentine’s Day in 2009, while standing in Hell’s Kitchen on the Upper West Side, on Eighth Avenue, I told my mother I was gay. I told my her I had a date with a boy on Valentine’s Day. His name was Adam. That I liked him a lot. She was non plussed. She wasn’t surprised, but I wouldn’t say she was interested either. We talked for a few more minutes and then we hung up. That was done, I could keep my new boyfriend.

The other thing that Adam did, which I had never done before, was hold my hand everywhere we went. Walking down the street. In the grocery store. On the subway.

And eventually, in Memphis, Texas.

To say I was self-conscience, is an understatement. I learned to hold my breath and just go with it. I was convinced that we were going to get beaten up any minute. But it never happened and as the years passed, I stopped giving a fuck. About people knowing in my professional life, and about holding my boyfriend’s hand.

Now we hold hands everywhere. In the airport. In the mall. At dinner in a restaurant. In Kentucky and even in Texas. I keep my fingers crossed that we’ll never get beaten up.

I now love that he unconsciously reaches for my hand. That whenever we are together, whether at home or in public, that I’m only a few seconds away from him reaching for me. It’s comforting and loving. It’s one of the things I like most about him.

There we sat holding hands at Glorias, in Memphis Texas, when our waitress arrived with two chicken fried steaks. It was beyond delicious. I never picked up my knife, the fork cut right through it. The steak was tender. The breading was perfect. And the cream gravy might have been the best I’d ever had.

We ate, continuing to talk about what our time in Texas would look like. Holding hands the whole while.

Adam’s and my relationship is not perfect. Is anyone’s. But he’s made me a better man. And he’s done a lot to eradicate my internalized homophobia. At 61, I don’t much give a fuck anymore. If the sight of two middle aged, well one middle aged, one old man, holding hands upsets you, I really think you need to reevaluate your life.

Because at the end of the day…LOVE IS LOVE.

And sometimes it comes with a serving of the best chicken fried steak you’ve ever had, covered in white gravy.

Today’s prompt was gravy.

Gonna give you barley, carrots and pertaters—

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I have always remembered things from my early childhood. Very early. Memories from when I was two or three. Very clear. Very specific memories. And they are definitely not stories that I was told and then created memories of. These are very detailed memories of a small child growing up in Kentucky.

Some of those memories:

I remember a neighbor wrecking her motorcycle in front of our home and my mother passing out because of it. Neither of them were seriously injured.

I remember making mud puddles in our back yard getting the water for the mess from the hand water pump from the kids next door.

I remember putting my hand through our front storm door, when my aunt was chasing me and trying to tie me up.

And my favorite memory from that age, is going to bed. I lived with my mom, her two sisters and my cousin Ricky. It was a four-room house, with a tiny bathroom. I slept with my mom, in a very small bedroom in the back of the house.

On the particular night in question, my mom and I were going to bed. She entered the room, smoking a cigarette, Viceroy’s if I remember correctly, and got into bed. She told me to get into bed as well. But first. I had to say good night to my stuffed animals. My favorite of my toys, was a talking Bugs Bunny Doll. You pulled the string on his back and he said, “What’s up, doc?”

I got into bed, and hugged him close and said, “Good night, Bugs Bunny.” I can see the lamp beside my mom on. She slept on the right side of the bed. Me on the left. Bugs was pulled close on the left side of me. I remember turning over, and hugging him and going to sleep.

There are so many other memories from this time, but that’s my favorite.

My mother took advantage of my love for Bugs Bunny to get me to eat vegetables. I was a very picky eater as a child. And for all of my parents faults, they never forced us to eat food we didn’t like. It was never eat it, or go hungry.

For example, when my mother made liver and onions for my father and her, we’d get a pork chop, or a piece of chicken. While I can eat liver now, it will never be a fan favorite.

However, Bugs Bunny LOVED carrots. LOVED them. So therefore, I LOVED carrots. To this day, it’s probably my favorite vegetable. I love them in any form. Raw. Roasted. Boiled. Out of a can. Out of the garden. In other dishes. Love them. Adam will often roast them in the oven, with just a bit of char. YUM!!!

I googled Bugs Bunny and carrots before starting this post. His love of carrots came from a tribute to It Happened One Night. Clark Gable chewed on carrots and this was a little appreciation from the makers of the cartoons. According to the Google, Bugs Bunny did for carrots what Popeye did for spinach. I do know that it worked on me, because I’d eat them every night as a kid. PS. I was not a fan of popeye, so I didn’t develop a love of spinach until 30 years later.

As I googled information about Bugs Bunny and carrots I learned that carrots should not be a staple for bunnies as they have a high sugar content. A great snack but should not be a staple.

It made me laugh, as I remember working at Day’s Inn restaurant in high school, out off Insterate 75. I started as a dishwasher, but was eventually promoted to cook. A one cook, short order kitchen, with hand written tickets. Fried chicken. Prime rib. Baked scrod. Western omelets. Turkey clubs. I was quick and good at it. Making $3.35 an hour back in 1904.

All of our food arrived frozen and in cans. Thus making it fucking delicious gourmet food in 1904. The carrots came in #10 cans. Giant. I’d use the industrial can opener to get them open. I dump them in a large pot. And then I’d add at least a cup of sugar, because god knows carrots aren’t sweet enough on their own. PS. #10 cans are great for putting table legs on if you need to lift the table to a counter height, which is better for your back.

After the carrots were hot, I’d dump the whole pot into the steam table, and then they’d be ready for service. The fried chicken would come with mashed potatoes (or baked potato if you paid more), a giant scoop of carrots and a garnish of a candied apple ring on a piece of iceberg lettuce. Fun fact, it took a hot minute for the chicken breasts to cook so you the server had to let the guests know that it might take a minute. Probably be a good idea to give them extra rolls or biscuits.

I was a grown ass adult, living on my own in an apartment in Atlanta before I learned that canned carrots do NOT need a cup of sugar to make them good.

Disclosure:

Adam pushes me to write, because he knows how much I love it. However, I get distracted, depressed, tired and its easier to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy than to sit down at the computer and write. He came in tonight and asked me if I was writing yet and I said no. I didn’t know what to write about. And he said carrots. Write about carrots.

So, this my friends is my composition on carrots.

I hope you enjoyed.

Why, it’s almost like being in love!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!

I was not in a great space after the 2024 presidential election.

I was in a worse space after the inauguration on January 20th.

Like most of my friends we all coped in different ways. I turned to alcohol and reading.

I kid, I kid. I’d already turned to alcohol.

The one thing I did do, was not look at my phone before bed. I limit my social media access to the 30 or so minutes that Adam takes to shower before bed. Once I’m in bed, I’ve gone back to reading fiction. I’m almost to the end of my 6th book since then.

Not as impressive as my friends who read 6 novels in a month. But I only get about 30 minutes before bed each night. The books are as varied as you can imagine. Gay love stories. Award winning fiction. Best sellers. Historical fiction.

All of this leads me to last night.

I’m currently re-reading Wally Lamb’s She’s Come Undone. It’s a disturbing book on many levels but I’m enjoying it again after reading it 20 or so years ago.

Last night the main character Deloris, is taking an English class at a community college. They are given a writing prompt to write about a daily activity that brings them pleasure.

I read the sentence. And stopped and thought to myself, what daily activity brings me pleasure. In fact I didn’t go back to reading till I made a decision.

For me it’s doing the dishes.

It’s not that I enjoy it. What I do enjoy, is that it brings Adam joy.

When we are home together, Adam almost always makes dinner.

It’s a several hour project. He cuts and chops. He bakes desserts. He preps for other projects.

It usually starts with a cocktail, and I cue up NBC nightly news. Then Wheel of Fortune. Then Jeopardy. Then I move to my computer to write. He piddles in the kitchen enjoying the process.

He uses all the pots and pans. All the measuring cups. He uses all the cutting boards and knives.

Around 10:00 he’ll announce “Five minutes.”

This is my cue to set the coffee table with cloth napkins and silverware. I get the wine glasses. Open the wine and pour. We toast and then he plates dinner, on par with a Michelin starred restaurant. The garnishes, the plating, all spectacular.

Then we head to the living room, cue up whatever show we are watching and before either of us takes a bite we toast and say we love each other.

This is our ritual.

We finish eating, sometimes finish our show, before Adam falls asleep on the couch.

I quietly get up and head to the kitchen, to do the dishes.

It never takes long, even though sometimes it’s a mess.

I get everything into the dishwasher that can go in it. I handwash the rest. I scrub down the counters and clean the stove top.

30 minutes to an hour later, I’m sitting back on the couch with a cat in my lap, a night cap on the tables, and I get to watch what I want for an hour.

60 minutes later, I tap him on the leg and tell him it’s time for bed. He’ll stir and come down to myside of the couch and sleep on my shoulder for another 20 minutes or so.

Eventually he gets up.

He goes to the kitchen and always calls out “Thanks for cleaning up, babe.”

It always makes me smile.

After almost 17 years I never mind.

Last week I even cleaned up for a dinner party that he had with friends that I didn’t attend.

Washing dishes, is the one task I do that gives me pleasure, because it makes Adam happy.

I’m not getting married today.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

This is my last gay pride post.  

Gay pride.  Will we even be allowed on the streets next year?  Dramatic?  I certainly hope so.  

As ALL of you know, Adam and I go to NYC a lot.  

We see a lot of shows. 

And we revisit the city in which we met.  

This past April’s visit was special.  We used it to celebrate my 60th birthday.  

Goddamn am I old.  

On Monday when we got there, Adam mentioned that he wanted to walk up 5th Avenue to window shop, see Rockefeller Center, the windows etc.  He also wanted to stop at Louis Vitton for cologne.  One of his favorite fragrances is from there and he wanted to see if they had a travel size.  

On Tuesday, we did just that.  We took a cab to Macy’s were we wandered through the watch department.  I have a gift card for Macy’s that I’m supposed to use on a watch, but I saw nothing I like, or could afford.  

After that, we wandered over to 5th Avenue and walked north.  

We indeed passed all of the landmarks.  

At 57th street, we passed Tiffany’s and rounded the corner to Louise Vitton.  They did not have his travel size, but he did buy a another fragrance that he liked.  When we left, we rounded the corner to head south and he said, lets go in here:  Tiffany.  

We went in, and were asked what we were looking for.   He replied,  men’s rings?  

What?  

Full disclosure.  For the past 10 years, every time we went to NYC, I’d joke that we should stop in Tiffany for a ring.  It fell on deaf ears.  Every single time.  

Last fall, I confessed to Adam that I didn’t care if we got married, but I wanted a symbol I could wear that let me know what I was his boyfriend.

Unbeknownst to me, he’d actually listened.  

We went to the fourth floor.  Men’s wedding rings.  

We were greeted by a lovely man who asked what we were looking for, then were were introduced to a woman who would help us.  

We sat down and she began to show us our options.  In silver.  I did not want gold.  I wanted silver.  

Fun fact.  The entire fourth floor is dedicated to engagement rings.  And wedding rings.  

Only 6 of them are for men in silver.  

I tried several on.  

It was not a hard decision. 

Actually, the ring we liked the best had Tiffany and Co written on it, which we did not like.  

I settled on a platinum band.  Simple. 

The woman helping us, sized the ring, and found the one I needed.  She put it on my hand and it fit like a glove.  More on that later.  

The next thing we knew we were being served champagne and cookie.  This might have had something to do with me telling her that we were getting engaged.  

She also took a photo for us, wrapped up everything in Tiffany blue packaging and sent us on our way. 

I’d told Adam that I wouldn’t wear the ring until he officially gave it to me.  

Fast forward to Friday night.  We saw The Picture of Dorian Gray.  90 minutes, and had reservations at Pastis, one of our favorite late night restaurants.  We got there early, and our table wasn’t ready.  

We walked across the street to a park to wait.  It was fun to people watch and reminisce about what the meat packing district had been when we both moved there.  It really was about meat packing for the gay community.  

We finally got a text and our table was ready.  We got back to the restaurant, and were seated at the absolutely worst table in the restaurant.  Seriously.  The worst.  

We had dinner, joking about how bad the table was.  

After dinner, we planned to walk back to our apartment.  I had to pee, but did not want to walk back down the stairs.  

As we left, Adam kept saying, we need to walk across the street.  I said no.  He said yes.  In our relationship, he wins.  

We walked across the street and sat down on a big rock.  He started to speak about us, our relationship etc.  Then he pulled out the tiffany box, opened it, and put the ring on my finger. 

I was almost moved to tears.  We kissed.   

Just then a couple walked by and I asked her to take out photo.  Turns out is was a lesbian couple who had just gotten married.  

The took our photo.  

Adam and I hugged and kissed and walked home.

By the time we got home, I realize the ring was too big.  My fingers had been swollen from the humidity when we bought it.  

The next day, we went back and traded it for a size smaller.  

I’ve worn it every day since.  

Are we married, no.  

Are we engaged?  Yes.  Although I did call him my fiancée and he told me to calm down, thus the reason for the two month delay in telling all of you.

But I wear my ring proudly every day.  And we are in the very beginning stages of figuring out what a wedding would look like.  

I’ll keep you posted. 

People will say we’re in love.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I didn’t mean to drop off the face of the earth. This past week, I spent 6 days in the theater designing lighting and directing my friends in their drag king show. It was a wonderful way to spend the week.

This is my next to last gay pride month post.

It’s the story of how Adam and I came to be.

We met on a cold January day. He approached me while I was browsing at Barnes and Noble in Union Square in New York City. His friend Jon worked there, and he’d stopped in to say hello. It was January 5, 2009, and I just happened to be looking at journals in that section of the store. I turned and bumped into him, not realizing he was behind me.

I said excuse me, and went back to browsing. For some reason he decided my excuse me wasn’t enough. He wanted to know more, so he quietly asked what I was browsing for. I admitted that I didn’t know. I was actually just wasting time until the movie started at the theater down the street. The conversation lasted about 5 minutes and he asked if he could get my number. I laughed. He asked why I was laughing and I assured him that if I gave him my number, I’d never respond. He insisted. I finally gave him my number and he entered it into his phone. He told me he’d look forward to chatting with me, touched me on the arm and walked away.

I was moved by the entire exchange.

Funny the things you remember.

About 90 minutes later a guy named John, also asked me for my number. I told him the same thing I’d told Adam. I’ll give you my number, but I’m not looking for anything, and won’t respond. He said sure you will, entered my phone number into his phone and walked away.

They both texted a three days later. About four hours apart.

Adam texted and asked me to join him for brunch on Sunday.

John texted a photo of his penis. It was a very nice penis I must say, but penises in New York City are a dime a dozen. It was brunch that intrigued me.

I still don’t know why I said yes. I was adamant that I wasn’t looking for anything, and wanted no part of a relationship.

Adam and I texted back and forth for a couple of days and finally connected at 1:00 on Saturday afternoon. He called and we chatted. There was an ease that existed in our conversation, and the exchange flowed between us. We were winding down when he said I have something to tell you. Uh. Oh. He has a boyfriend. He’s moving next week. He’s a criminal.

Instead, he said, I need you to know that I’m HIV positive.

I wait.

What’s the news he’s going to break to me?

There is silence.

I ask him if there is more.

He says no, but I want you to know he was HIV positive before we go further.

I laughed. I seriously laughed. Out loud.

I thought it was going to be something bad. Like he’s wanted by the FBI. His father’s a gangster. His ex-boyfriend is crazy and is trying to kill him. That he has three kids from a marriage in his 20’s.

He asked why I was laughing.

I assured him that I didn’t care. I hadn’t care with the other guys I’d dated who were HIV positive. I certainly didn’t care with him.

He asked if I was sure?

I laughed again and assured him that as long as he’s not wanted by the FBI, I’d meet him for brunch.

We met the next day at 12:30 for Sunday brunch. We lived a few blocks from each other in Inwood, the northernmost part of Manhattan. I didn’t have to ride the subway or take a cab. I walked the 10 blocks to the restaurant, and of course I got the street wrong. He called to see if I was still coming and I told him I’d changed my mind. I could hear the disappointment in his voice when I said, I’m kidding, I’m just kidding! I’m just down the street. Sorry I’m late. I got the address wrong. Give me five.

He laughed and told me he liked a man with a sense of humor.

I entered the restaurant and he was seated in the middle of a bank of 2-tops. He stood to welcome me. We hug. I realize that he is taller than I remember. Much taller. I say, “Oh my, you are tall.”

We sit. I stare at the menu. We begin the awkward stages of a first date. Where are you from? Where do you live? Where do you work? What do you do for fun?

We order. I learn after we order that he doesn’t like eggs. Especially the yokes. I laugh again saying that brunch was a weird choice if you don’t like eggs.

The couple next to us, have realized that we are on a first date, and are listening closely.

Surprisingly the conversation flows. There aren’t gaps or pauses as we search for something to say. We wrap up brunch. He pays, and asks me back to his place.

We walk, in the cold, casually talking about our lives. I can see his breath, as we continue our conversation, shoulder to shoulder.

We get to his apartment, and it’s NICE. Very nice. Everything in its place. Big for someone who lives alone in NYC. Two bedrooms, two bathrooms. What the fuck? He has two bathrooms? Can I move in now?

We got settled on the couch, him on the chaise, me at the other end. We talk. About our love of theater. Our love of food. Our love of NYC. Where we grew up. Our parents. Our siblings. We discover that we are both from the south. Me from Kentucky, him from Texas. We learn a lot about each other.

Eventually he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom.

We lie on the bed. Still dressed.

Funny, the Adam, that I would grow to love, would never get into bed fully clothed. To even come near the bed, you need to be freshly showered, and clean, clean, clean.

We lie on top of the comforter and hold each other for a bit whispering to each other. Then I turn over and become the little spoon. He hugs me as we lie there breathing, feeling the closeness of each other. It doesn’t take long before we are both asleep.

I wake up. It’s dark. I am aware that I’m in a strange room. There is an arm draped over my chest.

I look at my watch.

It’s 7:00.

How the fuck did that happen?

I can feel him breathing. In. Out. Gentle sighs. The same sighs that would eventually lull me to sleep every night for 17 years.

I shift and he stirs. I realize he is awake now.

We lie there with him holding me. Finally, he asks if I’m hungry.

I confess that I’m starving. We get up. It’s been a wonderful afternoon and I am happy that it’s not over. We walk to Piper’s Kilt, the Irish pub up the street from his apartment. He loves their cheeseburgers. We hold gloved hands as we walk.

It’s the first time I’ve held hands with someone in public.

I realize that I don’t much care what people think.

We get seats, have two cheeseburgers and around 9:30 we pay the check.

We sit looking at each other knowing the day is coming to an end. We get up and go outside.

It’s much colder now. The wind is blowing and it’s starting to snow, just the tiniest bit. We stand on the street chatting. I tell him I have to get home, but that I hope that we can do this again.

He hugs me. I hug him back. We hold each other for a moment. He leans down and kisses me. I kiss him back. We hug one last time and I turn and walk away.

I take about 20 steps, stop and look back. He is standing on the street watching me. I wave. We look at each other for about 10 seconds and then we both turn.

I walked home in the snow.

Stay little Valentine stay. Each day is Valentine’s day

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s 2009.  I’ve met a wonderful guy named Adam.  

He’s surprised that I’ve never actually told my mother or my family for that matter, that I was gay.  

I explain that it’s because she doesn’t really ask about my life.  

She couldn’t tell you one class I took in high school.  College.  Grad School.  

She didn’t know what I did when I worked at my corporate job.  She barely knows what I do now and I’m a waiter.  

It’s a week before Valentine’s Day and he says to me, that he’ll cook me dinner BUT only if I tell my mom about him and make sure she knows that it’s not just a friend, but a boyfriend.  

What’s funny is that I’ve never kept it a secret.  I’ve lived in one-bedroom houses with a boyfriend, and had the family over for dinner.  She’s met so many friends of mine who were super gay.  I never hid the Advocate magazine, or taken the rainbow postcard off my fridge. 

I’ve just never bothered to say the words, or invite them in to my private life.  Seriously.  Because most of my family didn’t like me.  And the ones that did never questioned me.  

It didn’t take much thought to know what I had to do.  

I was standing on the corner of 49th Street and 8th Avenue, on a winter night, when I said to my mother, I have a date on Saturday night.  His name is Adam, and I think I like him. 

She was not surprised.  She was not outraged.  She was not angry.  

We talked a few more minutes; I told her I loved her and we hung up.  

I was 44 and after being out of the closet for 22 years, I’d finally told my mother I was gay.  I have no idea what she thought.  I had no idea if she cried when she got off the phone.  

What I do know, is that for the following 9 years, she never, ever, ever, ever asked about Adam first.  I’d bring him up and she’d engage.  He’d say to tell her he said hello, and she’d say hello back.  But she never, ever, ever asked about him first.  And if I didn’t bring him up, she never mentioned him.  All the way till the day she died, she was never interested in my personal life. 

But who would I be, If you had not been my friend?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Today is World AIDS day.

I haven’t heard much about it this year. I’m sure there will be ceremonies. And speech giving. And there will be protests. And picketing. With signs.

But you have to wonder if it will change anything.

Even in a perfect world an AIDS vaccine is years away. A cure is even farther away.

And yet every day you hear less and less about HIV and AIDS. You hear about gay marriage. And Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell. But when was the last time you heard something in the mainstream news about AIDS related issues.

I have but it’s because I read a couple of blogs that cover news in the world of gayness.

In case you missed it, there is a recent study that covers the Efficacy of Pre-Exposure Prophylaxis. Seems if you are prescribed a specific drug currently used to treat HIV it lowers you chance of becoming HIV+. If you are consistent about taking the medication every day it is even more effective. How many of you saw this in the news this past week? I thought so.

AIDS has become something we just live with. People aren’t keeling over dead like they used to. It’s considered a chronic disease now far more than a terminal disease. And unfortunately, with the new attitude has come complacency. We still have people not practicing safe sex. We still have sex education that doesn’t allow the discussion of safe sex alternatives. And god forbid we actually discuss how to have safe “gay” sex. Then we are surprised when the number of infected people continues to rise.

As a 45-year old gay man I count myself VERY lucky. I have only had one close friend die from AIDS. Most men my age have known too many to count. I’ve known acquaintances who have died. But only one close friend.

His name was Tony Giatras. I met him in the spring of 1989. I had just put my stuff into storage and was living with my friend Shelley until I figured out what I was going to do with my life. We met in a parking lot of a gay bar in Atlanta. He was short. And cute. We hooked up that night and that should have been the end of it. But of course, then he asked for my number and what was I supposed to do? I gave it to him.

He called. We went out. I called. We went out. And then he took my prisoner. After about two weeks I told him that enough was enough. I didn’t want to be his boyfriend. That he was smothering me. And that he needed to back off. The next day he brought me a bouquet of daisies and a note apologizing. I still have the note. Even though we would never be boyfriends we became very good friends. We hung out together. We shared waiting tables stories. I worked at Bennigan’s. He worked at Steak and Ale, which was owned by the same company. Our friendship was sealed.

That summer I moved back to Kentucky to start grad school. He stayed in Atlanta. We continued to talk on a very regular basis. My best friend at the time Stacey also lived in Atlanta so I drove down to visit often. Tony and I always had lunch/dinner/drinks when I found my way there.

I don’t remember when I found out he was HIV+. I had called a couple of times and he’d been sick both times. The last time he’d just gotten out of the hospital with phenomena. I finally asked what was going on and he told me. It changed nothing about our friendship. We continued to talk. I continued to visit Atlanta. Whenever I was there I always made time to see him.

Tony’s birthday was three weeks after mine. He’d always call me on my birthday to say hello. And I always called him on his birthday to say hello. In April of 1992 I was in the middle of tech for a show and forgot to call. It was five or six days later and I said, “Oh fuck!” I picked up the phone, called and his roommate answered.

“Hey Jeff. (His roommate was Jeff) Can I talk to Tony?”

There was a long pause.

He didn’t have to say the words. I knew. He explained that Tony had died the previous week. It was very sudden. He went into the hospital and died three days later. He’d lost his sight about 24 hours before he died. But he didn’t suffer and he seemed peaceful at the very end.

I asked why no one had called.

His roommate explained that he couldn’t find my number. He’d looked and looked and had been unable to locate it. He apologized over and over. I asked if there was going to be a memorial service. He explained that Tony’s family had taken him back to Tennessee and hadn’t discussed any of it with his friends. They’d never been accepting of his being gay.

The thing that was most sad about his passing?

Tony had been a lost soul. He didn’t know what he wanted to do with his life. He had no goals. Wasn’t very motivated. He was a NOMAD. He drove a truck that didn’t work half of the time. He was a waiter. And then a this. And then a that. He didn’t stick with things very often.

In the few months right before he died, he’d finally gotten a real job. One that would have provided him with some stability and was most certainly leading him toward a career. He and his roommate had just gotten a new apartment. The week before he got sick he traded in that fucking truck and got a new car.

He’d finally gotten his life on track and it was stolen from him.

I think of him often. I miss him often. I don’t really think of him as dead. We hadn’t spoken for a little while before he died. In my mind he’s just one of those old friends you just lose touch with. He’s out there somewhere. And he’s got an awesome boyfriend. And an awesome job. And an awesome dog. And he’s as happy as he’d ever wanted to be. I just wish he’d call and tell me about it.

One last note. The Christmas before he died he sent me a Christmas card. It was a beautiful card with three trees and the word peace written on the front. When I called to thank him for the card he told me that he’d made it. He’d hand drawn the card with me in mind.

When I was home over the summer I found the card in a box with lots of other items from my past. It made me tear up then. It’s making me tear up now.

You will always be loved Tony.

Jeff today:
I wrote this post in 2010. It was World AIDS day and I was thinking of Tony.

I still think about him. 40 years later.

About five years after I wrote this, someone found my blog and said that he’d also dated Tony in the 80’s and said my description fit him to a T.

I still have the Christas card he sent me. I still have the card he gave me with the daisies. I think of Tony often. I’m misty-eyed writing this. He was a sweet soul, who was on his way to finding himself when his time was up.

I’m lucky. So, so many of my friends have lost so many people. For me, it was the benefit, of seeking out female friends instead of male friends. Even today, almost all of my friends are female. It also helped that I moved back to Kentucky after Atlanta and spent all my time in the theater department.

Climb every mountain!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

My friend Michelle and I have been on many adventures.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And down the trail we start. 

Fun fact.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

And we start back up. 

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

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

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

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

And soon we are out of water.  

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

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

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

And still we hike.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

And around 8:00 we both crest the hill.  

We sit on a bench.  Exhausted.  

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

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

And we’ll always have Paris. 

And we’ll always have the Grand Canyon.  

Pray, pray, pray. I pray I make PA.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

I was old by grad school standards.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

I never went back.  

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

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

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

But I digress.

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

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

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

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

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

Now for applications. 

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

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

Yale.

NYU.

UCSD.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

URTA auditions were in January.  

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

University of Connecticut

University of Maryland. 

University of Missouri, Kansas City.  

University of California, Los Angeles

University of California, Irvine

Cal Arts.  

I visited all of the campuses.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was accepted to all the schools I visited.  

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

I didn’t accept anywhere right away.  

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

I was waiting on UCSD. 

And waiting.  

And waiting.  

And waiting.  

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

And waited.  

And waited.

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

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

24 hours later, Chris Parry called.  

What the fuckety fuck. 

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

Fuckety, fuck.  

I said thanks but no thanks. 

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

Chris ended up calling at least three or four times.  

AND.

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

I said, let me think about it.

And for 48 hours, I fretted.

I’d already accepted at UC, Irvine.  

But I really wanted to go to UCSD.  

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

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

In July of 2003, I moved to San Diego.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Go figure.  

But ah! Paree!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It was 1:30.  

Operation send Jeff to Paris was in full swing.  

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

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

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

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

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

I was so excited.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fast forward a few too many hours.  

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

He is pissed.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’d hoped he would forget. 

We go back upstairs pack. 

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

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

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