lgbtq

Pump, pop here comes a hill!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

Continued from last night:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And this is where things got weirdly wonderful.

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

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

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

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

Things that stand out:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even with the chaffing, and the bad back.

From the web:

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

The Average Unmarried Female!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!

Hi Friends.  

I have realized in the past week that I posted a story about Adam giving me a ring.  What I have discovered is that A LOT of you thought we got married.  

We did NOT get married.  We are taking BABY steps.  You know.  16.5 years to get engaged.   16.5 years more to get married.  In the old folk’s home.   

I’m just happy to have the ring.  Although bets are on on how long till I’m playing with it and it pops off my finger and rolls down the aisle in a theater.  

That being said, we are discussing getting married.  What that would look like.  Will it be three of us and a justice of the peace?  Will it be a 200 person Hidden Pond Wedding for 500,000 dollars.  There is so much to figure out.  

It is nice after living my whole adult life thinking this would never happen, that it’s on the horizon.  

Meanwhile, send him good thoughts as he’s a little freaked out by all the attention.  

I’ll be over here, putting my dream board together, of what the wedding will look like.  Should I wear white? Does anyone have 50 ball jars I can borrow? What if it rains? Who will make the wedding cake? Adam or some unknown person? Details, details, details.  

I kid.  I kid.  

We saw Guys and Dolls last Wednesday.  Adelaide was engaged for 14 years.  

Maybe I need to develop a little post nasal drip to push him across the finish line.  

If you were gay!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

June is Pride Month.  

A whole month dedicated to the celebration of all things LGBTQ+.  

So by default, a month to celebrate me.  

For you innocent bystanders it’s in June because of the infamous Stonewall Riots, that took place on the last weekend in June, in 1969.  It was a few days after the death of Judy Garland, and a large number of queer folks had gathered at The Stonewall Inn to mourn.  In the early morning hours, the police raided the bar, because two men dancing was illegal, and men dressed as women, was even more illegal.  

What resulted was a pushback from the LGBTQ community.  Bricks were thrown.  Police cars overturned.  The riots went on for several days, escalating again each night.  

This is often considered the beginning of the gay right’s movement.  Which is a OVER simplification as both men and women had been pushing for the overturn of anti-gay laws.  

However, this was a big turning point, resulting in public marches and men and women openly fighting back.   This is why June is Pride Month.  

Not every city holds their pride march in June.  They are spread throughout the year, so that people from all over can attend.  NYC’s pride march is always the last Sunday in June.  Maine’s celebration is the weekend prior.  

This Saturday Portland held it’s annual Pride Parade.  The weather was beautiful.  For the first time in 17 weeks, it didn’t rain on Saturday.  I always say it’s because God likes the Gays.  The turn out was insane, the parade was a lot of fun, and I got to hang out with my friend all afternoon.   

On Sunday, Adam and I went to the Peak’s Island Tea Dance.  It’s the first time I’ve even gone, but it will not be my last.  It’s a great opportunity to hang out with all the gays in southern Maine, day drink and see amazing entertainment by the drag community. 

This year’s headliner was Detox, from Rupaul’s Drag Race, who really was not more stellar than our local queens.  

Long story short, it was fucking fun weekend, and it was fun to spend it with my people, watching great live entertainment, and celebrate while we can the fact that we are free to live our lives out of the closet, openly.  

I hope all of you have celebrated Pride Month this June in your own way.  And remember, things are fucked up right now, so it’s important to make a lot of noise.  Demand to be seen.  And remember, if you are not part of the LGBTQ community, your kids are watching.  They are deciding if it’s safe to share with you their own story.  If they tell someone before you, you now know why.  

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’.

Yes, “I’ve arrived” each check announces. Each one gold until it bounces!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It was reported by NBC news yesterday, that Target will stop taking personal checks in the coming weeks. 

To be honest, I was surprised they were still taking personal checks.  

I write one check every couple of months for companies, that won’t take a credit card, and don’t use Venmo.   For example, the person who plows our driveway, doesn’t take a card.  The person who installed our a/c, didn’t either.  They don’t want to pay the fees.  

But the number of checks I write gets smaller every year.  

The writing of checks brought back a memory from 1982.  

A memory that I’ve thought about over the years.  

Once upon a time, ATM cards didn’t exist.   

As a 16 year old, I didn’t yet have a credit card.  And sometimes, you need cash.  For a date.  Or a ballgame.  Or a trip to the movies.  

I had a job, but my checks were deposited in the bank.  

And the banks weren’t open after work, or on the weekends.  

On summer evenings, when I needed cash, I could go to a convenient store (think 7-11 or Speedway) and they’d cash a check for you.  

Personally, the place I went most often to cash a check was E-Z Way on North Broadway in Georgetown, KY. 

They never said no.  

In fact, the girl that worked there, often commented on how responsible I was.  

Writing checks.  Recording said checks in my register.  Not having them bounce.    

I was fairly responsible. 

Although, I will say, it was possible to write a check on Wednesday, that you wouldn’t have the funds to cover until Friday.  Because the clearing of checks was much, much slower back then.  

That being said, I didn’t bounce checks.  

I’d go in and pull out my check book, and diligently, fill out all the necessary information.  

Then.  

I was given the 20 dollars I was looking for.  It was almost always 20 dollars.  

On one, particular night, the girl, who thought I was responsible, remarked that I signed my name like a girl.  

What she meant was that you could make out all the letters.  I took my time signing my name.

It gave me pride to do so. 

But on this particular night, I was taken aback.  

I handed her my check.  Received my 20 dollars.  

When I got home that night, I began to practice signing my name.  

Faster and faster.  

Less and less legible. 

Till it was finally a J, followed by an F and a scribble.   

That was followed by my crossing the t, that was imaginary at best.  

In the 42 years since, my signature has gotten worse and worse.  

When I have to sign documents, you can see signs of the signature I practiced year and years ago.  But checks, credit card receipts, it’s a scribble.  

All because, 16 year-old gay Jeff, was worried that someone might learn the truth.  

Oh the horror or it all. 

It makes me sad now.  

I’m not scared to be seen, I make no apologies, this is me

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

A friend posted my favorite clip from the TV show True Blood today.

You can view it here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H7l-VVxCLo8

Whenever I see things like this, it reminds me of the decades of my life spent in the service industry.

This one brought back a very specific memory.

In the mid 90’s, I worked at an Italian restaurant, and I use the word Italian loosely, called The Italian Oven. My ex-boyfriend, Jim got me the job there, after I may or may not have walked out of a job at O’Charley’s, after a substitute manager, filling in for a pregnant manager I loved, yelled at me.

I find myself at The Italian Oven. It has black and white checkered plastic table cloths. The table cloths are covered with white craft paper. When you approach the table, you introduce yourself by name and write your name upside down in crayon on the table cloth. It never ceased to WOW the audience.

Fun fact. It takes about 22 seconds to learn to do this when your name only has 3 different letters.

It was a wood fired restaurant, that served mostly pizzas, calzones, and pastas. The food was remarkably not bad, and it’s where I learned to love tiramisu. We had a beer and liquor license and were very busy most nights. I made a comfortable living there, and had a good time most nights.

It’s funny, that I only remember a couple of people from there, so it didn’t make a huge impact on me, and I remember no one’s name but Jim’s.

What I do remember, is that one Saturday afternoon, toward the end of the lunch rush, a table of five arrives, and are seated in the far back right corner of the restaurant.

The server approaches the table.

I don’t remember his name. I can see his face. I can hear his voice. And he was fun to work with.

The one thing that I do remember is that he was gay. Undeniably gay.

The kind of gay, that when he opened his mouth, a purse fell out.

(We said these things back in the 80’s and 90’s).

He was also kind, and lovely, and the best server in the restaurant.

If I remember correctly, he was the person who trained me.

He approaches the table, introduces himself, writes his name on the table, and is responded to with the following:

You gay?

What?

Are you gay?

What?

We don’t want no gay person waiting on us, get us a new server!!!

I’m in the kitchen with a couple of other servers, and the very straight, very redneck, very religious manager who was on duty. We’ll pretend his name is Robert, which I think it was.

He says, Hey Robert, table 43 has told me they need a new server, because and I quote, they don’t want no gay server waiting on them.

They may have used the “f” word. I don’t remember.

Robert wants to know if he heard them correctly.

He is assured that he heard them loud and clear.

Robert says, I’ll be right back.

He might as well have said, hold my beer.

He goes to the table and says, excuse me, I hear that you have a problem with your server?

They reply, yeah we don’t want no gay person waiting on us.

Robert says, well I don’t know what to tell you all my servers are gay.

They question him.

He says, yes, we only hire gay servers here.

They then ask, if he can wait on them.

He replies, well yes, I can wait on you. I do wait tables from time to time, but I’m gay too, so I don’t know what to tell you.

They hem and haw and eventually realize what is happening.

He says, if you don’t mind a queer manager waiting on you, I’ll be glad to get you some food.

Instead, they gather their belongings and leave.

And I’ve never been happier to work for a redneck, conservative, Christian manager.

Thank you all for the gifts and the flowers, Thank you all, now it’s back to the showers, Don’t tell Adam, but I’m not getting married today

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

It was summer, August 2017.

I was at work, when two regulars walked into the restaurant.

I seat them, and ask how they’d been doing.

We chatted for a few minutes when they handed me a gift bag with a bottle of wine in it.

I asked them what this was for, and they said for your wedding.

I said, whose wedding.

Yours.

I said, I don’t think I’m getting married.

They explained, that the last time they’d dined with us, that I’d said we were going to be closed the following weekend for a wedding.

They thought I meant MY wedding.

I assured them, that I had not in fact gotten married.

We laughed out loud about the misunderstanding.

Then they handed me the bottle and said, for when you do get married.

It was a very expensive bottle of rose.

For the next few weeks, every time they were in we had a good laugh.

Then the restaurant closed, and I haven’t seen them since.

I’m calm, I’m calm, I’m perfectly calm!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

Our queer little show closed tonight.

In case you weren’t paying attention, it’s a group of lesbians, who perform skits and songs as drag kings. I’ve had a couple of friends say they were expecting a something along the lines of a drag queen show. This isn’t anything like that.

It’s a full two-hour show. Filled with scenes about irreverent things that we shouldn’t find funny but we do. Think Book of Mormon with drag queens. They walk right up to the line, but never cross it. In fact, we have lots of discussions about whether it’s cool to say or do things. Conversations about consent, audience response, and whether it’s funny or just crude. Sometimes it’s both.

This show, also had two dance groups with us. Friends of the family so to speak. It was a lot of fun, lighting their pieces as I haven’t lit dance in a long time. I was able to do a lot with the 60 or so instruments in the air. I got lucky with the plot from the last group, as we don’t hang and move very little. We change some color and hope for the best.

Tonight’s performance was a little tricky for me.

I started to have a panic attack just as the show started.

For absolutely no reason.

My heart was racing. My hands were shaking. I was a little out of it.

It’s tricky to push buttons on a light board with your left hand, when it already shakes. Oh, and I’m right handed, but that hand was running sound. Add to that, the effects of a panic attack and my hand was insane. So insane that at the end of the first number I hit the go button twice. I was ahead a cue. Then I went back. Then I tried to figure out where we were with the scene change, and as I’m doing that, the curtain opens with work light. Then I hit the button again, and did it twice again. Finally, we were in the right cue, at the right place, and the rest of the light cues for the act were better than ever. But my heart was till racing.

The light cues were correct.

But I get the video ready to play for the end of the act number, hit play and the video starts. It has about 30 seconds of black with just music. I undouse at the end the 30 seconds and there is no video. And I have no idea why it’s not playing. The person on stage is supposed to be lit by the video. She is in static. The music is playing. I’m sitting there hyperventilating.

Finally, about 90 seconds into it, I fade the music. Bring up the house lights and say, motherfucker!!!

One of the kings comes up to the booth, and we hit play and motherfucker, it worked just like it should have. There was absolutely nothing that I did wrong.

We ended up showing the video at the beginning of Act 2, which I think worked better.

The audience was very forgiving, my friends were very forgiving. Adam came up at intermission and gave me a hug. Then the stage manager came up and gave me a hug. The kings gave me a hug.

The anxiety was gone. Act 2 went off without a hitch.

After the show, much of the cast and friends gathered outside the theater before we moved on to the cast party. A very dear woman come up to me and said are you Jeff? I said that I was, and she began to thank me for my work on the show, telling me how much she loved the direction and the lighting. I thanked her profusely, but to be honest, I was embarrassed. In all my days lighting shows, no one has ever approached me that enthusiastically about my work. A complete stranger at that.

By the time I got the cast party, just like in high school, except all the gays, lesbians, and trans folks were out of the closet, and there was booze. Lots and lots of booze, I felt great.

It felt good.

So good that I told them all that we should go ahead and book the theater for November. Let’s do an election day show, the weekend before.

Let’s see if I can convince them of this.

I do hope it’s not another 9 years.

Face life, with a little guts and a lot of glitter.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!!!

My show opened tonight.

It went well.

In fact, in over all the shows I’ve designed, I don’t remember ever having brought up a cue and gotten an audible gasp.

It happened tonight.

It’s the equivalent of applause for the set when the curtain rises.

Tonight’s show was a celebration of queer theater.

It involved straight folks, gay folks, lesbian folks, trans folks, and some bi folks.

It was about 15 performers and crew, getting their groove on, making art.

It was not high art; we’ll never be compared to Sondheim.

But it was smart and funny. And the jokes sometimes played on the silly and sometimes were intelligent, and unexpected.

It was theater by committee, as everyone had a voice.

I cleaned up the choreography for the opening musical number. The stage manager staged the curtain call. We all helped the MC, write bits and jokes to tell to fill the space, during transitions and costume changes. The performers gave each other guidance.

Fun fact, except for me and the stage manager, not one of the group has a theater back ground. It’s a group of folks, who decided to put on a show, and didn’t let not knowing how, stop them.

The show changed a great deal in the five days we were in the theater. Scenes were cleaned up. Laugh lines played a multitude of different ways to find the comedy.

More than anything, it was a group of like-minded friends who got together, to celebrate each other, their creativity and their queerness.

The older I get, the more appreciative I am the community we have in Maine, especially the Portland area. We can never take for granted the fact that we live in a state/city/community that allows us to be open. Adam and I never fear, walking across town holding hands. We don’t get nervous at work that someone might see us hugging or getting a quick kiss.

All of our friends are equally open.

The openness is all around us.

Today, I drove through McDonald’s to get a soda. The 16-year-old that handed me my drink, presented as masculine with about 2 weeks growth on his face, but he had 2” acrylic nails painted a bright pink.
I thought to myself you go!!!

This pride post, is about our friends. Our life. Our relationships. Our love for each other and our friends.

The truly best part of the evening, was sitting in the open booth, waving to friends as they entered the theater. Getting hugs at intermission. And being celebrated by these friends at the end of the show.

I truly hope, that my LGBTQ friends, and I have a lot of them, have found communities that embrace you the way ours has. That you are able to feel safe. And loved. And appreciated for the special person that you are.

And for you straight friends, love your LGBTQ neighbors. Support them. Love them. Make them feel safe in your communities.

You’ll get a 100% return on your investment.

So when my spirit starts to sag, I hustle out my highest drag, and put a little more mascara on

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

The summer of 1984, I worked at Wendy’s in North Park.  It was an awesome job, making $3.35 an hour, that I saved,to pay for college each semester.  Yes, it paid for college, with the bare minimum of loans.  

We were open late, and often got a crazy late crowd.    

One night a car drives thru, I’m working the drive thru.  It pulls up to the window, and I tell them the charge will be 9.76.  The driver pays me cash, and we chat while he waits for his order to be ready.  

The chatting becomes flirting, and then he forwardly asks me what time I’ll be off work.  I tell him around 1:00.  He says, he’ll come back then.    

And he did.  

And we dated for about 6 minutes.  Yes, minutes.

And I use the term dating loosely.  

I would drive to Lexington to meet him at closing time at the Video Village that he worked at on New Circle Road.  Fun fact, turns out my friend Todd Lacy, also worked at that store, with this guy.  I found this out about 8 years later.  

I also saw him long enough for me to meet his drag queen roommate, who was very funny, very gregarious, and very sweet.  I’m pretty sure she was the first drag queen I ever met.  

After about 6 minutes, he told me that he didn’t think it would work out.

I was very hurt.  For about 3 days.  

Then I moved on with my summer. 

Fast forward to the fall of 1984.  

I pledge a fraternity at my very conservative, liberal arts college.  

And why did I pledge a fraternity.

Because living in the dorms, meant always watching your back to see if someone saw you drinking.  Or someone saw you out late.  Or someone saw you doing anything that the Bible deemed sinful.    

I pledged the Phi Kappa Tau fraternity.  

And thus started the pledges life.  

Just before Christmas break, the windows of the house were covered with newspaper.  We brought ou mattresses from our dorms.  

And hell week started.  

What happens in hell week is super top secret, so if I told you, I’d have to kill you.  

One thing we did, was have a scavenger hunt.  Get a menu from here.  Get a ticket stub from there.  

Get the autograph of a bartender at Johnny Rockets, the gay bar in Lexington.  

Fun fact, the big gay bar in Lexington has been in this location for decades.  Its right next door to the police station.  And the city has tried for years to buy the building, but the owner has never budged.  

So there we were, driving all over Lexington collecting our souvenirs.  

And it’s time to go into the bar.  

I volunteered along with one of my pledge brothers, but I don’t remember who.  

We walk in, and approach the bar.  

I go up to the bar and wait for the bartender.

I look to my left and I see my friend’s drag queen roommate.  

She smiles.

I smile, while saying a prayer that she doesn’t acknowledge knowing me.  

She’s not dumb, and plays a long.  She says something sassy, and winks at me.  

We get our autograph and go on with our evening.  

I was very grateful that she did not out me.  

It was my first time in a gay bar.  

But certainly not my last.