life

I spoke to the manager!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I spoke to the manager!!!

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

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

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

So tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

No sign of the drinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The server walks away.

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

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

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

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

But get this.

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

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

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

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

Fun fact: Carry your cards on you.

She brings the card. We leave.

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

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

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

On Broadway!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

Death of a Salesman.

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

And fun fact. I’ve never read it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They say the neon lights are bright, on Broadway!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Day 2:

We slept very late. Almost till 1:00. We were tired from the previous 2 days and the late night last night.

The day started with a text from a friend from Atlanta who was in town. She was on her way home about the same time we were starting our day. It would have been great to see her as we only see each other every so often.

Next up was bagels, at The Bagel Bar down the street. They were delicious.

Then we rushed up town to see Dog Day Afternoon. The reviews had been mediocre at best, and it was one of the last shows we plotted for our trip. We didn’t have high hopes, but we were pleasantly surprised. We enjoyed it a lot. The performances were great and the design was amazing. It’s been years since I’ve seen the movie so I’m anxious to get home and give it a watch to see if it’s as funny as the show today was. We were both very happy to have included it in our list.

We had dinner at Gallagher’s. A must when we come to NYC. We always get the crab cake and the carpaccio. Tonight, we shared entrees and had a small bottle of wine. It was a great way to spend a couple of hours before we moved on to our evening show. (However, for the first time ever, Stu the bartender was not tending bar. We see him every time we go).

Of course, we had to walk from 52nd street to 41st street, so we couldn’t walk by The Rum House without stopping in for a pre-dinner cocktail and to see our friend John. We disappointed to learn after many years he has moved on. We had great service, but it was not the same. And he always remembered us.

We finished the evening with Schmigadoon. It’s the stage version of the TV show from years ago. I actually had to push to get Adam to put it on the list because he was convinced it would be meh. I was excited because it is based on the big dance shows of the 40’s and 50’s and I LOVE a musical with big dance numbers. I turned out to be right. The show is a must see if you like musicals. The performances were great. The design is great. And the songs are toe tapping good. And if you happen to be a musical theater fan there are so many throw backs to all of the shows of yesteryear. Samples of melodies. Jokes that harken back to the shows. And characters that play on the characters from these musicals. Billy Bigelow. Gertie Cummins. The Barroness from the Sound of Music. The audience might have been the best part of the show. They were on board the minute the show started and stayed right there till the last chord of music. It was so good.

We are batting a 1,000 so far with our selections.

We called it an evening early. I’m sitting in my underwear, drinking a soda water, typing while Adam is in the shower. We are going to watch some TV and read the Facebook so we can do Day 3 tomorrow.

I put a little more mascara on!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Adam and I went to Boston yesterday to see a play.  Not a musical.  But a play.  Miracle of miracles.  We went down early, had dinner at The Cheesecake Factory, which we had not done in years, then walked from The Prudential Center, the Four Seasons, where we had a drink in the lobby.  

It’s fun to go to places that focus so much energy on hospitality.  The doors were held open for us when we entered.  The front desk agent walked us to the bar.  The host walked us to the table.  The server was warm and friends and brought our drinks which were delicious.  The host checked back in on us.  We paid, and were thanked by at least six people as we exited.  

We then made our way to Huntington Stage, which was about a 10 minute walk away.  We arrived early, took our seats and took in the room.  It was closing night for When Playwrights Kill, and there was a buzz in the room.  There almost always is on closing nights as often there are a large number of friends and colleagues in the room.

We did see Laura Bell Bundy during intermission who I assume was there to see here Legally Blonde co-star Marissa.  The show was a lot of fun, loosely based on the experience the playwright had years ago when he wrote a show staring a well-known movie actress.  The show had lots of inside theater jokes, the cast was insanely good and the audience had a great time.  

Now to the meat of the story.  

I am a man of a certain age.   We’ll call me old.  There was a time when I was not old, much thinner, and much more mobile when I might turn a head or two, but those days are long past.  

So imagine my surprise, when I’m outside the restroom, during intermission, waiting for Adam, when I look up the stairs to see a man gazing at me.  I think to myself, he must be looking at someone behind me and turn, but nope.  He’s looking at me.  I divert my eyes and pretend not to have noticed.  When I look back, he’s looking at his phone, and for a moment, I think he’s with the kids in front of him.  But nope.  He sees me looking and gazes at me again.  

I divert my eyes again.  I think to myself, WOW, this hasn’t happened in a long time.  I don’t even know how to respond.  It actually makes me self-conscious and nervous more than anything.  

I look again, and he’s still gazing at me.  Perhaps he thinks I’m someone he knows, but I swear I’ve never seen him before.  This time I smile, and he smiles back.  Now I’m even more nervous.  

Finally, the line he is in moves down the stairs and he’s past me.  However, he keeps looking over his shoulder at me.  

Then Adam arrives.  

He grabs my hand, and say, “Don’t look, but I think my next boyfriend is line for the restroom.”  He looks behind him and sees the guy who finally has his back to me.  

Adam goes, he’s cute.  And he was.  Probably late 30’s early 40’s.  Nice building.  Sandy blonde hair.  Blue eyes.  He’s also about 6’ tall.  

Adam and I head back upstairs and watch the room.  There once again is energy in the room.  Lots of people moving about from group to group.  

We take our seats.  The second act starts.  We love it.  

The show ends, gets a rousing standing ovation. (What show doesn’t these days?”).

We have a two-hour drive in front of us so we make our way back down to the restrooms.  I finish first, I always do, and am waiting at the bottom of the stairs once again for Adam.   It’s still kind of crowded when I notice an older gay man waiting across the room.  And what would you know, my new boyfriend comes out and greets him. 

Fifteen seconds later, Adam walks out, has to maneuver between them and grabs my hand.  I say to Adam, “My new boyfriend has a type.”  And wants to know what that means and I reply, “Take a look, his boyfriend looks just like me only shorter.”

And he did.  He was older, with a bigger build and bright blue eyes.  Only shorter.  We were even dressed a like.  

Before anyone panics, I’m not looking for a new boyfriend.  But I do have to say, that it made my heart patter, to know someone, other than Adam might find me attractive.  It has been a long while since this has happened.  

As we exited the building, joining the crowd on the sidewalk, Adam grabbed my hand and we started toward our car back at the Prudential Center.  We waited the appropriate 500 feet before we really started to discussing the show.  

Blest be the tie that binds.  Our hearts in Christian love.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Blest be the tie that binds. 

Our hearts in Christian love.  

I learned of this hymn when I played Simon Stimson in Thorton Wilder’s Our Town in high school.    

I think back on all the plays that I made my parents sit through.  Oklahoma.  Twice.  Midsummer’s Night Dream.  The Oresteia.  The Nutcracker.  Romeo and Juliet.  Carmen with scaffolding.  

I also think back to how many of these shows were two plus hours longer than they needed to be.  I can’t imagine anything more painful, than watching high schoolers perform Our Town in a cafetorium.  

I can say, however, that all the kids involved had a blast.  I formed one of my closest high school friendships with the girl who played Mrs. Webb, who’d never been in a play before.  In fact, the following year she wrecked my car, while we were on our way to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror.  For only $1.  

Good or bad, I always enjoyed being a part of the process.  Theater builds friendships and relationships, unlike anything else I’ve ever participated in.  It requires you to reveal parts of yourself that might otherwise go unnoticed.  Or you might not otherwise want shared.  I think it’s why so many LGBTQ kids end up joining the drama club.  Even as a designer, you make relationships that are strong and weird.  I believe the only thing that comes close to matching these relationships are restaurant relationships, which also might explain why theater people end up waiting tables.  Teching a show is akin to working Sunday brunch hungover.  

Back to Simon Stimson. 

He was the choir director and organist at the local Grover’s Corner Congregational Church.  He was also a troubled alcoholic.  And it’s thought that he might be a closeted homosexual.  He ends up in Act 3 because he committed suicide, becoming a resident of the cemetery.   

I can assure you that we did NOT discuss any of this in my high school production.  I was taught how to conduct in 4/4 time.  I was told to stumble across the stage as if I was drunk.  I’d never been drunk so I mimicked Otis Campbell from Andy Griffith.  I don’t think they were the same kind of drunk, and definitely not for the same reasons. 

I also remember  being terrible bored in the third act.  I had six lines and then I was supposed to be interested in the rest of the action.  I remember getting sleepy.  Whoops.  I might have stayed awake if I’d known I was a tormented homosexual, who could play the organ.  HEHE.

As I type this, I realize it’s not the only time I was forced to “act” in a cemetery.  I was also in a college production of Spoon River Anthology, a play with music.  I sat on a stump.  I had five or six monologues.  I don’t think I was gay in any of them.  I do know that by then I was a serious “actor” so I didn’t get sleepy.  Instead, I focused on my next lines.  I remember one night not being able to remember the Latin phrase at the end of one of my monologues.  I got up and said the lines, and wouldn’t you know, it slipped out, just like I had rehearsed it.  Crisis averted.  Although I didn’t get sleepy in this performance, I’m sure my parents counted the minutes till curtain call.  

The last play that my mother saw that I worked on was Twilight of the Golds.  I designed this show in San Diego, a week before I graduated from UCSD with my MFA in lighting design.  It was playing when my mother and my brother flew out for my graduation.  I had dinner with my friends who were there, and then I’d bought tickets for 12 of us to see the show.  I didn’t really think about the subject matter until I was sitting in my chair waiting for the show to start.  

I have no idea what my mother thought about this show.  In 2006, I had not told her I was gay.  I was 41.  I’m sure she knew.  But I had never discussed it with her.  The show started.  The drama happened.  The show came down.  The design of the show was nice.  And I was proud to have my friends see it.  At least it wasn’t in a cafetorium.  

I have no idea where I’m going with this story.  I just got off the phone with one my bestest friends from Kentucky, Trish Clark, who I did a million shows with.  Which sent me down memory lane.  She’s definitely one of those relationships that changed my life because we did theater together.  

I have many of these friends.  These friendships are those that you pick right up with, when you haven’t spoken in 20 years.  There are so too many to count.  They are the foundation of who I am at 61.  In so many different segments of my life.  High School.  Grad School at UK.  Grad School at CCM.  Teaching at SCPA.  Grad School at UCSD.  Freelance at LOOK, City Theater, KOTH, and in NYC.  

I really count myself lucky that I have had so many lifetimes. Once again too many too count.  What’s really awesome is that my new job, would allow me to do theater in the off season.  I’m really excited about the thought of designing a show next winter locally. Who knows, I may ask my local friends to come see a three hour production of King Lear, in a community production.  

And you better show up. 

Blest be the tides that bind.  

The official hymn of theater folk.  

My prompt was necktie.  I may have gone a little off track. 

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Blest be the tie that binds. 

Our hearts in Christian love.  

I learned of this hymn when I played Simon Stimson in Thorton Wilder’s Our Town in high school.    

I think back on all the plays that I made my parents sit through.  Oklahoma.  Twice.  Midsummer’s Night Dream.  The Oresteia.  The Nutcracker.  Romeo and Juliet.  Carmen with scaffolding.  

I also think back to how many of these shows were two plus hours longer than they needed to be.  I can’t imagine anything more painful, than watching high schoolers perform Our Town in a cafetorium.  

I can say, however, that all the kids involved had a blast.  I formed one of my closest high school friendships with the girl who played Mrs. Webb, who’d never been in a play before.  In fact, the following year she wrecked my car, while we were on our way to the midnight showing of Rocky Horror.  For only $1.  

Good or bad, I always enjoyed being a part of the process.  Theater builds friendships and relationships, unlike anything else I’ve ever participated in.  It requires you to reveal parts of yourself that might otherwise go unnoticed.  Or you might not otherwise want shared.  I think it’s why so many LGBTQ kids end up joining the drama club.  Even as a designer, you make relationships that are strong and weird.  I believe the only thing that comes close to matching these relationships are restaurant relationships, which also might explain why theater people end up waiting tables.  Teching a show is akin to working Sunday brunch hungover.  

Back to Simon Stimson. 

He was the choir director and organist at the local Grover’s Corner Congregational Church.  He was also a troubled alcoholic.  And it’s thought that he might be a closeted homosexual.  He ends up in Act 3 because he committed suicide, becoming a resident of the cemetery.   

I can assure you that we did NOT discuss any of this in my high school production.  I was taught how to conduct in 4/4 time.  I was told to stumble across the stage as if I was drunk.  I’d never been drunk so I mimicked Otis Campbell from Andy Griffith.  I don’t think they were the same kind of drunk, and definitely not for the same reasons. 

I also remember  being terrible bored in the third act.  I had six lines and then I was supposed to be interested in the rest of the action.  I remember getting sleepy.  Whoops.  I might have stayed awake if I’d known I was a tormented homosexual, who could play the organ.  HEHE.

As I type this, I realize it’s not the only time I was forced to “act” in a cemetery.  I was also in a college production of Spoon River Anthology, a play with music.  I sat on a stump.  I had five or six monologues.  I don’t think I was gay in any of them.  I do know that by then I was a serious “actor” so I didn’t get sleepy.  Instead, I focused on my next lines.  I remember one night not being able to remember the Latin phrase at the end of one of my monologues.  I got up and said the lines, and wouldn’t you know, it slipped out, just like I had rehearsed it.  Crisis averted.  Although I didn’t get sleepy in this performance, I’m sure my parents counted the minutes till curtain call.  

The last play that my mother saw that I worked on was Twilight of the Golds.  I designed this show in San Diego, a week before I graduated from UCSD with my MFA in lighting design.  It was playing when my mother and my brother flew out for my graduation.  I had dinner with my friends who were there, and then I’d bought tickets for 12 of us to see the show.  I didn’t really think about the subject matter until I was sitting in my chair waiting for the show to start.  

I have no idea what my mother thought about this show.  In 2006, I had not told her I was gay.  I was 41.  I’m sure she knew.  But I had never discussed it with her.  The show started.  The drama happened.  The show came down.  The design of the show was nice.  And I was proud to have my friends see it.  At least it wasn’t in a cafetorium.  

I have no idea where I’m going with this story.  I just got off the phone with one my bestest friends from Kentucky, Trish Clark, who I did a million shows with.  Which sent me down memory lane.  She’s definitely one of those relationships that changed my life because we did theater together.  

I have many of these friends.  These friendships are those that you pick right up with, when you haven’t spoken in 20 years.  There are so too many to count.  They are the foundation of who I am at 61.  In so many different segments of my life.  High School.  Grad School at UK.  Grad School at CCM.  Teaching at SCPA.  Grad School at UCSD.  Freelance at LOOK, City Theater, KOTH, and in NYC.  

I really count myself lucky that I have had so many lifetimes. Once again too many too count.  What’s really awesome is that my new job, would allow me to do theater in the off season.  I’m really excited about the thought of designing a show next winter locally. Who knows, I may ask my local friends to come see a three hour production of King Lear, in a community production.  

And you better show up. 

Blest be the tides that bind.  

The official hymn of theater folk.  

My prompt was necktie.  I may have gone a little off track. 

Like a flower, as the dawn is breaking, the memory is fading

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

For anyone who cares, it’s only 362 days till my birthday. Be sure to mark your calendar. You’ll want to shop early. My favorite color is blue. And books are always a nice surprise.

If you are paying attention, that means my birthday was three days ago. Marking another year around the sun. I’ve made a lot of these trips in my very short life. And the remaining portion of my life is even shorter. I’m well on my way on the downward slope of the eventual outcome.

It’s funny. The older I get, the less afraid of death I become. It’s inevitable. It’s a part of life, like learning to walk, or learning to read. I watch TV now, seeing actors from shows in the 80’s and 90’s who are no longer with us, like The Golden Girls. I often wonder what their take on their inevitable demise was.

Before you get started, I’m not depressed. I’m actually in a very good mood tonight. Work has been going well. My schedule with my new job has allowed Adam and I to spend a lot of time together. And best of all, I’ve been able to see friends that normally I wouldn’t see at all, because of my restaurant schedule.

However.

I AM getting older. And while I don’t fear death, I’m horribly afraid of losing my memory.

I’ve always had great a long-term memory. There are so many events from my past that are seared into my mind. Learning to ride a bike. Getting spanked by Miss Sarah for jumping on her bed, when she babysat me and my brother. My grandma telling me to get back in the bathroom and wash my hands, because if I had washed them, they wouldn’t be dry. Memories of building stilts out of two by fours at vacation bible school, and then walking on them in my backyard.

I could go on and on. So many stories to share.

What’s scary is that my short-term memory seems to be shot.

I get to the grocery store and know that Adam asked me to pick up three things, but I can only remember two of them. They all started with the letter “C.”

Today at work, I was asked what my favorite bourbon drink was. I replied a Boulevardier. And was asked if that wasn’t based on another drink. I could remember that that drink was made from gin, but I struggled for a good 60 seconds to remember the word for Negroni. I see Laura Benanti on TV all the time, and I can never remember her name. Never. I know her Broadway shows. I know she plays Melania on Stephen Colbert. But I can never remember her name.

I truly fear losing my mind. It scares me that I’m going to wake up one day and have forgotten everything. Forgotten my memories.

But even more frightening is forgetting who Adam is.

I know there are a few things I can do. But mostly, I have to wait and see what genetics have given me. I take after the women in my family as I’ve mentioned before. They all lived to their late 70’s and none of them suffered from memory loss. I pray that I got the same genetic makeup that gave me my “big boned” build.

I think sometimes this is why I write the stories that I do. There is a part of me, that wants to look back at where I’ve been. My life has not been perfect, but it has been an adventure. And I hope that by documenting my stories, when I am in my senior years, my friends, and much younger boyfriend can remind me of these stories.

Meanwhile, I plod along. Reminded daily, that life is short. That tomorrow is not promised. However, I do hope that if I have another 20 or 30 years in me that my memory also has another 20 or 30 years. I don’t want to be a burden. I don’t want to be a vegetable. I don’t want to be sequestered to a home, where Adam visits out of obligation.

And if that is what is in store for me. I’ve told him that I want him to tap me on the shoulder on a lucid day, and say, “Today is the day.” Then he’ll go have drinks with friends, maybe even dinner, and when he gets home, his memories of me will live forever.

Today’s prompt is Forgotten.

He loves me so, that funny honey of mine!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

This morning about six minutes after I got up, Adam’s alarm went off.  He’d snoozed it when it sounded at 8:30.   Both of our alarms go off at 8:30.  We both have I-phones, but his alarm sounds about 15 seconds before mine does, I have no idea why.  

I digress.  

I was getting ready to get in the shower, when I realized he had not shut his alarm off.  I waited.  And waited.  Finally, I went in and said Babe?  Babe?  He didn’t answer.  I then said, Adam?  Adam?  A little louder.  He still didn’t budge.  Adam is not a super hard sleeper, so I was surprised he didn’t respond.  I have to admit, for about 1/16th of a second I thought he might be dead.  Then I tapped him on the shoulder and he awoke with a start.  It’s one of the reasons I started out quietly; he is easily startled when he’s asleep. 

He had not heard the alarm at all.  He was surprised that it was going off, and he was surprised that I had to wake him. I gave him a kiss on the cheek and then went back to take a shower. 

As I was trying to wake up in the shower, I realized that calling Adam by his given name was not something I do often.  We hardly ever use each other’s names.  We both use “BABE” as a term of endearment.  In fact, he called me at work today and I said, “Hello, Babe” and my boss referred to him as Babe 30 seconds later.  

It always feels awkward when I say Adam, when speaking to Adam.  I say his name all the time at work.  They probably get sick of hearing about the meals he cooks for me, or the things he did for my birthday.  But to say, “Hey Adam, what’s for dinner?, just doesn’t flow.  

The only thing worse than using his name to address him is him calling me Jeff.  It’s like nails on a chalkboard. He does it so seldomly that I always think I must be in trouble, or something must be wrong.  Neither is usually true.  

Which brings me to the point of this story. 

When we first started dating, and it became clear that we were going to be something more than just a casual fling, he started calling me “Honey Bear.”  I don’t know why?  I don’t know where it came from.  I, however, loved it from the start.  At some point, we moved past Honey Bear to Babe.  He does usually write cards to me addressed as Honey Bear.  And it makes my heart grow three sizes.  It makes me smile. 

I’ve only ever called him Babe, that I remember.   

Which brings me to the question:  What do you call your significant other?  Your spouse?  Your boyfriend?  Your girlfriend?  Your lover? 

I have to go now, because a voice from the kitchen just said, “Babe, dinner will be ready in 5!”

The prompt today was honey.   

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I spend way too much time on Facebook.  Way too much.

Mostly it’s a way to waste time, while I’m waiting for Adam to get home.  Or waiting for a meeting to start at work.  Or waiting for dinner to be ready.  

Today’s Facebook is very different than the Facebook of my childhood.  Back when you could poke someone.  Or were reconnecting with friends you hadn’t seen for years.  

Obama changed that.  Suddenly, Facebook was political.  As a liberal, it brought out the worst of the worst.  When Adam and I first started dating, while I was waiting for dinner to be ready, I was battling it out with conservative “friends.”  Fun fact, when you point out that your friends are on the “dole” while voting against their own best interest, they unfriend you.  This happened several times.  

Fast forward 50 years and now it’s ALL politics except for a few posts from friends sharing their lives.  In between the political posts and the friends, you are bombarded with shirtless men (perhaps that’s just my algorithm) and Broadway shows.  

Today, I was sitting in my car wasting time, and was scrolling and came upon a post from a friend.  It’s a post that circulates every so often.  It harkens back to the old times, when there used to be lists of questions that you would share you answers with your friends.  

This particular post was about states you’ve visited, and states you’ve live in.  

It’s below:  

Mark an X by a state you’ve actually stepped foot in.  Mark XX for states you’ve lived in:

1Alabama XX

2 Alaska 

3 Arizona X

4 Arkansas X

5 California XX

6 Colorado X

7 Connecticut X

8 Delaware X

9 Florida X

10 Georgia XX

11 Hawaii 

12 Idaho X

13 Illinois X

14 Indiana X

15 Iowa XX

16 Kansas XX

17 Kentucky XX

18 Louisiana X

19 Maine XX

20 Maryland X

21 Massachusetts X

22 Michigan X

23 Minnesota X

24 Mississippi X

25 Missouri X

26 Montana 

27 Nebraska X

28 Nevada X

29 New Hampshire X

30 New Jersey X

31 New Mexico X

32 New York XX

33 North Carolina X

34 North Dakota 

35 Ohio XX

36 Oklahoma XX

37 Oregon 

38 Pennsylvania X

39 Rhode Island X

40 South Carolina X

41 South Dakota 

42 Tennessee X

43 Texas X

44 Utah 

45 Vermont X

46 Virginia X

47 Washington DC X

48 Washington 

49 West Virginia X

50 Wisconsin X

51 Wyoming X

Visited: 43

Lived in: 9

Wow.  Not bad.  It’s hard to believe that I’ve been to 43 states.  And in none of them, was it just stepping foot in an airport.  For all of them, it was visiting or at least driving through. 

Even more impressive is that I’ve lived in 9 different states for varying amounts of time.  

The longest I lived anywhere was in Kentucky.  The shortest I lived anywhere, was Tuscaloosa, Alabama where I rented an apartment, moved there, stayed three weeks and promptly moved back to Kentucky.  No one needs to live in Tuscaloosa, Alabama as a single gay man.  

I love that I got out of Kentucky.  I graduated from college and left.  There was not one part of me that thought I belonged there.  There was a big wide world to explore and I was going to explore it.  I knew that I was meant for adventures.  

Looking back on my life as a 60-year-old man, I love that I’ve had the adventures I’ve had. 

In Kansas, I learned that I could do any horrible job that was thrown at me, for at least a bit, to prove the naysayers wrong.  

In Georgia, I learned that it was okay to be gay.  That if people cared, you didn’t need them in your life.  It’s also the first time I realized that I was above average in looks.  

Back in Kentucky, I learned that I was a damn good lighting designer.  And once again, no one cared that I was gay.  

In Ohio, I learned that I was a pretty okay teacher.  Not great.  Not terrible, but pretty okay.  

In New York, I learned that it was better to be a big fish in a small pond, than a small fish in a big pond.  Also it takes too much effort to survive in the big apple.  And I’m a dam good slinging hash server.  Bring on the volume.  I also learned that after a lifetime of being a BAD boyfriend, that I could indeed, care for someone, love them and treat them in a way that fostered a loving relationship.  

In San Diego, I learned that I am a really good goddamned lighting designer, when put up against other eally good goddamned lighting designers.  

In Oklahoma, I learned that as you get older, comfort is king, and sleeping in two twin beds pushed together does not a queen size bed make.  Also, I can work really fast and still produce quality work.  

In Iowa, I learned that when you work with amazing people, your art is elevated.  To this day, the first show I designed there is still one I consider to be my best.  

In Maine.  I learned that I’m a good manager.  Not great.  Not bad.  But good.  Even on my worst day, I don’t micromanage.  I don’t yell.   And I don’t treat my co-workers badly.  

And now I’m 60.  On the downhill slope of life.  I don’t know how my friends from high school and college spend their time, but I often think of the choices I’ve made.  Would I have been better off to do this?  Would I have been better off to do that?  

For example:  

Should I have gone to graduate school at 30?  

Should I have focused on teaching more?  

Should I have stayed in Ohio, teaching, where I’d be on my way to retirement right now.  

Should I have stayed in NYC and started my restaurant management career earlier?  

Should I have applied at the Toyota Plant in Georgetown, that opened the year I graduated college and spent my time there, earning a pension and a reasonable retirement age.  

Should I have stayed in Atlanta, and been gay and fabulous and found a non-theater career to focus on?

Should I have stayed in Southern California and focused on my design work.  I was working a lot outside of school while I was there.  

Should I have stayed in Alabama, gone to the University of Alabama for grad school, and perhaps had a career as an academic? 

Should I have gone on a date with John instead of Adam and where would I be living if I had?  

Clearly, it’s easy to go down the rabbit hole.  I don’t get lost in this train of thought often, but sometimes when I can’t sleep, I get distracted with the what ifs.  

But at the end of the day, I truly don’t regret 99% of my decisions.  

They all worked together to make me the man I am today.  

They all worked together to help me find Adam, who I love more than I ever thought possible.  I have friends that love me dearly.  I have a house that I couldn’t have dreamt of ever having.  I have five cats who tolerate me.   I have a great life.   

And the moral of the story.  I’m not rich.  I’m not even close to retirement.  I have to work until I’m dead.  And, I wouldn’t trade my experiences for all the money in the world.  I have had an exciting, adventurous life.  And for that I’m grateful.  

My time spent gaining these experiences has not been wasted.  Even if some of my dreams have not come true.  I remind myself when I get down about the dreams, that I could have taken a job that I hated, gotten married, had two kids, been miserable and lived a lie, like so many gay men I know.  But instead, I got out.  

I lived.  

I explored.  

I had fun. 

My time and life have not been wasted.  

(Tonight’s prompt has been “time wasted.” 

I had a dream my life would be, so different from this hell I’m living

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Today is one of those days where you think you know what you are going to write.  Then you sit down at the computer and NADA.  Nothing.  

It might be because I’m tired.  Not exhausted.  Not wiped out.  Just tired. 

I haven’t written about it yet, but after 7 months, of looking, I finally found a job.  It was a very long 7 months.  As I mentioned a couple of posts ago, there are few things more daunting than entering the job market as a 60 year-old.  

I had too many first interviews to count.  But none of them seemed to land a second interview.  I can assure you my answers to the questions haven’t changed that much in the 15 years I’ve been doing this, when a second interview was almost a given.  

What was really frustrating was that every first interview I went on, and I do mean every one, I was promised a second interview.  

“Thank you for coming in.  I’ll reach out to my team and set up a second interview for you at the beginning of next week.”  

Then silence.  

There were several prospects that I was excited about.  There were many more that would have just been a way to pay the mortgage.   But alas, the choice was not mine.  

The job I finally got was handed to me on a silver platter.  Adam and I were sitting on the couch one night around 10:00 when his phone dinged.  It was a former co-worker asking him if he knew anyone looking for a management position.  He showed me the text and asked what I thought.  I said sure.  Less than a week later I was given an offer.  

Fun fact.  I interviewed with this company in 2019.  Was given an offer, and turned it down because the company I was working for at the time, gave me a big raise and a promotion to stay.  I wonder now what would have happened if I’d made the jump.  

I hate to jinx it, but I’m really liking it a lot.  The team is incredible.  There is so much laughing, and playfulness from everyone.  It’s clear they all like going to work.  That they all like the company they work for.  

It is a seasonal restaurant.   We are only open from May to October.  Right now, we are prepping to open.  With a seasonal restaurant, it’s like opening a new restaurant every year.  There are orders to place.  Employees to hire.  Training to coordinate.  Beverage lists to curate.   My friend Laura, who I love dearly, and I call this “playing restaurant.”  It’s all theoretical until the first employee clocks in and the first guest gets their martini.  Then it’s real.  

So here I am at 8:00 and I’m tired.  And the reason for this is, because we are not currently open, my schedule is 9 to 4.  It’s a more mainstream schedule, that allows for us all to be in the room together and “play restaurant.”  

Here’s the deal.  I’m not a morning person.  Adam is not a morning person.  And after 6 weeks, we have not figured out how to get to bed at a reasonable hour.  We’ve been getting to bed around 12:30, and by the time the lights are off its pushing 1:30.  I have to be up and out the door by 8:45, so that’s not a lot of time for sleep.  

I make it to work just fine, and do great, until around 4:30, and then I crash.  The first few weeks I had to take a nap when I got home.  These days I push through to bedtime, because I sleep better.  But boy, oh boy, am I tired.  

Everyone who knows me, knows that I don’t like mornings.  

But.

My first job out of college required me to be at work at 7:00 a.m.  

And I taught at the Lexington, School for Creative and Performing Arts one year and our classes started at 6:30.  My alarm would go off at 5:30, I’d shower and drive across town and be ready to teach at 6:30.  

Fun fact:  NO ONE is creative at 6:30 in the morning.  Especially not high school students.  And, there was very little heat in the theater where we taught, so imagine doing scene work with kids in parkas and hats.    

I have my current 9 to 4 schedule for 4 more weeks.  Then I go to a regular restaurant schedule with weekends, and nights and I’ll be able to sleep a little later.  

However, while I don’t like being tired, I do like being free in the evenings.  I get to have drinks and dinner with friends.  I have been able to see local theater that only plays on Friday, Saturday and Sundays.  I’ve gone to the movies.  I have dinner at home with Adam.  

It’s well worth the price of being tired to have a little more flexibility with my schedule and to have a job that I really like.   

But please don’t give me a hard time if I fall asleep watching TV tonight after dinner.  

Tonight’s prompt was tire. 

Loadin’ up boats wid de bales of cotton, Gettin’ no rest till de Judgement Day.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I was actively involved in theater in high school.  The story of how I got involved is a good one.  

In 8th grade, a friend of mine asked me to go to the speech and drama club meeting with him, during our meeting time.  Back then, clubs met during school hours a few times a month.  I went, was intrigued and so I joined.  I became very active in the speech club competing at tournaments all through 8th grade up through my senior year in high school.  

I went on to studying lighting design and working for a bit in theater.  The friend that talked me into going to that first meeting now works for NASA.  Hmmm.  I have sometimes wondered what I’d have done if I hadn’t gone to that first meeting.  

My love of theater continued into high school.  Looking back, I was pretty bad as an actor and a speech tournament person.  But what I lacked in talent, I made up for with my determination.  I hardly ever missed a weekend of being up at the high school by 8:00, to car pool to high schools across the state.  I have lots of memories of these trips, that I suppose I might share someday.  

I was also involved with the school plays starting in 10th grade.  I was cast at Pop in the hit musical Gypsy.  I had lines, in the third scene of the show, and was never heard from again.  However, I loved the show and to this day, I see it every time I can.  I’ve seen it on Broadway three times.  Seen the national tour with Tyne Daly once.  She is my favorite Rose.  And I’ve seen too many amateur productions to count.  The start of the overture still gives me goosebumps.  

My senior year of high school, the theater club, of which I was an officer, held it’s end of year party.  I don’t remember whose home it was at.  I don’t remember much about it at all. 

Except.  

That it was a costume party.  Because why wouldn’t it be.  It’s a theater party.  

The theme was The Old South.  I may not remember this correctly, cut I’m pretty sure we watched “Gone With the Wind” that night.  But then again, maybe not, but for the life of me, I can’t imagine why else the theme would be the old south. 

I wracked my brain for weeks about what to do for a costume.  I didn’t have a lot of money.  And I didn’t consider myself very imaginative.  And I certainly didn’t want to spend money on a confederate soldier uniform.  (Of course I might have been able to borrow one from many of the Kappa Alphas on campus at our local college).  

Finally, I had an epiphany. 

I could go as a carpet bag. 

Not a carpet bagger.  But the bag itself. 

My stepfather, built a frame out of wood and the stretched blue shag carpet all around it.  We then added fabric straps that would go over my shoulders and a cardboard piece that went over my head to form the handle.  

It was not easy to move in.  And I had to be helped into the costume once we were there.  And I had to be helped into the house as well.  Everyone was super confused when they saw me, but they all laughed when I explained that I was a carpet bag.  

At the end of the night, little awards were given and I won the award for Best Costume.  The prize was a book about movie musicals that I still have to this day.  

Somewhere, in a box of photos, I have a picture of me, wearing the carpet bag.  I promise I will find it this summer and post it.  

Now.  

For tonight’s post the prompt was cotton.  I have no idea why?  I’m not sure Adam knows why.  

It’s a long shot, to connect my post with cotton, but as soon as he mentioned cotton, I started singing, I wish I was in the land of cotton, old times there are not forgotten. 

Of course, I could have written about my first visit to Texas to meet his family.  

He’s from Memphis, Texas, in the Panhandle about an hour from Amarillo.  As he drove me into town, from the highway, I remember passing miles and miles of plants with white stuff hanging off them.  I curiously asked him what that was and learned it was cotton. 

I don’t think I’d ever seen cotton plants before.  

However, after his prompt last night I googled whether Memphis, Texas produced cotton.  And fun fact, they are the known as being the cotton capital of the Panhandle.  The largest producer, has been in business for over 50 years.  

So my prompt is cotton.