life

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. 

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. 

Drivin’ down the road, I get a feelin’ that I should’ve been home yesterday, yesterday!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’ve spent my entire adult restaurant career advocating for my young staff to go live their lives.

I say adult, which means management.

I say young staff, because I’m probably not going to give the same advice to a 50-year-old staff member.

The advice I have given over and over and over and over, is go forth and DON’T multiply.

In 2013, we hired a young kid named Nick, who was desperate to become a bartender. BUT. He’d never bartended in his life. We struck a deal with him. Work service bar for the summer, days only, and we’ll let you bartend. He got to learn how to make drinks. We got a service bartender who wasn’t going to wait on more than 5 or 6 guests a day. And his earnings were meager.

His dream was go get bartending experience and then go to Colorado and be a ski bum. Teaching skiing lessons during the day, bartending at night.

And he worked hard that summer. But alas, he also fell in love.

And at the end of the summer he was living with his girlfriend in Maine, and bartending for me, making no money.

I told him over and over, put your shit in your car and drive to Colorado. But he was in love and said he couldn’t.

Then Christmas came, and his girlfriend broke up with him on Christmas Eve. He came back after the new year heartbroken. He had no girlfriend, a job that didn’t pay well, and he felt it was too late to go west.

I asked him one day: What’s keeping you here? He said nothing. I asked if he was scared? And he said yes. I said, “Nick. Pack a couple of big bags. Put them in your car. And go. You don’t have to give notice to me. It’s winter, we’ll manage. Just go. And I’ll make you this promise. If you can’t find work, get homesick, or worse, I’ll have hire you the minute you get back.

Two days later he was gone.

I heard from him a couple of times, and he was living his best life in Colorado.

On Monday of this week, a sous chef, who left in September, came in to tell me he was going to Colorado to cook for the summer/winter. I congratulated him. He said he was flying out to get a place, meet his new team, and then flying home to drive back across the country.

I encouraged him to tell his new restaurant that he needed an extra week so that when he drove across country is wasn’t a trip to get from A to B but a chance to stop and see the country. Everyone needs to see the Bridges of Madison County. Everyone, should stop and go to Cedar Point and ride a roller coaster.

I can’t wait to hear about his adventures.

I love nothing more than watching young people I know fly and be free.

This is a long way of saying I’m very grateful for the number of lives I’ve lived. Not always perfectly. But I’ve had a blast. I’ve lived in the following states: Kentucky, Georgia, Ohio, Kansas, New York, Iowa, Alabama (for two weeks), California, Oklahoma, and Maine. Each adventure more exciting than the next.

I really only stressed about money a couple of times, and had to ask my parents for a favor a time or two, but I just went. And I didn’t move lightly. I took a 24’ UHaul to Alabama, then two weeks later, loaded it up and moved back home, leaving the keys to my apartment on the kitchen counter. I drove a U-Haul cross country twice to get to California and back.

I have only a couple of regrets in my life. Seriously. And even then, I’m aware enough to know that the experiences I regret helped me make me who I am today. I met lots of wonderful people. I saw lots of lovely places.

I will be eternally grateful for the life I’ve lived. It’s never been boring. It’s never been for the weak of heart.

PS. I promise I’m not dying. Just sharing stories of my life in the fast lane.

Tune in tomorrow when I talk about 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.  

Knock three times!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I loved living in NYC. It’s very true that you can be invisible there if you want to be. It’s also the biggest small town in the world, as I was always running in to people I knew, some of them only there for the weekend.

I moved in to the Financial District in January of 2000. I mostly wanted to be closer to work, but also I wanted to cut my commute in half. I found a cute little apartment, that to this day, is the smallest apartment I’ve ever lived in.

It was a triplex. In NYC a duplex or triplex means floors, not apartments. I had three levels, each level about five square feet.

In fact, I had to give my sofa a way, because it wouldn’t fit in the apartment.

It was home however, and it was fun to say that I lived in Manhattan.

Because it was no longer an hour train ride home, nor a 50 dollar cab ride, I found myself going out a little more.

One night, I was at Maria’s Crisis in The Village.

For those of you not in the know, Marie’s Crisis is a piano bar, in the basement of a building just off 7th Avenue. It’s not much bigger than my apartment, you can touch the ceiling, it’s definitely a fire trap, but it’s also fun, fun, fun.

I’d stopped there and had bought a beer and was listening (aka singing) to show tunes.

If I loved you.

The Trolley Song.

Suddenly Seymour.

Everything’s coming up roses.

At some point I noticed a guy watching me from across the room.

Unlike so many other times, I actually approached him and said hello. His name was Mike. He was in advertising.

We exchanged numbers and went out a few times.

I wouldn’t say we were ever boyfriends.

The love of his life had just passed away. I was the mess that I always have been.

We moved to just being friends very quickly.

He’d invite me to parties, etc. Dinner out with his friends.

I didn’t have any friends so I did not return the favor.

One night, we were all hanging out and he mentioned that he was being sent to France for work and was going to extend the trip by a week and asked if any of us wanted to meet him there.

I didn’t think twice about it, but then he mentioned it again a few weeks later, and fun fact, I ended up flying to Nice in March of 2001.

It was chilly there, but so beautiful.

We had about 10 days planned.

We were starting in Nice. Then taking the train to Vienna, Munich and Salzberg.

Much of the trip is a blur 25 years later.

Things that stand out:

The train ride was horrible, because Mike’s assistant booked the trip, but didn’t get us a sleeper car. We rode overnight and were awakened every 90 minutes or so to show our tickets.

We ended up in Verona at 5:00 a.m. The only passengers in a closed train station, waiting to transfer. I spent 30 bucks, buying food out of vending machines, because of the denominations I had, and the lack of it spitting out change.

We were the three gentlemen of Verona.

When the sun came up the next day, the views were beautiful as we traveled through Austria and Germany.

Dachau was horribly horrible. I’ll start there.

And the bus driver had a wickedly horrible sense of humor when announcing our stop there.

The rest of Munich was beautiful.

When in Vienna, always bring a tux in case your friends want to go to opening night at The Vienna Opera.

Seriously.

We’d read so much about the opera house, and when we discovered we could see a show there we jumped at the chance.

Tickets were EXPENSIVE, because it turned out it was opening night for Billy Budd.

I however, thought I was on vacation, so I had jeans. Lots and lots of jeans. That I wore, to sit in the orchestra section, five rows from the stage, while everyone else, including Mike was in a suit.

The thing I remember about the show the most, was how the theater smelled like opening night. You could smell freshly cut and painted wood.

The set was beautiful.

Salzburg, was the most fun though.

If you are ever given the chance to take The Sound of Music tour, do it. Three gay boys sitting in the back of the van singing every word to every song on the stereo.

Do a deer.

Sixteen going on Seventeen.

I must have done something good.

We were shown the front of the house, then drove a bit and saw the back of the house. We saw the tree lined drive. The gazebo. The cemetery they hide in. And best of all the church they got married in.

We had a blast.

Later that night, we went out for dinner.

Then a bar.

And somehow, it was late and we were closing the bar. The three of us, were chatting up three boys from Salzberg.

They invited us to meet them at an after hours bar.

They were going home first, but gave us instructions on how to get there.

I’m making this up but the instructions were:

Go to the third traffic light and turn left.

Go two blocks and turn right at the museum.

Then another block and a half and you’ll see a long staircase going down in the middle of the street.

At the bottom of the stairs do a U-turn and go about three blocks to the alley that says Smith.

Turn right there and you’ll see a red door.

Knock three times and say that Steve sent you.

And the directions were 100% correct. We knocked on the door. Said the password. And were let it.

To a tiny, afterhours bar.

It was crowded inside. Our friends were not there yet.

We went in and assessed the room.

There was an older woman at the end of the bar who seemed to be holding court.

And the room was filled with mostly attractive youngish gay men.

There was a bead covered door that lead to another room, that I don’t think you need to know about.

The point of the story is the woman at the end of the bar.

She took a liking to us immediately.

Turns out she was a film star in in the 40’s and 50’s. At some point, the industry moved on without her and she opened the bar.

And now every night she held court as the young men in her circle all had fun.

She spoke English with a very thick accent, but was not hard to understand. We spent the evening drinking, and conversing with a wide variety of people.

If I remember correctly, the guys who sent us there, never showed, but it didn’t stop us from having a blast.

Around 6:30, it was announced that the bar was finally closing and we said our goodbyes.

We hugged our Diva tightly, said thank you for the hospitality and started our venture home.

It really was a weirdly perfect European Night.

I will always love you.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

In 1989, I moved from Atlanta, back to Kentucky.

I won’t say I had a plan, but move back I did.

The first thing I did when I got home was to apply to get my Master’s Degree at UK. I’m not sure why, but I did. And I was accepted.

That same weekend, I went to a cast party for a UK show. If I’m not mistaken it was Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

Funny the things you’d do as a youngin’ that you’d never do now.

There’s no fucking way, I’d just show up at a party, at someone’s house I do not know, and just invite myself in.

But I did. And I I had an okay time.

At the party, I met someone who needed a roommate. I needed a roommate.

It was perfect.

I began the process of looking for an apartment, and found one on Stone Avenue, near campus. It was the first floor of a house, with a basement, that my new friend said he’d be happy to make his bedroom.

Two weeks before school started, we moved in.

It was a perfect home, close enough to walk to school in five minutes, but big and comfortable.

I engrossed myself in classes. I worked as a TA, and worked in the scene shop building scenery.

Life was good.

I was asked to design scenery for a show.

Vampire Lesbians of Sodom.

It’s an awesome show. But I had no idea what I was doing.

Meanwhile, I was doing my thing and going out occasionally.

I WAS NEVER A BAR GAY. NEVER!

I didn’t enjoyed it. Dancing wasn’t my thing. I didn’t groove to the lastest dance mixes.

I would buy a Bud Light, stand in the corner and hope that no one spoke to me.

That’s what I was doing when I noticed a young cute guy across the bar watching me.

He noticed me noticing him.

I continued to notice him until the lights came up. I was on my way out, when suddenly a man pushed the cute boy into me and said, something caddy.

Then he looked at me and said, “Why, he’s even cute with the lights on.”

I introduced myself and said I’m Jeff.

He said, I’m Jim.

And we ended up dating.

It was a fun fall. We hung out a lot, and then he’d head home to his apartment and I’d head home to mine.

Until, one day I arrived home from classes around 5:30.

I realized that the patio doors from the drive way were open.

Then I noticed my bicycle was gone. And I looked around and lots of things were missing. My back pack. My boombox, my box of cassette tapes, my jar of change.

I called the police.

They came and I filed a report.

What I noticed while they were there and I was reporting the missing items, was that ONLY my things were gone. Two bikes, just mine was taken. Two back packs. Just mine gone. Two stereos, only mine was gone.

I’m not a brain surgeon, but it only took about 90 seconds to say fuck this.

By 9:00 a.m. the next morning, I’d moved out, broken the lease, and started the process of finding a new place to live.

Fun fact: When I got to school two days later and reported what happened, I also learned that according to everyone at UK, I was actually my roommates boyfriend and we’d been dating the whole time.

FUCK THAT!

What this did though was make it possible to move in with my new found boyfriend.

And we relocated to a standard issue 1989 apartment complex, not unlike every apartment complex in the country in 1989.

And we set up house. And lived happily ever after.

For about five minutes.

Because fun fact: In my youth I was a very, very, very bad boyfriend.

If you need proof, I can provide references. The list is not long, but it is unfortunate.

And because I was not a good boyfriend, within a year, we’d split up.

But we stayed in touch. And I was a better friend after the break up than I’d been when we were together. I helped him through some tough times, and he helped me as well.

The year plus we were together were a perfect snap shot of the late 80’s.

A trip to Miami to visit a friend, driving my new Suzuki Sidekick.

A concert in Cincinnati to see Depeche Mode. It rained and I ran so fast back to the parking lot to close up my car.

Doing drag at Halloween.

Being out at school and owning who I was for the first time ever.

Working together at three different restaurants, even after we broke up.

I remember so many good things, and yet, they are all overshadowed by the bad, that was almost always my fault.

UGH.

I was an asshole.

Actually, I was an asshole until 2001.

Then I stopped being an asshole.

Well to some people.

For years I wondered what happened to this boyfriend.

And then one day I found him, or he found me on Facebook. And I get to watch him be happy across the country. I’m glad that he is happy.

And I hope he knows, how much I admire him and honor who he has become.

And it’s because of people like him, Adams gets the nice Jeff.

I’m alive and I will survive,  show the world that I can take it

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I know I’ve shared about this before but it in 2025 it’s important to remember these things are still happening.  

In 2001, I was working for a little internet start up company.  Well, a smallish, to medium size start-up company. 

In May of that year, my little company was bought by the big company Pitney Bowes.  By the end of August all of my favorite employees had been let go.

For some reason, known only to someone more powerful than me, I was kept on. 

My friends all got six-month severance agreements.  Meanwhile, I kept going to an office that used to house 7 of us that now housed me. 

Then 9/11 happened.  

And if you’d read my post by 3:00 on September 11, 2001, I’d been ordered to report to Danbury, Connecticut on September 12. 

I said no.  And didn’t report until the end of the month.

I continued to commute to Danbury until the next spring. 

On Monday morning at 7:00 a.m. I’d arrive at the Hertz car rental on 34th street at Penn Station and rent a car.  I’d drive north and get to work just before 9:00.  

I’d spend the week at the Danbury Ramada Inn, which also housed an Outback Steakhouse.  I’d get to work at 9:00 a.m.  Do my thing. Leave at 5:00.  Go the gym.  Drive back to the hotel.  Order food to go from Outback.  (They always forgot my silverware). And be in bed by 11:00.

On Friday, I’d leave work at 5:00.  Drive back to NYC.  Return my car.  And take the subway home. 

My life was horrible. 

There is more to the story, but I’ll save that for another day. 

On May 9, 2002, I was called into the HR office, where I was told they were restructuring the marketing team and that my position was being eliminated. 

On the outside I was pissed, while on the inside, I was popping champagne.

They slid the severance agreement across the desk and said here’s what we are offering.

(I had just read a post in Men’s Health that said severance agreements are negotiable). 

I told them, I’d have to read it over, and that I’d get back to them.  

In the end, they paid me 10,000 dollars more than they offered, plus back bonuses.

However, I was happy, happy, happy to never drive back to Danbury, Connecticut ever again. 

Truth be told, 25 years later and I’ve never been back, although I’ve been told the restaurant seen is a little more vibrant now. 

It’s the end of May.  I’m unemployed, and my old boss calls me.  He tells me that he’s just been hired by a company in Chicago that is opening their first New York satellite office.  He wants to know if I want to join the team. 

I immediately say yes. 

My first day is on June 10, 2002.  I arrive and do my thing.  I’m office manager, and I’ve been tasked with setting up a new office.  We need computers, printers, internet, paper, phone etc.

I get to work.

All is well.  

My boss calls me on Tuesday, to let me know that the owner of the company, Marge, will be in town on Wednesday and wants to meet me.  She has arranged for us to meet for lunch. 

I get to work on Wednesday and get to work. We’ve received a million boxes and I get started opening them.  On my fifth or sixth box, I slide the scissors across the tape, only to slice my finger open.  Fuck.  Fuck.  Fuck. 

It’s still bleeding at noon when I am needing to leave for lunch with the owner of my company.  

I wrap a paper towel around my finger, wrap rubber bands around it to keep it in place and leave for lunch. 

Lunch is pleasant enough. 

She’s nice.  She asks about my goals.  Where I see myself in five years.  I talk about theater, wanting to be a lighting designer.  It’s fine. 

When I leave lunch, I go immediately to the St. Vincent emergency room and get five stitches in my finger.  

The next day, I go to work as usual. 

Then Friday, I repeat the process. 

Around 11:00 my old boss calls and tells me to stop work.

Then proceeds to tell me what has transpired in the last 48 hours.

Thursday night, he’d had a meeting with Marge, and her assistant, where she said,   Mike (the assistant) I know you are gay.  Jeff is obviously gay.  Looks at my boss and says, I assume you are gay.  I won’t have my New York office run by all gay men.  Jeff has to go.

My old boss took copious notes.  Said he’d deal with it.  And left the meeting. 

On Friday morning, when he called me he was supposed to be on his way to a company wide meeting where, he’d be introduced to the company as the head of the new New York location.  Instead, he was on his way to the airport to fly home to New York. 

He told me to pack up any personal shit I had, take the new espresso make home with me, and get out of the office.  By noon I was on my way uptown. 

First stop, the NYC LGBT center.  I met with one of their employees, who gave me the number of a civil rights attorney. 

A week later, my old boss and I are sitting in his office, telling him our story. 

Fun fact, it’s illegal in NYC to fire someone for being gay.  

Now to the fun part of the story. 

On Saturday, after the firing, my old boss, talked to her assistant, who corroborated the whole story.  All the details, etc.  My boss recorded the conversation.  Mike never spoke to either of us again, but the damage had been done.  

The lawyer sent the transcript of the phone call to the opposing attorney.  

They asked for mediation.

Mediation was us sitting across the table from her, while she told me all the ways I was unqualified to do the job I’d been hired to do.  Simply because theater was my first love.  I’d like to say, that if you walked into any new office in NYC right now, half the employees at line level want a theater career.  They may never have it, but that’s why they are in NYC. 

Mediation ended poorly. 

By now it’s approaching the end of 2002.  The legal process is not fast. 

Sometime in late November, we were called and told that they other company was settling. 

Each of us would be awarded $250,000 each.  

Hehehehehe.  

We got checks in January. 

It’s the most money I ever made for the least amount of work.  

I took my money and promptly applied for graduate school. 

In the end Marge’s bigotry bought me a new red Mini Cooper 5-speed, moved me from NYC to San Diego, paid for my apartment and got me through my first year of grad school.  

It’s never nice of her don’t you think. 

The point is, I was fired for being gay.  

It’s still happening.

This is why we have pride month.  This is why we fight.  

Right now, my trans brothers and sisters are being asked to leave the military.  Men and women willing to die for your right to be a bigot. 

There are people still being fired.  Silenced. 

So fight.  Don’t be silent.  Don’t be complicit. 

Do the right thing. 

At remember, bigotry doesn’t pay, except when it does.  

Goodness gracious, that’s why I’m a mess!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

During the last weekend of April, in 2000, I flew to Washington D.C. from NYC and met my friend Michelle, her girlfriend Meredith and my friend Sam for the Millenium March on Washington.

It was the first real gay event that I’d ever attended.

The weekend was packed with events, a concert, protests, a march and a festival.

We all met there, and checked in to our very cheap, budget hotel.

It was a Friday morning and the fun, pride filled weekend lay in front of us.

There are a few things that stand about the weekend.

Sam was at the hotel for about three minutes, said he was off to meet friends, and I didn’t seem him again all weekend.

Meredith and I fought all weekend about the thermostat. She thought the a/c should be on 78. I thought it should be on 60. She won.

And I’m pretty sure when we said goodbye on Sunday night, it was the last time I saw her.

On Friday night, there was a huge concert at JFK Stadium, called Equality Rocks. We had nose bleed seats, but the energy was insane. It was sold out, and the crowd was going wild. So many amazing people performed.

Melissa Ethridge, KD Lang, George Michael, Garth Brooks, Chaka Khan, and the Pet Shop Boys.

The most moving moment of the night was when Matthew Shepherd’s parents took the stage. His mom spoke eloquently about the role of she’d been thrust into by the murder of her son.

She was everybody’s mom that night. She owned it.

It was late when the concert was over.

The three of us, started down from the top of the stadium. Taking one escalator after another.

On the third escalator, a man caught my eye.

Very much caught my attention.

He waited for me at the bottom.

We talked for a few moments, and then we both started our journey again toward the exits.

We got outside the stadium, and were now very much in love.

He asked me if I wanted to come home with him, and how better to celebrate the gay movement than by being gay.

I told Michelle, I’d meet her at the march the next day, and we walked to his car.

As he drove me to his house, he let me know that he was a police officer in Boston, and that he’d flown down for the March. He was in D.C. staying with his family, who very supportive of him.

We got back to his place, shared a beer and fell asleep.

Get your mind out of the gutter. This is a PG story. Plus, it’s been 25 years I barely remember that it happened.

We woke up the next morning, to breakfast cooking.

He asked me if I was hungry? I said sure, did you cook breakfast.

He replied, no but my mom did.

He’d failed to mention that when he said he was here with his parents, he meant at their house.

Ever hear of the walk of shame.

Well, I got dressed, and went downstairs and was introduced to the mom, the dad, the two sisters and the family dog.

We all had a hearty breakfast, while I pretended not to be embarrassed.

After breakfast, he drove us back in to DC, and dropped me off near the spot I was to meet Michelle and Meredith.

I found them, we marched.

At the end of the day, we all went our separate ways. Me back to NYC. Them back to Chicago.

Two interesting facts about the boy in question.

He has a very distinct name.

Two or three years later, I was reading a true crime novel, set in Massachussets, and the book mentioned him as a investigative police person in the case.

He was also booked on American Airlines Flight 11, out of Boston to L.A. on 9/11. He missed the flight and the rest you can say is history.

We stayed in touch for a bit. One of the last times I spoke with him was just before I moved to San Diego to start grad school.

And a quick google search has shown that he is now a very high ranking Boston police officer and makes a ton of money, because it’s public info.

I found him on Facebook.

He has a cute boyfriend.

And a dog.

I’d rather be sailing…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I missed yesterday, so there are two posts today.

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Most of my younger friends, would never believe that I have not always been an overweight middle aged man.

In fact, at one time you might call me attractive.

Might.

If your glasses were foggy and you hadn’t had cataract surgery.

However, I did okay for myself.

When I lived in Atlanta, I never really had a boyfriend.

Well, I had one for about 5 minutes. But that’s a story for another day.

I did date a bit. Although not much. I was too busy living my best life.

There are a few men who stand out in Atlanta. Matt, the boyfriend. Chris who tried to get me to like red wine. Dave, the artist. The guy whose name I’ll remember later, who went on to make a huge fortune in designing chandeliers. Tony, who I stayed in contact with and of course.

And Shel the furniture distributor.

This story is about Shel.

I have no idea, how we met.

I do remember our first date.

We had lunch, in the spring, at a café that over looked Piedmont Park.

He picked me up in his baby blue Mercedes convertible, and was the perfect gentleman.

He was easily 45, with a weathered appearance, that gave the impression he’d grown up on a sailboat. His face was tanned, and his hair was blondish grey. His eyes, were crystal blue and he spoke with a slight Norwegian accent.

The only thing I know about his wealth, was that he and his Norwegian family, owned a European furniture company and distribution center.

I never asked. He didn’t offer up much information.

We were never exclusive. We’d go out to mostly lunches, and early dinners. He’d drive me around town in the convertible and I felt like royalty. He was wicked funny, and very sweet.

His apartment, was in a high rise, and it had beautiful views of Atlanta.

One of the memories that I remember clearly was going to Neiman Marcuss with him where he was picking up and paying for pants that had been altered for him. When he paid, the register said $750. In 1988. What the fucking fuck.

He was in excellent shape and looked as good out of clothes as he did in his $750 pants. He really was beautiful.

We dated casually throughout the summer, and then our summer romance kind of fizzled. I don’t remember a conversation. I don’t remember a break up. I just remember one day I had a friend with a powder blue Mercedes convertible and the next day I didn’t.

Truth be told, I probably have his old phone number written in an address book in a box in my closet. And for the life of my I can’t remember his last name, which was Norwegian.

For a moment though, my star shone brightly.

Something bad is happening.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

By the time I graduated high school in 1983, AIDS was no secret.

It wasn’t getting the national attention it should have, Reagan was still pretending it didn’t exist, and gay men were dying across the country.

In Central Kentucky, I felt isolated. I felt protected.

I won’t say I was as careful as I should have been.

I went off to college, also in central Kentucky, and it was very much the same. Still not as much attention as it should have been getting. Reagan might have mentioned. it by then, and by this time the number of deaths were staggering.

Still, I felt isolated, protected.

In September 1987, I moved to Atlanta.

Suddenly, I wasn’t in little “ole” Kentucky.

Suddenly, I knew gay people. Suddenly, I was out of the closet.

I was much more careful, but not as careful as I should have been.

By the time I left Atlanta, it was a full-blown national nightmare.

I moved back to Central Kentucky.

I was terrified. I’d met men who had been diagnosed with HIV and AIDS, it was very close to home.

And yet. It was 1989, and I had never been tested.

I’d seen the posters around town. In the bars. On the bulletin boards at school.

Finally. I said I’ll do it.

I drove to the health department on Newtown Road. Around to the back. In a satellite trailer, similar to the ones they use at high schools now.

I went in, took a number.

I was scared to death.

I waited about 16 hours. Actually, I don’t remember how long it actually was. It seemed like a decade.

I was taken back. I was asked some questions. I was told the test could be anonymous.

The nurse was very sweet. Caring. Gentle.

She drew the blood.

I was given a sheet of paper with a number on it. As it was anonymous, it would be how I’d be matched to my result when I came back.

In two weeks.

What the fucking fuck?

If the wait to draw blood was a decade, the two-week wait was a century. Everything was in slow motion those two weeks. Work. School. Rehearsal.

Two weeks later, I made the trek back out to the trailer.

I was taken into a room with a counselor. I was told they always have a counselor just in case it’s positive.

The envelope was opened.

A breath was taken.

I was told

It was.

Negative.

The emotion that rushed over me, was immense.

How could this be? I was only kind of careful. Surely it was wrong.

But it was not.

Fast forward 35 years and I’m tested at every physical. It’s part of my routine blood work for cholesterol and my A1C.

I’m still not sure how I remained negative.

I spent almost 12 years in New York City. I was always kind of careful.

I’m forever grateful.

So many people in my generation were not so lucky.

The care has come a long way, but there are still people worldwide, who are suffering and dying from this horrible disease.