life

Rocky Horror Picture Show

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Picture this. Sicily 1902.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

More to come later.

Go Apes!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

I digress.  

My friend turned 60.  

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

How the fuck am I about to turn 60?

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

What is your favorite non-fiction book?

Who is your favorite author?

What is the first book you read as a child?

What’s your favorite book series?  

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

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

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

I answered:

Books.  Actual real live books.  Always. 

Except:

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

Then.  

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

The back story.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fun fact.  

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

She read.  I drove. 

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

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

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

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

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

So.  

I highly recommend the book.  It’s awesome.  

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

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

New Kid In Town

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I haven’t written publicly in a while.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

New Kid in Town:  Eagles.  1976/1977. 

For me it’s January 1977. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

There is no talking. 

We drive.    

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

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

We have made it alive.  My mother is happy.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeff at the Psychiatrist, a three-part mini opera

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.

Way back before the internet. Before cell phones. Almost before electricity.

I was an asshole.

A raging, giant, not forgettable asshole.

I can hear all of you who know me now saying, well that tracks.

Seriously, I was.

I was once fired by an assistant principal from a lighting gig because I told him to close the fucking door.

I’ll tell that story another day.

I once threw a watch at a boyfriend, and broke the glass in our French doors.

Another day.

I once ripped up a photograph of a boyfriend’s childhood home, because he pissed me off.

Another day.

I once threw a tray, with four ice tea glasses filled with ice tea, at a manager. (He deserved it).

Another day.

I once rudely told a classmate of mine that he was off key, making fun of his song, because you know, that’s who I was.

Another day.

I once called a cousin a backwoods country fuck.

Another day. (This one might have been warranted, but probably not).

I have a few stories that I’m just too embarrassed to share with you.

But don’t you worry, these stories keep me awake at night several times a year.

Sometimes, I even took pride in being an asshole. Telling actors what I thought of their performances. Telling co-workers how bad they were. Telling family members what I thought of them.

I’m sure there are people in my current life that would assure you that I have not changed.

They are probably a little right.

Truth be told, the one thing that changed for me. That led me away from a life of assholery.

Was being medicated.

April 20, 2001.

I know this, because I started a new journal on the morning after my first dose of the medicine.

The journal was specific. It was detailed. The days that followed, I wrote about the pain and suffering. But it also detailed the changes that followed after I started the medicine.

I bring all of this up, because last night, going through a box, I found said journal.

And I read through it.

I don’t recognize the person who wrote in the journal. Not at all.

The pain. The suffering. The longing to be better.

I don’t recognize the person, but I remember writing the posts.

I don’t remember the pain, but I remember writing about it.

It’s been almost 25 years since I started taking the meds.

I went off of them once in 2012, ruined Thanksgiving, and swore to Adam, I’d never do that again.

Another day.

As I read through the journal, I put it in the trash pile. Along with a bunch of other stuff.

Luckily, the trash was full, and I was too lazy to change it so I kept the whole pile. I put it back in my office.

Today, I decided not to throw the journal away, as there is a whole story there to tell.

When I started taking the medicine, I also started seeing my psychiatrist for the therapy. He didn’t take insurance. He had a fancy 5th Avenue office. And it was a whole bunch of money each month. And more than any money I’ve ever spent on cars, tuition, vacation, this money changed my life.

I didn’t stop being an asshole overnight. But slowly, over the years it waned. And I became a better person. And more than not being an asshole, I learned to like the person that I’d become. After close to 50 years of really kind of hating myself, I realized that there was good guy in there all along.

I sometimes think that the reason I survived my asshole years is because along the way I found people who could see me for who I wanted to be and not who I was currently being. People who never gave up on me. Who knew that I’d find my way.

I had a few who didn’t make it. They gave up. Walked away. Decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

Looking back, I’m not sure I blame them, but for those that waited it out, I’m very thankful.

I’ve been lucky enough to let most of the people who stuck it out know how much I appreciate them. To others, there are amends to be made, eventually.

I tell people in my life now, that I don’t argue well. I listen to what’s being said, and I think about it. I’m great at responding in the shower 6 hours later.

It’s not that I don’t argue well. It’s just that if I say what comes to mind in the moment, I have to say I’m sorry later. So, I don’t speak. I shut down, to quote a few people. Listen to what the person is saying, then respond later. In a thoughtful, well-crafted way.

This can be frustrating to someone who is pushing for a response, but I prefer this to having to say I’m sorry later.

In the meantime, I take my medicine.

I think before I speak.

I breathe.

And the writing from the last three years has helped immensely. Should I share my deepest darkest secrets? I say absolutely.

The biggest gift I was ever given, was learning that I was not alone. That there are others who suffer from my diagnosis. There are people out there who are assholes that don’t want to be assholes. They want to be kind and giving and understanding.

So, I share my crap, so the friends I have on Facebook, and my friends who read my blog, will know that they’re not alone, and that there is hope.

I’ll end by saying, if you are struggling–seek help. Seek it everywhere. It might take a while for the right person to come along. I sought help for the first time in 1995. I didn’t find a solution until 2001. I saw a dozen therapists. At least four different psychiatrists. In fact, the doctor, who changed my life, was recommended by a guy I went out with three or four times.

He changed my life.

Keep looking. If you don’t connect. Try someone else. Try someone else. Someone else.

Just don’t give up.

The solution is out there.

If I could do it, then you can do it.

A weekend in the country, would be charming, and the air would be fresh.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

It’s the third weekend in July.  

That means it’s the weekend of the Yarmouth Clam Festival.  

That means it’s just six weeks till Labor Day Weekend.  

It means that we are half way through the summer season in Maine.  

And it also means it’s Camper’s Weekend.  

AHHHHHHH.  

That was a chorus of angels singing.  

What is Camper’s Weekend you ask?  

Well.  

Let me tell you.  

There are around 150 summer camps in Maine.

Many of these camps are sleep-away camps.  

Many of these camps welcome kids for several weeks at a time.  

And most of these camps DON’T allow visitors on the regular.  

So.  

One weekend, in the middle of the summer, these camps open their gates and allow parents to visit.  

And that one weekend is the third weekend in July.  

July 19 and 20, 2024. 

And why is any of this important?  

Well.  

Summer camp in Maine is NOT for working class folk. 

For the most part.  

There are subsidies and scholarships if you are a middle class and poor.  

For most of these kids their parents are wealthy.  

Very.

Wealthy.

And I do mean VERY wealthy.

People, from all over the country, ship their kids to Maine for the summer.  

And on the third week of July, these wealthy parents descend on Maine, to visit their offspring.  

And these wealthy, wealthy, stupidly rich people can be very amazing. 

Very sweet.  Handing out money to anyone they come in contact with.   

But far too many of them come to Maine, and they eat in our restaurants, and they are HORRIBLE.  

But how are they horrible you ask?  

Well.

Let me tell you.

First of all, every restaurant in town is booked months out.  

Completely booked.  

But that doesn’t deter these folks.  

They call repeatedly. 

They threaten.

Do you know who I am?

They have their assistant’s call.  

Do we know who they are? 

And these folks, finally get reservations.  

At their first, second, third, fourth choices.  

Yes, they make lots and lots of reservations.  

Leaving it up to fate, luck, and what others are doing as to what reservation they will keep.  

If they keep them.  

Today we had 23 cancellations.  

Most of which were in the last 24 hours.  

About ten of them were after service started tonight.  

We were significantly less busy, even though on paper we should have been crazy.  

But that’s the good part. 

The bad part is how a lot of these folks act when they walk through the doors.  

On Friday night, not one table sat where I had them scheduled to sit.  They walked in.  Looked around and then told me where they were sitting.  

I’m not sitting at a high top.

I’m not sitting at the counter.  

I’d like that corner table in the window that seats six, even though we are just four.  

I’m not sitting on the patio.  

I know I booked a regular table, but there is a lovely table on the patio and we’ll sit there.  

None of these things could happen.  

 A party of four would show up with six, and say, we’ll squeeze, until they realized that wasn’t an option.  

A party of 10 took 75 minutes to be complete last night.   The first guests sat at 5:15,  the last guests arrive at 6:40.  

They let their children run wild.  And I do mean wild.  I watched an 8-year-old, it was his birthday, run into different servers for 90 minutes. 

They are also all gluten free, organic, vegan, dairy-free, probiotic, paleo, pescatarians, who are allergic to black pepper, allium, mollusks.  However, they are gluten free, not celiac, so if you use the fryer that’s okay.  

And ALL, and I mean ALL of their phone numbers originate in New York City and its suburbs.  

Something an employee pointed out last night, is that for the most part, they don’t really enjoy food.  They are quick to order a burger, a pizza, or salad.  Most are not venturing in to seafood, especially raw seafood.  Steaks are preferred medium well.  

And more than anything, they don’t like to be told no.  In fact, they don’t take no for an answer.  

Like never.  

It goes back to do you know who I am?  Do you know who I work for?  Do you know how much I am worth? 

I can buy and sell you!!! 

Friday night, was the worst shift I have had at my new restaurants.  

The host working next to me, kept saying, you’ve got to be kidding me?

Do you have a kids menu? 

No.  

Do you have child friendly food?  

I don’t know what that means.  

Do you have chicken fingers?

No.  

Pasta?

No.

Spaghetti?

No (Spaghetti is pasta). 

How about grilled chicken? 

No.  

How about pizza?

Yes, we have pizza.

Is it gluten free?

Yes.  

That might work.  

This is a conversation I had at the host stand.  Long before they were seated or spoke to their server.  

If you live in Maine, you know it’s coming.  You can’t take the weekend off like we used to do in NYC for Fleet Week.  Or Easter Weekend or any of the other horrible days.  

We all suck it up, take a deep breath and take it like a man.  

I do have to say, that this weekend, this year, was every weekend last year, and the two summers prior. 

So, I really shouldn’t be complaining.  

But I think it’s important to share the fun.  

And, every restaurant in town does well this weekend.  

And by this time tomorrow, every family will be headed back to NYC and we won’t see them again till the third week of July, 2025.  

And I will be sitting in my underwear, drinking Buffalo Trace, which Adam found in the grocery store today, grateful the weekend is over, but also grateful, that it was another banner Camper’s Weekend.  

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!

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

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

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

This one brought back a very specific memory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The server approaches the table.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You gay?

What?

Are you gay?

What?

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

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

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

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

Robert wants to know if he heard them correctly.

He is assured that he heard them loud and clear.

Robert says, I’ll be right back.

He might as well have said, hold my beer.

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

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

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

They question him.

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

They then ask, if he can wait on them.

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

They hem and haw and eventually realize what is happening.

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

Instead, they gather their belongings and leave.

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

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Gay Pride Edition!!!

My show opened tonight.

It went well.

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

It happened tonight.

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

Tonight’s show was a celebration of queer theater.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

All of our friends are equally open.

The openness is all around us.

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

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

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

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

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

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

At the shrine of friendship, never say die. Let the wine of friendship never run dry

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I wrote the body of this post in May of 2021. It was only posted on Facebook. I’ve been trying to find it for a year now, and it finally popped up in my memories.

About three months before my writing career really kicked off, I’d just opened a new restaurant, something I’m on the fence about ever doing again.

We opened about 10 days before the mask mandate was lifted, along with the need for spacing tables for safety.

In fact, someone called the police on us because they felt that we were seating people too close. Life in the time of Covid.

The opening was a success.

We went from 0 to 100 in about 14 days. Business couldn’t have been better. We were short staffed. I only had one manager, me. And it was a zoo. But we were making money, and that was what counted.

Now for the post from 2021.

My new restaurant just finished week three.

It’s a very big success and we are doing quite well. Through continuous conversations with guests, it often comes up that I moved from NYC, and in a previous life I was a theatrical lighting designer.

A pretty good one at that.

I’m often asked how I got from designing lights to restaurant manager.

Well.

Fun fact.

In grad school, while obtaining my MFA at the University of California, San Diego, one of the best theatre schools in the country, I ran a very successful bar out of my office.

I hosted happy hour every Friday for two years, from 4:00 to close.

Which was sometimes 5:00. But more often 1:00 or 2:00 am. And at least a couple of times, the sun was coming up when we all wrapped up the evening.

I’d often open up for days that were stressful, when we needed a little boost to get through the long days and nights. My mentor Chris Parry, would sneak down on Tuesdays and ask for a gin and tonic.

My regulars included classmates, and unofficially our staff and professors who always pretended they weren’t there. Including the chair of the program.

We also had alumni, guest artists, friends, and strangers.

The crowd could be two people if everyone was in rehearsal.

Sometimes it didn’t even include me if I was teching a show.

Sometimes there might be 30 plus people.

We also had glass bar ware and nothing but top shelf booze.

Bombay Sapphire was our gin of choice. Just ask Sarah EC Maines?

We were also known to deliver at least once during tech. Usually during a 10 out of 12. (A 10 out 12 is when you rehearse a show, with the entire team, including actors for 10 hours in a 12 hour block of time).

We’d take orders and bring all the designers and stage managers their favorites.

It’s also because of these deliveries I now drink bourbon. I got sick during tech for my thesis show, and my classmates kept my Diet Coke cup spiked with bourbon as I couldn’t talk and felt like shit. It got me through 8 days of tech and the show looked great.

I also managed to keep the inventory stocked and the fridge full by charging just two dollars per drink. We had an honor system and house accounts for those of us who ran short at the end of the month.

I was a just as proud of doing this as I was the design work I produced while a student.

When I graduated, my cocktail hour was as much a part of my legacy as my design work.

On the day of graduation, I had a cooler stashed off stage. There were about 25 people who graduated in the department graduation. As we were presented our fake diplomas, we were offered the chance to say a few words.

As long as we kept it short.

I started my speech by saying that I’d spent countless hours, and thousands of dollars to be here today, so I’m going to go a little over my time limit. I spoke for about 15 minutes with bullet points on a piece of paper. This was before I-phones so there is no recording, but I was told it was a good speech.

At the beginning of the speech, my friends Tom and Anjee, pulled the cooler out, and together, we distributed Coronas to all the graduates and professors.

At the end of my speech, I popped the top off my own Corona and toasted the team. I was nearly in tears when I finished.

I miss doing design work.

But I like my life in Maine more.

I’ve said a million times that my studies in California made me the person I am today.

My patience.

My ability to see the big picture.

My ability to deal with different types of people.

My ability to know just how much to dim the lights for dinner. And explaining to owners that they indeed needed to spend money on lights that produced amber light AND NOT fluorescent white light.

My ability to not to stab someone in the eye with a fork.

My ability to train new staff.

All of this is an extension of UCSD.

While I haven’t designed lights in a hot minute, my three years were life changing.

So, a big shout out to Mark Maltby for not shutting me down!

And know that I’m forever grateful for my time in California.

And that’s how I went from being a lighting designer to being a general manager.

I posted this, three years ago, and got a few comments. I want to include it in my archives, so that when I write my book it can be included.

And.

I am doing a show in a week. The first since 2014. Small. But I’ll write about that separately.

When our long night is done, there will be light. There will be light. There will be light.

/ fightmasterwrites / 1 Comment

I’d really, really, really like to speak to the manager!!!

Actually.

I NEED to speak to the manager!!!

Hi.

It’s Jeff.

Remember me.

I’ll get straight to the point.

I miss writing.

I miss it a lot.

I literally write down 6 or 7 ideas in my Notes app every day.

But here’s the thing.

I haven’t been writing.

One post in a month.

And here’s why.

Back when the time the changed my depression kicked in.

I was reminded by Facebook, my blog, and my friends that this is a yearly occurrence.

Only this year it’s not lifting.

For the past month I’ve felt like I was moving in a fog.

Like I’m underwater, swimming, upstream, against a current that is about to go over a falls.

Most days have been like this.

Most people don’t know.

Most days Adam doesn’t know.

That being said, there have been weeks that have been very dark.

Like I’m already over the falls.

And again.

No one knew.

I went to work. I did my job. I was friendly. I was funny. I was outgoing. I led meetings. I solved problems. I made lists. I crossed things off my list.

No one knew.

I came home.

I scooped the litter boxes. I did the dishes. I folded the laundry. I cleaned my office. I sorted the mail. I went to the dump. I took the cans to the redemption center.

No one knew.

And I’d go to bed.

And I’d lie awake, wondering what the point of it all was.

Is.

Here’s the thing.

I’ve dealt with depression my whole life.

Well, since puberty. It really started when I hit 13 or 14. We moved from the neighborhood I grew up in. To a house where the nearest neighbor was not close. Then we moved again, this time to a small, small town, where I was called a f*g on the bus every day for two years till I got my driver’s license.

At this time, my relationship with my parents sucked, for absolutely no reason at all, other than I was not quite what they wanted in a son. I read. I didn’t miss school. I got good grades. I was really a text book pretty decent kid. Not what they wanted.

And the depression started.

And I learned to hide it.

I hid it through high school.

I hit it in college.

I hid it in Atlanta, Kansas City, Cincinnati.

And I continued to hide I couldn’t.

And then it came pouring out, like someone had run over a hydrant.

And for the next few years life pretty much sucked ass.

And very few people knew it.

In 1998, I moved to NYC.

And in the fall of 1999, I was at Marie’s Crisis, a piano bar, singing show tunes. And a cute boy named Mike, caught my eye across the room. The chorus sang out, Suddenly Seymour, as I made my way across the room to introduce myself. I did things like that back then.

And I ended up going home with him.

And we dated for about 6 minutes. Not months. Minutes. I think we went on three dates. Long enough to learn that he made a 110,000 year, he was in marketing and his partner of three years had just died of AIDS.

He was depressed.

I was depressed.

We agreed we were too depressed to date each other.

And one night we chatted about our depression and he suggested I go to his psychiatrist.

Mike and I stayed friends until I left NYC. In fact, I had a fabulous trip to Europe with him and a couple of his other friends in the spring of 2001.

I ended up making an appointment with Mike’s doctor.

And on my third appointment he wrote me a prescription.

He warned me not to go home and read about the medicine on the internet, as the medicine was usually for schizophrenics. I am not schizophrenic.

At this point I didn’t care. I was desperate for help.

I went home.

Took the medicine.

And woke up the next day a new man.

Seriously.

It was that fast.

It didn’t fix the problems, but the depression lifted.

I felt human.

I continued to see this doctor until I left NYC for therapy and drugs. He didn’t take insurance. Had a fifth avenue office, and my weekly visits cost more than my rent.

But I wasn’t depressed.

You hear of people selling their bodies for drugs. I would have sold my body for these drugs.

I was on a cocktail of three little pills that changed my life.

When I left NYC, I had a recommendation for a doctor in Maine. I saw him until he retired 8 years ago. At one visit he essentially told me I was cured. My visits were always the same.

Life is good. Life with Adam is good. My job is good. My home life is good. The cats are good.

Month after month after month after month.

The same.

Until my mom died.

I held it together for the cancer. And the funeral. And the clearing of the house.

And about four months later, it got dark.

I went to a new doctor and they said, relax, you are normal. This is called grief. Give it time.

And I did.

And it lifted.

And now for what is 24 years, I’ve been on the same cocktail of drugs.

Three little pills kept me normal.

Until March of this year.

The time changed and I changed.

And I got depressed.

And it has not lifted.

I’m in a fog.

I’m swimming.

Well actually sometimes it feels more like drowning than swimming.

And no one knows.

And I wouldn’t be writing this at all, except, Adam went to bed early and I’ve had a cocktail, and the fog is there, but I kept myself busy tonight and it’s the best I’ve felt in a bit.

But still there’s fog.

Still, I’m underwater.

I learned a lot in therapy in NYC.

I learned that the depression always lifts.

And that’s always been true.

This year is starting to feel a bit different.

I also learned that to talk about it takes the magic out of it.

No one knows.

No one knows.

No one knows.

Until you tell them.

So, I’ve told a few people.

And now I’m telling you.

I need to find a way out of this.

Tonight, a friend told me I needed a hobby. So instead of driving around after work, which I’m wont to do, I came home and started scanning. There’s more to come from where those came from.

I’m on vacation starting Monday. But for the first time in a bit, I’m not excited about it.

We are going to NYC to see an amazing array of shows, but I feel like it’s going to work. I’m hoping that once we are in the car headed south, that the sun will start to shine.

And the fog will lift.

Until then.

I need to talk about it.

So, I’m telling you.

And you know what.

As a white, American, man in his late 50’s it’s hard to ask for help.

We are taught that asking for help is a sign of weakness.

That only weak sissy men ask for help.

I’m not a weak sissy man…

But…

I need some help.

I wish I could tell you what that looked like.

But I can’t.

But if you could send some good thoughts my way, until this bullshit lifts I’d appreciate it.

Edit: I just posted this and the thing is there is no reason for the depression. Adam and I are fine. I have a job I really like. Our home is great. The cats are great. There is NO reason to feel the way I do. Which is the reason it sucks. I can get behind depression when someone dies, or dumps you, or fires you. But this. NO BUENO.

Tell me this feeling lasts till forever…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I was awake at 2:30 this morning.

Which is a new thing, as I’ve been sleeping better than ever for the past three months or so. Seems a new job, new me, new car, new knee makes a difference in my life.

Why was I awake at 2:30 this morning?

Because I was consumed with things I can write about, that have nothing to do with the day to day service of my current restaurant.

Over the past month, I’ve created a list of potential topics.

Currently I have 287.

That’s after, spending 30 minutes last night, just brainstorming.

At 2:30 in the morning.

At some point I put my phone down and fell asleep.

I wonder if my writing friends of whom I have a lot, find themselves awake in the middle of the night, creating stories.

And it’s true, I have lots of friends who write and are published authors. Plays, Novels, Poems. Movies, etc. Some on the NY Times best seller. Some with Emmy’s. Some self-published. Some produced playwrights.

Some who do what I do and write for fun.

Long story short, its sometime hard to turn it off, when my brain gets going.

It’s also a lot more fun than it used to be, because those were stress posts. These are fun stories of my past. First jobs. Worst jobs? Great jobs? Embarrassing jobs.

So much fun.

Meanwhile.

I need to start writing 12 posts a day, so that I can get ahead of my list.

Now.

I need to get home.

I’m tired and tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.

We are busy. And it’s all 2-tops.

I’ve got to come in early, and create a new floor plan with all the tables pulled apart, just enough so that couples don’t yell at me.

I’ll wrap up my post by saying, if you get a pedicure the Sunday before Valentine’s Day, you have to wait because every girl in America is doing the same thing. And they charge you premium pricing.

It was my first since my knee surgery and my toes looked live hooves. I tipped her ten million dollars.