love

The water is wide and I can’t cross over, Neither have I wings that I could fly. Build me a boat that can carry two, and both shall row my love and I.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Now I lay me down to sleep.
I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake.
I pray the lord my soul to take.

This poem scared the fuck out of me as a child. Seriously.

I was convinced that the poem was for kids. And as a result, kids only died while they were asleep. I was sure that one night I was going to go to sleep and never wake up.

In fact, in 5th grade, I tried to measure my breathing to the point that I couldn’t catch my breath. I was hyperventilating and finally left my bed to tell my parents that I couldn’t breathe. My mom immediately called our doctor. I don’t know what they said to each other, but she told me to go back to bed. I did and fell asleep a little while later.

I’m less afraid of dying in 2026, than I was in 1975. I’m supposing that getting old does that to a person. The closer I get to that day, the less afraid I am. It’s a fact of life. Something that all of us have to go through. Whether we like it or not.

It doesn’t scare me either to think that I don’t believe in god. I’m not sure what happens after we die, but I’m convinced there aren’t angels on high singing, while I sit on a puffy white cloud.

Years ago, I came up with the idea that life as we know it is but a dream. A very vivid, realistic dream. And when we die, we awake in another reality. One were life is different yet the same.

I don’t know if I believe this now, but it’s easy to hold on to. I think now, we just pass into another plain. Wrapping my head around how complicated this existence is, makes it even harder to wrap my head around the next.

And I can’t believe in god. Not the almighty god that was preached to me in my youth and during my formative years. There is no way, an all caring loving god would let the shit that happens in our world happen. And I have no interest in a cruel god that created the trauma in the first place.

So, I live in my bubble. Try to do the right things. Try to love with all my heart. And hope for the best.

Meanwhile, if you are a parent, read your kids a story and for the love of all things do NOT teach them this prayer. It’s scary. And it’s not nice.

Amen.

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Picture this Sicily, 1923. 

Actually, picture this.  New York City.  1983.  

My first trip to NYC. 

It was speech and drama students from Scott County Senior High School, seniors, who’d participated along the way.  Some of the specifics are a little fuzzy, but the stories are 100% true.  

My mother was pissed that I was going.  I’d never asked for permission.  I forged the permission slip.  When I told her, she asked who was paying for it, and I said I was.  By that time in my senior year things had gotten very contentious. 

We left on a Thursday.  We all piled in to Jason’s dad’s tricked out van. Our teacher Ms. Moore was driving.  The drive up was not memorable.  In fact, I remember nothing about it.  The trip back was much better with the story of all stories to share.  

We got to NYC and checked into the Howard Johnson, in Times Square.  I still have the ashtray from our room.  It’s on a shelf in my office.  

I don’t remember the order of the stories, but these are things that happened.  

One morning around 11:00 we all walked into a bar, sat at a table and ordered drinks. It was my first drink in a bar. I ordered a whiskey sour.  We were served, with no question.  

One of my classmates spent the night throwing up, and was HUNGOVER the next day.  VERY hung over.  

We went to Macy’s.  I remember the wooden escalators.  

We went to Tiffany’s.  There were four of us I believe.  We got our own personal security guard who followed us from floor to floor.  42 years later I’d get an engagement ring from that store.  

At one point we got on the subway, we had no idea where we are going.  We get on.  The doors start to close as a family is entering.  The mother and father get on, but the doors close in front of the daughter.  The subway starts to move and one of us says pull the cord, so the only time in all my time of riding the subway, someone pulled the emergency stop cord.

We WERE YELLED AT by a million people, but the little girl was reunited with her parents.  

The subway starts again, and we are immediately plunged into darkness.  We ride several stops with absolutely no lighting.  

We were on our way to the Bronx Zoo.  We ride and ride and finally get off.  We go up to the street.  And we are the only white people as far as the eye can see.  We weren’t scared, really, but a kind cop, suggested that we go back down and go back in the direction in which we came.  

One day, late afternoon, we are walking in Time Square, and a man approaches us about buying a camera. I had been wanting a camera and said, sure I’d buy a camera from him.  He tells me to follow him, and I very smartly gave my wallet to someone I was with.  I followed him with my 40 bucks and when I got there, he asked me for my wallet.  I said, I didn’t have a wallet but I had 40 dollars.  He took the money and left.  I looked around and there were people doing drugs in the entry way I was in.  Shooting up you might say.   Whoops.  Better luck next time.  

If any of you are wondering where our teacher was during all of this, she had sequestered herself in HER hotel room and was grading term papers.  We only saw her when it was time for dinner and a show.  

Speaking of shows.  

On the first night we saw CATS.  I remember I fell asleep during Act 2.  

However.  The show started late, because they were holding the curtain.  Around 8:15, there is a murmuring through the crowd and Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter enter and sit a few rows in front of us.  Along with Amy.  They both sign autographs during intermission, which I also have somewhere.  

During intermission, Ken Page, who was playing Old Deuteronomy, sat on stage and signed autographs.  I have that as well.  

The next night we saw 42nd Street.  I did not sleep through that.  To this day it’s one of my favorite shows.  I’ve designed it twice and seen it at least four or five times.  So fun, but no autographs.  

Of course, with our teacher grading term papers, there was much wandering the streets at night.  

One night we were out and about and met Edward Herrman.  I had no idea who he was.  

But.  

The biggest highlight of the trip was meeting Bob Hope.   It was at least 3:00 a.m and we were just walking around.  He just appeared.  We stopped him and talked to him for about 90 seconds.  He was wearing orange tennis shoes and was with a “bodyguard”?  I asked him for his autograph but all I had was a check and he wouldn’t sign it.  Which I find funny now.  

On one of the nights, we went to Sardi’s.  I remember very little about the dinner and I’ve never been back.  

Then it was time to head home.  

We are driving overnight.  And at some point, early in the morning, one of my classmates, who had really never participated in speech and only had done one show, starts having a vivid sex dream.  We all sat breathlessly, as she moaned and groaned her way down intestate 64.  We never knew if it was real, or if she was just doing a performance.  Finally, she climaxed and all was calm.  We all looked at each other and never spoke of it again. 

I’ll end by saying this.  I love seeing film and photos of NYC in the 70’s and 80’s.  I can’t explain it but that’s how I remember the city.  The smells, the chill in the air, the look and feel.  Those grainy pictures are exactly how it was.  The porn advertisement all over Times Square.  The prostitutes.  The edginess.  The questionable danger.  Scary and fun all at the same time.  

Today the city is in full cinemascope, with color and grandeur.  

But the 70’s and 80’s were a different story.  

PS.  It would be several years later that our drama teacher went back to NYC with students.   We had kind of ruined it for her.  

The Average Unmarried Female!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!

Hi Friends.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I kid.  I kid.  

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

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

I’m not getting married today.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

This is my last gay pride post.  

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

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

We see a lot of shows. 

And we revisit the city in which we met.  

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

Goddamn am I old.  

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

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

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

We indeed passed all of the landmarks.  

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

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

What?  

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

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

Unbeknownst to me, he’d actually listened.  

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

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

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

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

Only 6 of them are for men in silver.  

I tried several on.  

It was not a hard decision. 

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

I settled on a platinum band.  Simple. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I was almost moved to tears.  We kissed.   

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

The took our photo.  

Adam and I hugged and kissed and walked home.

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

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

I’ve worn it every day since.  

Are we married, no.  

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

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

I’ll keep you posted. 

People will say we’re in love.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

This is my next to last gay pride month post.

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

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

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

I was moved by the entire exchange.

Funny the things you remember.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I wait.

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

There is silence.

I ask him if there is more.

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

I laughed. I seriously laughed. Out loud.

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

He asked why I was laughing.

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

He asked if I was sure?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We lie on the bed. Still dressed.

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

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

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

I look at my watch.

It’s 7:00.

How the fuck did that happen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I walked home in the snow.

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Today is World AIDS day.

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

But you have to wonder if it will change anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

There was a long pause.

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

I asked why no one had called.

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

The thing that was most sad about his passing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You will always be loved Tony.

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

I still think about him. 40 years later.

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

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

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

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.