love

September 11, 2001.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

When I rolled over and looked at the clock it was 6:45 a.m.  I didn’t need to be out of bed for two more hours. I adjusted the pillows, pulled the blanket over my head and willed myself back to sleep. After another 45 minutes of this I gave up. Jet lag is a bitch. I’d flown home from Barcelona two days earlier and in spite of my trying I was not going back to sleep. I was wide awake and I didn’t need to be at work until at least 9:00. I crawled to the end of the bed, switched on my computer and checked the weather. It was going to be a perfect day, and since it was clear that I was not going back to sleep, I might as well get it started.

At 8:15 a.m. I locked the door of my apartment and headed out into the day. My commute to work was insane. It required me to walk one city block to the south, and one half block to the east. Even after stopping at the grocery store for milk, cereal, and cream for my coffee, I was at work by 8:30. I unlocked the door, turned on the lights, started my computer and then performed the most important task of the day, making coffee. While the coffee was brewing, I sorted through the mail that had collected over the three weeks I’d been in Europe on a “business” trip. Finally, the coffee pot was full and I poured a bowl of Kellogg’s Raisin Bran (it’s funny the things you remember), filled my coffee cup and planted myself at my desk. The time was 8:45 a.m. 

I took a sip of my coffee. I dipped my spoon into the bowl and as I took the first bite of cereal my desk moved about six inches. I had no idea what had happened. I sat there. I rolled my chair to the window, opened the window. My office was on the 25th floor of a non-descript office building. It had no view but if I leaned out the window about a foot, I had a clear view of the World Trade Center 4 blocks up the street. 

I leaned out the window and gasped as I realized that the North Tower of the World Trade Center was on fire. Think Towering Inferno fire. There were flames shooting into the air. I was stunned. I ran down the hall to the office next to ours and shouted, the World Trade Tower is on fire! The women from that office ran to my office and we all stared out the windows. By now it looked as if there were a ticker tape parade occurring. The air was filled with 8.5 x 11 sheets of white paper floating through the sky.  

I immediately picked up the phone and called home. My mother is a worrier.  She is from a long line of worriers.  Even though NYC is a huge place, if it happens here, it happens on my block. In this particular instance she was right. She and my father had visited NYC in May from Lexington, KY and she was VERY aware of my location. She picked up the phone on the second ring. This was a habit from years of working as a bookkeeper. She NEVER answered the phone on the first ring. She was cheery, I suspect because she thought I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. Yes, September 11th is her birthday. Instead, I said, “I have no idea what’s going on, but the World Trade Center is on fire. I’m fine, but I wanted to let you know before you saw the news and got scared. I’ll keep you posted on what’s going on here.” 

I had barely replaced the receiver when the phone rang. It was my boss. He was calling to check on me. He told me a small plane had crashed into the WTC and reports were differing on what had happened. I assured him I was fine. He told me he would see me later in the morning and we hung up. I turned, stuck my head out the window again and looked back up the street just in time to see the top of the South Tower explode.

It is 9:03 a.m.

I had no idea what was happening. I did not have a TV or radio in my office and the online sources couldn’t tell me any more than I knew first hand. My boss called back and said that it is now being reported that it was two passenger jets that crashed into the buildings and that from all accounts it is a terrorist attack. I assure him once again that I’m fine. He tells me that he’ll see me later. I’m staring out the window at the fires when a voice comes over the PA system telling us our office building is being evacuated. I immediately call him back and tell him what is happening. I also tell him that since I have to leave the building I might try and work my way closer to see what’s really going on. He tells me to be careful and I hang up once again. By this time the announcement has been made several more times that there is a mandatory evacuation for our office building.

I grab my cell phone, lock the door, and head downstairs. My cereal and coffee are still on my desk. My computer is still on. The lights are still on. There was no doubt I would be back to the office in just a short while. I start the trek down the stairs from the 25th floor as the elevators had been turned off.   The stairwell was filled with people, calmly headed to the lobby.  At this time, things seemed calmer than they were about to be.  

The scene on the street is utter chaos. There are people everywhere. All of the office buildings are evacuating. No one knows what’s going on. People are pushing to get closer. People are pushing to get out of the mess. I start down the street toward the World Trade Center, fully wanting to get closer to see what is happening. By the time I get to the corner of my street, I give up and go home. There are too many people and it’s clear that I’m not getting anywhere near the action.

I get to my apartment, unlock the door, turn on the TV and FINALLY start piecing together the puzzle. Two passenger jets have crashed into the buildings. The idea that this was a freak accident has passed and now there are reports that it was a terrorist attack. I sit on my couch watching the TV in utter disbelief. My phone rings. It’s my mom wanting to know if I’m okay. I tell her that my office building has been evacuated and that I’ve gone home. I assure her that I’m fine.

My phone rings again. It’s my best friend Michelle. She wants to know if I’m okay. I assure her that I am. 

I’m sitting on my couch talking to her as the first tower begins to fall. 

The entire event is surreal. I am chatting with a good friend, while watching this horrible event happen on TV, all of this being accompanied by a tremor of around 2.3 on the Richter scale. My entire apartment was shaking. And just as soon as it started it was over. I was still sitting on my couch, on the phone, still watching TV.  Neither of us is speaking. The awe of the devastation we’d just witnessed is overwhelming.

I realize the air is filled with debris. I go to the window just in time to see the huge billowing smoke that is so often shown in the news footage. My apartment had three 10-foot tall windows facing the street. As I stood watching, the beautiful day with perfect blue skies was obliterated and replaced with the blackness of night created by the smoke and debris. 

I hear loud shouting in the hallway. I open the door to find 10 or 12 people covered in soot. They had been chased down the street by the cloud of smoke and had run into my building. The doorman is letting them use the vacant apartment across the hall to clean themselves. I gather up towels and wash cloths for them to use. 

Looking back, I’m amazed that I still had phone service. Both my cell and land lines continued to function. My phone continues to ring and ring. My boss. My parents. Michelle. Friends from around the country. I’m talking to Michelle again when the second tower falls.

The apartment shakes harder this time. Things falls. What little light that is left of the day is gone. 

My apartment is completely dark. 

I hear silence.  

The sirens have stopped.

The horns have stopped.  

The sounds of New York have stopped.  

There is absolute quiet.

Unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. 

There is a complete lack of sound. This is not our city. New York is always noisy.  There are always horns, and sirens and people yelling.  

There is always sound.  

This is the complete opposite of that.

I sat there speechless.  

Within minutes Mayor Giuliani issued a full evacuation of lower Manhattan. 

It’s 11:00.

I call my mom and tell her that I’m evacuating and that I will call her when I can. 

I call my boss and tell him that I am fine and that I’m evacuating. 

I call Michelle and assure her that I’m fine. 

I grab a backpack and fill it.  

There is little thought of what I need, or how long I will be gone.  

As I leave my building the sky is blue again.  The perfect blue sky of an early autumn day.  Deeper than a summer blue.  Not a cloud to be seen.

I cross the street and pass someone handing out face masks. I take one. 

I put it on and start to walk north and east toward city hall and the Brooklyn Bridge. 

My walk out of lower Manhattan still gives me chills.

There are tens of 1,000’s upon 1,000’s of people moving in mass. 

And again.  The sound of silence.  

No one is talking. 

There are no cell phones. No sirens. No helicopters. No planes. 

Just the silent movement of people in shock moving toward what they hope will be sanity.

I am forced north with the sea of people not knowing where I was going. I had no plan. I walked. Once I passed Canal Street it occurred to me that with the mass destruction that had just occurred surely there would be a need for volunteers. 

Although I really didn’t care for the Salvation Army’s politics, I thought it would be a good place to start, so I kept heading north, finally getting to the Salvation Army building on 14th street. There were 50 or 60 people there, and we were all told the same thing, you have to go through training to volunteer. 

I exit the building, lost again. 

I was on 14th street and remembered that St. Vincent’s hospital was just up the street. I could go there and see if they needed any help. 

I get within a block and a half of the hospital and find myself in a sea of people all hoping to do the same. There were people as far as the eye could see and they have all had the same thought: Be helpful. They were there to give blood and volunteer. 

While I was standing there, I hear my phone ring. It was my friend Stacy, who was in town on business. She told me that she was at her hotel and that I could spend the night there if I needed a place to stay.  

Stacy was staying on the Upper East Side. At this point all traffic in Manhattan had been halted. The only way to get anywhere, would be to walk. I began my trek north and spent the next several hours walking to her hotel. 

When I got there, I was hoping they knew more than I knew. At this point, the news stations know very little.  We planted ourselves in front of the TV and didn’t move for what seemed like hours. At some point, we realized that none of us had eaten all day.  We go downstairs into the street.  There were no cars, not taxis, no buses.  In both directions, the street was empty. 

We stand in the middle of Madison Avenue, looking north and south and there are no cars to be seen.

We discovered a restaurant that was open. We ate dinner in silence. Not really sure at this point what was happening, or what to expect.   

I don’t return home for three days. 

When I do attempt to go home it was an adventure to say the least.  

It’s approaching 7:00 p.m..  The sun is setting.  The city is getting dark.  

I got to my first military checkpoint at Canal Street. I explained that I lived in the financial district and that I needed to get home to get more clothes etc. They wanted to see ID. Unfortunately, my driver’s license did not have my current address on it. Luckily, I had a prescription bottle in my back pack and they allowed me to pass. I passed through seven or eight more checkpoints before I got to my apartment building. 

It was dark. There was no electricity. No phone. No water. The entire apartment smelled as though it had been on fire for days. There was a fine dust of soot over everything. The windows were covered as well.  I did not want to stay there long.

As I exited my building, I asked one of the guards on my corner if there was a place in the area to volunteer. He told me that there was a few blocks from away. 

I head that way. People are everywhere. Volunteers were preparing food. Rescue crews on break. I asked about ten people what I could do to help before someone said to me, “You want to help. Go find bread. It doesn’t matter if it’s fucking hot dog buns. Find bread.” 

And that’s what I did. 

I walked several blocks north to a “real” grocery store and I bought all the bread they had. About 150 dollars’ worth. When I got back, the guy that had told me to get bread was in awe. I spent the rest of the afternoon making food, cleaning tables, etc. 

Around 10:00 p.m. they asked if I wanted to go to the site and help at St. Paul’s Chapel. I said that I would.

For those not in NYC, St. Paul’s Chapel is the oldest church in the city. The rear of the church faced the east side of the World Trade Center. It survived. Not even a broken window. It is believed that the large sycamore tree in the graveyard behind the church shielded it from destruction. 

I get to the church around midnight. The next eight hours were long and grueling. It was an endless parade of rescue workers coming in to rest, sleep, pray. Watching these people come in and spend as little as fifteen minutes resting before they went back to work was moving, it’s easy to understand why so many of them face post-traumatic stress disorder today. 

They were worked tirelessly at a job that would prove to be futile.

I spent the night making coffee, emptying trash and trying to be as quiet as I could. There were people everywhere, sleeping on the floor, in the pews, anywhere with a spare inch of floor. 

Once or twice, I wandered outside to look up the street. The air was thick with the smell of smoke and debris. There were huge industrial lights lighting the area where the two buildings once stood. 

It was breathtaking and overwhelming to see.  To think that less than a month ago I’d stood in the area between the buildings and basked in the peacefulness the square provided. At night there were very few people in that part of town and for me it was a quiet place to sit and think undisturbed.  It was me getting close to nature in a concrete city of 8 million people.  

Places like that in New York City are few and far between. 

Now.  It was a mound of destruction that words will never describe. 

Around 10:00 the next morning, I was shuttled back to the volunteer center and I said goodbye to everyone, and started my trek back up town. 

I can’t begin to describe how I felt that morning, once again walking north. 

It was three weeks before I returned home for good.

Wishing you were somehow here again.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

My latest writing prompt:

Write about a door you’ve walked through that you can’t go back through.

I got this suggestion a week ago and I’ve thought about it a lot, but I keep coming back to the same story. Every time.

In 2007, I spent the summer in Tulsa, Oklahoma designing the lights for The Music Man, Naughty Marietta, and Sweeney Todd. It was an adventure to say the least. I was sleeping in a dorm room, with a roommate, and at 42, it was weird as fuck.

I was doing summer stock, 20 years after I should have been doing summer stock. That being said, as everyone I’ve ever spoken to about summer theater, it was wonderful and terrible all at the same time.

The lead actors in the shows, that played in rep, were all professionals. They were all incredibly talented. The choruses were mostly made up of college kids, who were doing their first professional gigs. I can say that a lot of the people I worked with there have gone on to bigger careers, whether performing, directing or designing.

Eric who ran the theater company, and directed the show, was very creative, and the shows were always a little outside the norm, which made them fun to do. For example, for Sweeney, we pulled all the masking, and upstage soft goods and performed the show on scaffolding in front of a dramatic upstage concrete wall.

The work was fast and furious. The rehearsal period short, tech even shorter. I wrote 400 cues for Sweeney in about 4 hours. At the end of every break, it was like someone fired a starter pistol, and I was now sprinting toward the finish line. Looking back, there are lots of things I would change, but it in the moment, it just felt good to get it where we got it.

The highlight of my summer there was meeting Kelly Irwin. She was the production stage manager, and we became fast friends. Probably because, well not probably, we were the adults in the room. All of the lead actors were housed in donor homes, while the chorus, crew and designers were housed in a dorm. It was Kelly who reminded people to stop drinking and go to bed. It was Kelly, who demanded we all hide in the bathroom during the torrential thunderstorms we got that summer when the tornado sirens were sounding.

Kelly and I spent many nights hiding in her dorm room decompressing from the day. Sometimes this involved drinking. Sometimes vodka.

Fun fact: The evening I’m about to describe, was the second to last night I ever drank vodka. It was bad news. The last time was even worse, a year later. I NEVER drink it now.

On the night in question, Kelly and I hid. And in the process, we began to talk. About our lives. About our professions. About the summer. At one point, it turned to families, and then death and dying.

And then something clicked and we began to talk about become a member of the dead parent club. My father had died four summers prior, her mom the summer before. And we went down a deep, melancholy rabbit hole, and stayed there until around 4:00 a.m.

Ultimately, what we decided was that it’s a door no one wants to walk thru, but that most of us will walk thru at some point in our lives. We don’t think about the mortality of our parents when we are young. They are fixtures in our lives, fixtures that will be there forever.

Then your grandparents fade away. And one day you wake up and realize that when you thought your parents were old, they weren’t. Now that you are in your 40’s they are getting older and much frailer. The summer of my 20-year high school reunion, I had at least three friends, including myself who lost parents that summer.

I can still remember getting the call that my dad had passed. It was quick. It was sudden. One minute he was there. Next minute he wasn’t.

And this is what Kelly and I delved into that fateful night. It was a club that no one wants to belong to, but is inevitable, if you make it yourself. Looking back, I don’t remember for sure, but it might have been the night of the one year anniversary of Kelly’s mom dying.

It’s been almost 20 years since that summer. I’m in the orphan stage now. Both of my parents are gone. That’s even weirder door to walk thru. There is no one to call on Sunday night to talk about the weather. There is no one to call who can update you on the family drama. And suddenly you are alone in keeping the family stories alive.

I know all of this is life. It’s the reality of growing old, for those of us lucky enough to grow old. Once you get that phone call, saying “they’re gone,” there is no going back. It changes you forever, regardless of your relationship with said parent.

So I sit here, reminiscing about that summer. Pete. Travis. Eric. Ron. Brian. Supreet. Jenna. Kyle. Andrea. So many memories. I signed up for Facebook that summer. My first photo was of a bar that we’d been in earlier in the night. I had no idea what Facebook was, but I was able to sign up since my UCSD email address was still valid. We all stayed in touch for a while after that summer. Kelly moved to NYC and we hung out. Others I’d text. Most of them I followed on Facebook, till they moved on or my political posts drove them away. I still like to see what those that remain are up to. Some getting married. Buying houses. Directing shows. Performing on well-regarded stages. Designing beautiful shows. It’s still nice to know they are out there. They were a great group of people.

The two summers that I spent there changed my life. All for the better, although I might not have said that at the time. I’m proud of my work there, and the friends that I made. And the talk filled night with Kelly, is still one of the special nights of my life.

You left me lists, everything in lists, well, your little lists, aren’t very helpful, I fear

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

A friend of mine and Adam’s is friends with someone who teaches writing. During our last trip to NYC we had a quick meet up and we chatted about my Manager Posts. I mentioned that Adam had been giving me prompts as sometimes I had a difficult time coming up with a subject matter, especially since I don’t write much about the restaurant business anymore, although let me tell you, the things I could write about keep coming.

This is the latest prompt from her.

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

This one has stumped me for a couple of months. For several reasons.

First, my work schedule, as well as my personal schedule, have not allowed me much time to write.

Second, I’ve not been able to wrap my head around what the prompt actually means.

However, I told myself when I went to bed last night, I was going to write tonight, so here I am.

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

There are so many ways to go with this.

For example, I’ve always been allergic to cats. ALWAYS. My face would swell. My nose would twitch. And then I met Adam. BUT with Adam came Harper. And well, Harper taught me that I could love a cat, take a daily allergy pill and be okay. I was lucky enough to get to spend 2 years with Harper. She let me hold her. She would lay next to me after Adam got up in the morning. And when we she realized she was dying she didn’t bother Adam with her crying. She paced on my side of the bed the last night of her life and I comforted her as best I could.

The next day Adam and I took her to the vet and did one of the hardest things either of us has ever done. He held her while I stroked her back as she took her last breaths. We were both inconsolable.

I wish that I had come in to Adam’s life 5 years prior so that I could have that time with Harper. Well. And Adam too.

In my 61 years on this earth, I have lived a dozen or more lifetimes.

1. My childhood.
2. High School
3. College
4. Atlanta.
5. The University of Kentucky.
6. Cincinnati.
7. NYC.
8. Grad School.
9. NYC.
10. NYC w/ Adam
11. Maine the first year.
12. Maine the next few years.
13. Maine since we bought our house.
14. My senior years.

There has also been love and loss during that time.

1. The death of my grandmother.
2. The death of my father.
3. The death of my mother.
4. The death of my Aunt Doo.
5. My first real boyfriend Jim.
6. My second real boyfriend Sam.
7. My third boyfriend Keith.
8. My fourth “friend” Louis.
9. My fifth boyfriend Sam.
10. My 10th boyfriend Curtis.
11. My 11th and last boyfriend Adam.

There have also been so many jobs!

1. Day’s Inn.
2. Wendy’s.
3. The College Bookstore.
4. Martin’s Printing Press
5. J.C. Penney
6. Bennigan’s.
7. Daryl’s.
8. The Italian Oven.
9. Grad Assistant.
10. High School Teacher.
11. Hard Rock Café.
12. College Teacher.
13. Grad Assistant.
14. Lighting Designer.
15. Restaurant Manager.
16. Office Manager.

There has also been trips.
1. New Mexico with the family.
2. NYC in high school
3. Florida for Spring Break
4. Kansas City
5. Myrle Beach
6. Savanah, Georgia
7. New Orleans
8. Miami
9. London.
10. Paris.
11. London, Paris, Barcelona.
12. Drive across the country.
13. Drive across the country.
14. Drive across the country.
15. Maine
16. Texas.
17. California.
18. NYC.
19. Buenos Aires
20. Ireland

I could keep making lists. But I think I’m using them as a way of not deciding on one thing.

I do think though there are a few things that would really make the top three.

1. Grad School at UCSD. It was three of the most perfect years possible.
2. My 10 day spur of the moment trip to Paris with my friend Michelle.
3. My four day bike ride from NYC to Boston to raise money for AIDS research.

And I think #3 it is.

Tune in tomorrow for the actual post.

Everyone’s a LITTLE BIT RACIST!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to manager!

I used to think _______________.

But now I know _______________.

While Adam and I were in NYC we had a quick dinner with a friend of ours.  She’s a performer and writer who Adam met years ago.  I met her at Adam’s birthday dinner, three weeks after we started dating.  

She’s funny.  And very insightful.  

While we dined, we talked about a lot of things and my writing came up.  I mentioned that Adam had been giving me prompts since sometimes I have a hard time coming up with something to say.  And that was the end of it.  

A few days after we got home, she texted Adam and asked if she could give me a prompt.  I immediately said yes.  And the prompt was.

I used to think ____________.  

But now I know ____________.

I thought it was brilliant.  And I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.  With my work schedule there has not been a lot of time to write but here you go.    

I used to think _____________.

Now I know_______________.

Several thoughts came to mind when he read me the text. 

I used to think I was fat. 

Now I know I am fat.  

I used to think I wasn’t racist.

Now I know I was racist. 

I used to think I was right.

Now I know I was NOT right. 

It’s a great question though.  

I’m going to go back to the first two. 

I used to think I was fat. 

I weighed 225 pounds.  I had a belly.  I was in NYC walking the streets in Chelsea where every man had a 32-inch waist and .000002% body fat.  And they were considered fat.  I remember being embarrassed that I had a 36-inch waist.  I was too focused on my own body to realize that although I had a few extra pounds, they were no happier than I was.  

I wish now that I had embraced my stocky body.  I would have been so much less self-conscience.  It didn’t help that I had several people in my life that were focusing their attention on getting me to lose weight.  It never seemed that who I was at the time was good enough.  In fact, a boyfriend broke up with me, because he said I had an active addiction to food.  I realize now that what I had was an active addiction to assholes.  

What I wouldn’t give to be as fat as I was back then.  I AM fat now.  And at 61, it’s okay.  I have a boyfriend who tells me I’m handsome.  I have friends who don’t focus on my weight.  I have a healthy view of myself. Do I wish I was skinny?  Fuck yes.  Do I like eating ice cream?  Fuck yes. 

This is not to say I’ll never lose weight again, but I also know that I’m happier when I’m not focused on the negative, and my weight leads me toward the negative.  

I just bought new pants that are in a size larger than the last pair of pants I bought.  And you know what, I don’t mind.  They fit.  I look good.  And the reality is, I no longer care what most people think.  I’ve kind of resigned myself that the only time I’ve really ever lost weight was with the “divorce diet,” so perhaps Adam needs to break up with me so I can be skinny again.  

And the other thought I had. 

I used to think I was NOT racist.  

 But now I know I was racist.  

So true.  

I challenge anyone white person who grew up in the south to prove to me that they grew up without bias.  It’s bred into you.  Like bourbon and sausage gravy.  Seriously. 

It’s like the song from Avenue Q.  Everyone’s a little bit racist.  And it’s true.  Maybe you didn’t not hire someone because they were black, but did you ever tell a black joke?  A Pollack joke?  

I used to say that I wouldn’t watch BET until there was a WET, not realizing that every tv channel was white entertainment television.  I have locked my car doors in a “different” part of town.  I have worried about going to a wrong neighborhood when someone wanted to take me home with them.  

This is all bias.  And we all have it.  What’s funny, is that the people who protest the most that they don’t have bias, are people who have the worst bias.  “I don’t see color.”  If you don’t see color then you are biased.  Wanting to end DEI is biased.  Ending voting rights laws is biased.  As a gay man posting straight looking white men only on a dating site, as a preference is a bias.  

I still have these biases.  The difference is, that when they creep in, I stop them in their tracks.  I say to myself, you are being southern and you need to stop it.  And I do. 

What I have realized though, is that it’s not just southerners.  

It was just announced that Jasmine Amy Rogers will be playing Maria in The Sound of Music this fall at Lincoln Center and OH MY have the racist come out of the closet.  She is a person of color and you’d think someone had just slapped their grandma.  How can a person of color play a nanny in Austria in a play.  Here’s how.  It doesn’t fucking matter!  Have you heard her sing?  She’s brilliant.  She’s funny. She’s charming.  And she’ll kill the role.  

And before someone asks, NO, it is not the same as a white actress playing the lead in Dreamgirls.  Race is not a part of the show.  There are lots of plays that require the actors to be white. This is not one of them.

So please, check your bias. And trust me, even if you are from liberal California you have it. And if you are from anywhere south of Ohio, you were fucking born that way.  Unlike being gay though, you can change.  And it starts with acknowledging it.  Then owning it.  Then changing it. 

As NIKE says, just do it. 

In the meantime, I think I have a pint of ice cream in my freezer with my name on it.   

I spoke to the manager!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I spoke to the manager!!!

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

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

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

So tonight.

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

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

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

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

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

No sign of the drinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The server walks away.

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

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

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

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

But get this.

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

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

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

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

Fun fact: Carry your cards on you.

She brings the card. We leave.

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

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

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

On Broadway!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

Death of a Salesman.

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

And fun fact. I’ve never read it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

However.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But even more frightening is forgetting who Adam is.

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

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

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

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

Today’s prompt is Forgotten.

He loves me so, that funny honey of mine!

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

I digress.  

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

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

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

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

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

Which brings me to the point of this story. 

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

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

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

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

The prompt today was honey.   

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

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except.  

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

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

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

Finally, I had an epiphany. 

I could go as a carpet bag. 

Not a carpet bagger.  But the bag itself. 

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

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

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

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

Now.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

So my prompt is cotton. 

I’m beautiful. Yes, I’m beautiful. And I’m here

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I’d like to speak to the manager!

Self-value:  The value that you prescribe to yourself.  Your self-worth.  The belief that you have value in the world.  

Lots of people I know struggle with their self-worth.  And I do mean lots of them.  When they hold themselves up to the light, they don’t see the positive that they bring to the world.  Their light.  Their beauty.  Their worth.  

I count myself as one of these people.  I have always questioned my reason for existing in the world.  What value I bring to the people I know.  To the world at large.

I’ll come back to this. 

I also know fewer people, but still a fair amount, who have never questioned their value.  They get up, put on a smile and go out and tackle the world.  Believing from word go, that they deserve all the accolades, money, and support they get in the world as a whole.  

When I sit across from someone who has the cojones to think the world owes them all they have, I get jealous.  I end up thinking, what do they have that I don’t.  Why has success, love, beauty been thrust on them, while I stand in the corner waiting for the scraps?

Please, do not think that I’m feeling sorry for myself.  After years of therapy, I subjectively know my value.  There are LOTS of things in life that I am good at.  But there are times when the depression creeps in, and I start to question my value.  

This has happened a lot in the past 12 months. 

I turned 60 last April.  I’m well past the halfway mark of my life.  I’m on the downhill slide into old age and the life that comes with that.  I got a new knee three years ago, but now I need another one, and as I sometimes hobble around, I lament the days where I could run a 10k in 45 minutes.  I have a tremor in my left hand that also reminds me of my age.  I also find that memory has started to fail.  Ask me about what happened in third grade and I can tell a million stories.  Meanwhile, I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night.  

I lost my job last June.  Nothing puts you in your place, like entering the job market at 60.  I’ve adjusted my resume as much as I can without blatantly lying to hide how old I am. 

After 8 months of searching, I recently started a new job.  It’s forcing me to do things that I haven’t had to do in a long time.  Write a schedule.  Curate a wine list.  Organize training.  All things that I definitely know how to do, I just haven’t done them in a while.  It’s actually been fun going back to basics, but it also reminds me that I’m nowhere near where I thought I’d be in my adult life. 

However, as I said.  I do know the things that I do, believe, and work toward, that bring value to the world.  

First and foremost.  I’m a good boyfriend.  There are a few people in my past that might argue this fact.  To them I apologize.  They got me before therapy, and drugs.  Boyfriends before 2002, didn’t get the new and improved Jeff.  The one who treats their partner with respect, who doesn’t cheat, and the one who loves deeply.    

I’m a good friend.  You need a shoulder to cry on?  You need someone to drive you to the airport at 5:30 in the morning?  You need someone to drive your car cross country?  You need me to come collect you after you boyfriend beat you up? You need me to write the check to take care of a secret problem and drive you to do it?  I am your man. 

I’m a good neighbor.  I am the one who forces Adam to bake cookies when someone new moves into the neighborhood. I’m the one who goes around delivering soup and baked goods.  

I’m a good boss.  Yes.  I’m the boss, so I have to make decisions that people don’t like, but at the end of the day, I don’t yell and scream.  I don’t micro manage.  My door is open when you want to talk about your anxiety, your fucked up relationship, or need 100 bucks till payday to get your meds from the pharmacy.  

So where am I going with this post?  Who the fuck knows.  My last prompt from Adam was “VALUE.”  And its been hard.  It brings up a lot of crap and leads me toward self-pity which I try and stay away from.  

How am I doing?  I’m fine.  Just fine.  Not great.  Not bad.  Just fine.  I fall somewhere in the middle of the road, plugging along till the needle moves one way or another.  I hope that it moves toward the good, but you never know in the politics of today.  

That being said.  

Things with Adam and I are good.   The neighbors are good.  My new job is good. We have a vacation planned in a few weeks.  The bills are paid.  Except for my knee and tremor my health is…wait, I forgot what I was going to say.  

Self-worth.  Don’t listen to what the naysayers put out into the world. 

You are loved.  

You are beautiful.  

You have value.

You have worth. 

And gosh darn it, people like you.   

I’d like to speak to the manager!

Self-value:  The value that you prescribe to yourself.  Your self-worth.  The belief that you have value in the world.  

Lots of people I know struggle with their self-worth.  And I do mean lots of them.  When they hold themselves up to the light, they don’t see the positive that they bring to the world.  Their light.  Their beauty.  Their worth.  

I count myself as one of these people.  I have always questioned my reason for existing in the world.  What value I bring to the people I know.  To the world at large.

I’ll come back to this. 

I also know fewer people, but still a fair amount, who have never questioned their value.  They get up, put on a smile and go out and tackle the world.  Believing from word go, that they deserve all the accolades, money, and support they get in the world as a whole.  

When I sit across from someone who has the cojones to think the world owes them all they have, I get jealous.  I end up thinking, what do they have that I don’t.  Why has success, love, beauty been thrust on them, while I stand in the corner waiting for the scraps?

Please, do not think that I’m feeling sorry for myself.  After years of therapy, I subjectively know my value.  There are LOTS of things in life that I am good at.  But there are times when the depression creeps in, and I start to question my value.  

This has happened a lot in the past 12 months. 

I turned 60 last April.  I’m well past the halfway mark of my life.  I’m on the downhill slide into old age and the life that comes with that.  I got a new knee three years ago, but now I need another one, and as I sometimes hobble around, I lament the days where I could run a 10k in 45 minutes.  I have a tremor in my left hand that also reminds me of my age.  I also find that memory has started to fail.  Ask me about what happened in third grade and I can tell a million stories.  Meanwhile, I can’t remember what I had for dinner last night.  

I lost my job last June.  Nothing puts you in your place, like entering the job market at 60.  I’ve adjusted my resume as much as I can without blatantly lying to hide how old I am. 

After 8 months of searching, I recently started a new job.  It’s forcing me to do things that I haven’t had to do in a long time.  Write a schedule.  Curate a wine list.  Organize training.  All things that I definitely know how to do, I just haven’t done them in a while.  It’s actually been fun going back to basics, but it also reminds me that I’m nowhere near where I thought I’d be in my adult life. 

However, as I said.  I do know the things that I do, believe, and work toward, that bring value to the world.  

First and foremost.  I’m a good boyfriend.  There are a few people in my past that might argue this fact.  To them I apologize.  They got me before therapy, and drugs.  Boyfriends before 2002, didn’t get the new and improved Jeff.  The one who treats their partner with respect, who doesn’t cheat, and the one who loves deeply.    

I’m a good friend.  You need a shoulder to cry on?  You need someone to drive you to the airport at 5:30 in the morning?  You need someone to drive your car cross country?  You need me to come collect you after you boyfriend beat you up? You need me to write the check to take care of a secret problem and drive you to do it?  I am your man. 

I’m a good neighbor.  I am the one who forces Adam to bake cookies when someone new moves into the neighborhood. I’m the one who goes around delivering soup and baked goods.  

I’m a good boss.  Yes.  I’m the boss, so I have to make decisions that people don’t like, but at the end of the day, I don’t yell and scream.  I don’t micro manage.  My door is open when you want to talk about your anxiety, your fucked up relationship, or need 100 bucks till payday to get your meds from the pharmacy.  

So where am I going with this post?  Who the fuck knows.  My last prompt from Adam was “VALUE.”  And its been hard.  It brings up a lot of crap and leads me toward self-pity which I try and stay away from.  

How am I doing?  I’m fine.  Just fine.  Not great.  Not bad.  Just fine.  I fall somewhere in the middle of the road, plugging along till the needle moves one way or another.  I hope that it moves toward the good, but you never know in the politics of today.  

That being said.  

Things with Adam and I are good.   The neighbors are good.  My new job is good. We have a vacation planned in a few weeks.  The bills are paid.  Except for my knee and tremor my health is…wait, I forgot what I was going to say.  

Self-worth.  Don’t listen to what the naysayers put out into the world. 

You are loved.  

You are beautiful.  

You have value.

You have worth. 

And gosh darn it, people like you.