mental-health

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Blest be the tie that binds. 

Our hearts in Christian love.  

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

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

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

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

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

Back to Simon Stimson. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you better show up. 

Blest be the tides that bind.  

The official hymn of theater folk.  

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

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Blest be the tie that binds. 

Our hearts in Christian love.  

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

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

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

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

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

Back to Simon Stimson. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you better show up. 

Blest be the tides that bind.  

The official hymn of theater folk.  

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

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

However.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But even more frightening is forgetting who Adam is.

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

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

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

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

Today’s prompt is Forgotten.

Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It’s below:  

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

1Alabama XX

2 Alaska 

3 Arizona X

4 Arkansas X

5 California XX

6 Colorado X

7 Connecticut X

8 Delaware X

9 Florida X

10 Georgia XX

11 Hawaii 

12 Idaho X

13 Illinois X

14 Indiana X

15 Iowa XX

16 Kansas XX

17 Kentucky XX

18 Louisiana X

19 Maine XX

20 Maryland X

21 Massachusetts X

22 Michigan X

23 Minnesota X

24 Mississippi X

25 Missouri X

26 Montana 

27 Nebraska X

28 Nevada X

29 New Hampshire X

30 New Jersey X

31 New Mexico X

32 New York XX

33 North Carolina X

34 North Dakota 

35 Ohio XX

36 Oklahoma XX

37 Oregon 

38 Pennsylvania X

39 Rhode Island X

40 South Carolina X

41 South Dakota 

42 Tennessee X

43 Texas X

44 Utah 

45 Vermont X

46 Virginia X

47 Washington DC X

48 Washington 

49 West Virginia X

50 Wisconsin X

51 Wyoming X

Visited: 43

Lived in: 9

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For example:  

Should I have gone to graduate school at 30?  

Should I have focused on teaching more?  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I lived.  

I explored.  

I had fun. 

My time and life have not been wasted.  

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

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then silence.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight’s prompt was tire. 

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

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.   

When you’re gone, I’ll go mad. So don’t throw away this thing we had. Cuz when push comes to shove, I will kill your friends and family to remind you of my love.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!

I’ve worked for a lot of restaurnts in my restaurant career. A LOT!

My best count if my memory serves me correctly, which is doubtful these days, is 24.

During those experiences, I worked for some amazing people. I also worked for some assholes.

Keith was an asshole.

Karen was an asshole.

Mike C. was an asshole.

Christine was an asshole.

Eddie was an asshole.

David was an asshole.

Mike S. was an asshole.

When I first started managing I decided that I would emulate the manager’s I’d had who were great. And do the opposite of the manager’s I’d had who were assholes.

I’ve already listed the managers who were assholes. The managers who were great.

Danny.

A different Karen.

Reggie.

Buddie.

Deborah.

Mary.

Follow the good ones. Deny the bad ones.

This week I posted a New Times Article about the chef at the world’s greatest restaurant. NOMA. He had defied all odds, and created something very special. The restaurant was amazing and set the gold standard.

However, the chef, Rene Redzepi, set the gold standard in EVIL. He not only verbally and emotionally abused his team. He physically abused them as well. He’d punch, slap, and hit his team with items, when he decided they had failed him in some way.

I’d love to say that I didn’t understand, but when you are getting experience in the world’s greatest restaurant you turn the other cheek.

Fuck, when you are getting experience in Maine’s best restaurants you turn the other cheek. Trust me I know. Been there done that.

One of the weirdest situations ever, was at Rafferty’s on Nicholasville Road in Lexington. The General Manager’s name was Karen and she was a beast. When you think of the hospitality industry you think of people who are hospitable. She was anything but.

The Saturday, before I quit without notice, around 6:30, she started to yell for all of the staff to meet her in the walk-in. Screaming at the top of her lungs. We all jammed into the small space. It was about 20 of us. Bartenders, servers, etc. There was no one on the floor at this point.

She began to tell us all the ways we were horrible at our jobs. This went on for a good 10 minutes before she told us that if we couldn’t go out there and do a better job then perhaps we should start looking for another job.

And out we went. I knew at the time it was a shit show, and I quit the following week.

Looking back, if I had to do it over, I’d have asked her if she as general manager wasn’t the problem if her entire staff was dropping the ball. The fish rots from the head back and she was the fish head.

In NYC, I had a manager who hated me for no reason. I requested time off to go on vacation. My request, was for the end of one schedule and the first day of the next schedule. She honored my request, but a week later scheduled me on the day I was traveling home.

I called and told the management team that I would not be there as I was traveling. When I showed up for work, for my next shift, she asked to see me, to tell me that I was going to be suspended without pay for missing my shift.

I said okay. The next day I met with the GM and dropped the word harassment about 17 times. By the time I was finished, I was not only not suspended, I was guaranteed quality shifts for the next month. PS. I got her transferred to a different restaurant but that’s another story.

When I worked in Kennebunkport (this deserves its own post) I reported an owner for inappropriate behavior and the next thing I knew I was being reprimanded in the corporate office for a whole host of things that weren’t true. When I documented my experience for HR, I was asked to change the facts so they wouldn’t get in trouble with the owner.

When I worked at David’s, I was once accused of being as bad at my job as the air traffic controllers who caused the plane crash in DC with the helicopter. My restaurant manager, walked out of the meeting, and I still am still amazed at how horribly I was treated. Fun fact, when I started working for him and employee of Adam’s told him I’d last a month as his reputation was known for being someone who was volatile and mean.

The truth is, there is still a belief that hospitality workers have no rights. They should tolerate the abuse. They should tolerate the hatred. They should tolerate the insanity. Because they aren’t as important as the owners, the chefs, the bosses.

I can’t say that I’m perfect. There are things that I’ve said that embarrassed me. BUT I have never verbally assaulted an employee. I’ve never treated my staff without respect.

In the meantime, the backlash at the chef at Noma shows how the times are changing. These horrible people are a dying breed. They have outlasted their usefulness. And hopefully will be a thing of the past very soon.

In the meantime. I ask myself what Mike, David, Karen and Christine would do. Then I do the opposite. Because I’d never want to be known as the asshole boss.

By doin’ hard work

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Monday, October 20, 2025. 


It’s cold here tonight, in Maine.  We got the first real rain we’ve gotten since June today.  It was perfect napping weather.   Which explains my 2+ hour nap this afternoon.  

This is the first time I’ve written in at least four months.  It’s hard to be creative when you are depressed.  

Depressed you say?  Why should you be depressed?  

Well on June 19th, I was laid off from my job.  It was not a surprise.  Nor was I disappointed when it happened.  It had been kind of a shit show for a while, for various reasons.  

That being said, yesterday marked four months of being unemployed, and I’m still looking for a job.  The job market in Maine is just as soft as it is in the rest of the country.  The job market for restaurant jobs, is even softer.  It’s been a quiet summer for restaurants seeking management.  

I do have to say it’s been one of the best summers of my time in Maine.  When you work in hospitality in Maine in the summer, you do not socialize. You do not see your friends.  You work a million hours and then sleep when you can.  

I was at a gathering for a birthday for a friend about a month ago and someone said, I’m sorry you don’t have a job, but it’s been awesome seeing you this summer.  I’ve attended birthday parties.  4th of July parties.  Pool parties.  I’ve gone to plays.  I’ve had drinks with friends, I haven’t seen in years.  I’ve had dinner on Saturday nights at 7:00, on a patio in Portland.  It really has been nice to see all my friends more in the past four months than I have in years.  

That being said, the bank account is dwindling.  The need to find a job is ever present.  This underlying depression encompasses me every day.  

Find a job.  Find a job.  Find a job.  

I sometimes wonder if my age is working against me.  I’ve read half a dozen articles about entering the work force after 50 this summer.  I conveniently leave off the year I graduated from college.  Whoops a typo.  

Portland and its metro area is a small market.  There are a million jobs making 18 bucks an hour.   When you start to move up the food chain there are far less.  

I have been hesitant to write about this since it happened, because well it’s embarrassing to be unemployed.  It’s easier to hide in bed and pretend that everything is okay.  

Which it’s not.  

Adam has encouraged me to spend more time on my computer.  Looking for jobs.  Writing.  Not napping.  

So here I am.  

It’s so weird to be starting over.  Again.  At 60.  But that’s the cards I was dealt.  

Meanwhile, my amazing, and growing less patient, boyfriend is in the kitchen making us dinner.  I’m writing for the first time in 4 months.  

I’ll keep you posted as things move forward.  

Something bad is happening.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

Still, I felt isolated, protected.

In September 1987, I moved to Atlanta.

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

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

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

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

I moved back to Central Kentucky.

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

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

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

Finally. I said I’ll do it.

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

I went in, took a number.

I was scared to death.

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

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

The nurse was very sweet. Caring. Gentle.

She drew the blood.

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

In two weeks.

What the fucking fuck?

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

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

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

The envelope was opened.

A breath was taken.

I was told

It was.

Negative.

The emotion that rushed over me, was immense.

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

But it was not.

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

I’m still not sure how I remained negative.

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

I’m forever grateful.

So many people in my generation were not so lucky.

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

Why are there so many songs about rainbows?

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’m pretty sure I’ve shared this post before but it’s always worth repeating.

From 1995 until 1998 I taught lighting design at the Cincinnati School for Creative and Performing Arts. SCPA.

Who knew that a high school could have a teacher dedicated to all things lighting. It was a life changing adventure and I’m proud to say that my past students are spread to the far reaches of the US, still doing amazing things.

I had been mostly out of the closet before I moved to Cincinnati and I wasn’t about to walk back in and start hiding again. One of the first things I did was put a rainbow sticker on my car.

I’ve never been a huge rainbow flag person, but at the time, I thought it was important to own who I was.

First semester of my second year there, I was teaching an intro class to a group of 7th graders. I was taking roll, going through my grade book (I still have them by the way, if any of my students want to know how they did back then).

I got to a young girl, who said she was here and then asked me if the red escort station wagon in the parking lot was mine.

I replied, yes it was. I called it my family car. When I bought it, I couldn’t afford a truck and I needed a way to cart students and lights around to projects I worked on.

The girl started to giggle and and hid her mouth behind her hand and said, so is that the one with the rainbow sticker on the back. Hehehehehe.

I said yes it is. Why do you ask?

Hehehehe, I was just curious, she said, still giggling.

She was trying to be passive aggressive, emphasis on the aggressive and I was having no part of it.

I said, Do you know what the rainbow flag stands for?

She really started to giggle then and wouldn’t answer.

I didn’t wait long before I continued, the rainbow symbol was adopted by the great Reverand Jesse Jackson as a symbol to celebrate and encourage diversity. I have the sticker on my car, because I teach in a very diverse school and I want all of my students to know that I appreciate who they are no matter what.

She stopped giggling and stared at me.

I looked at the whole class and said, does anyone else have a question about the rainbow sticker on my car?

Then, let’s get started.

What are the four qualities of light?

Jeff at the Psychiatrist, a three-part mini opera

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Once upon a time.

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

I was an asshole.

A raging, giant, not forgettable asshole.

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

Seriously, I was.

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

I’ll tell that story another day.

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

Another day.

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

Another day.

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

Another day.

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

Another day.

I once called a cousin a backwoods country fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

They are probably a little right.

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

Was being medicated.

April 20, 2001.

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

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

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

And I read through it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the meantime, I take my medicine.

I think before I speak.

I breathe.

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

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

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

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

He changed my life.

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

Just don’t give up.

The solution is out there.

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