travel

Just picture a great big steak –Fried, roasted or stewed.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Nope!  Nope!  Nope!

That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce.  Or tomatoes.  Or beans.  Or broccoli.  Or spinach.   Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions.  Or liver.  Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods.  I was a very picky eater.  

For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like.  There was always an alternative for us.  As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.  

When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly.  I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food.  I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.  

When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia.  Completely platonic.  I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked.  I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.  

We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib.  I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn.  What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table.  I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it.  In a word, it was delicious.  It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it.  It was melt in your mouth delicious.  And I was hooked.  No more shoe leather for me. 

Through college I was still a picky eater.  I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters.  PUKE.  The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting.  Why would anyone want to do that.  

Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky.   Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms.  I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell.  And they were delicious.  Yum.  Yum.  Yum.  I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.  

Fast forward to New York City.  I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner.  We go out and he orders salmon.  Medium Rare.  At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s.  Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes.  Who knew that fish could be so delicious.  

I could keep going.  I go out to eat.  I don’t want to embarrass myself.  I eat the food.  It’s delicious.  Rinse and Repeat.  

Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore.  I give him my number.  He asks me to brunch.  I say yes. We meet for said brunch.  I order an omelet.  I eat said omelet.  New boy says he doesn’t like eggs.  17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.  

Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.  

Medium-rare steak.  Why cook it all?  Steak tartare for me.  

Oysters.  Raw, fried, roasted, baked.  Yes, please the more the merrier.  

Escargot.  Snails.  Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.  

Fish.  All the fish.  Salmon. Swordfish.  Tuna.  Halibut.  Yes. Yes. Yes.  I don’t even care if you cook it.  Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.  

Caviar:  Fish eggs?  Yes, please.  I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.  

Vegetables.  There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat.  Salad of all kinds is delicious.  

Onions.  LOVE em.  In all foods.  On a burger.  In a salad.  In soup.  Yum. Yum. Yum.  

I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like.  And even then, I will still eat them.  

When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.  

I’m not a fan of olives.  But they started every meal.  I ate them.  

Sweetbreads.  Look it up.  Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor.  50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first.  They are fucking delicious.  

Blood sausage.  Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified.  Delicious. Yum.  

Which brings me to last night.  

For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade.  And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.  

The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me.  But last night, I stuffed my face.  It was all delicious.  

I’m glad.  Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food.  I’m very adventurous and will try most everything.  I don’t like everything but I will try it.  By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.  

The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese.  I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to.  Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.  

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Nope!  Nope!  Nope!

That would have been me as a seven-year-old being asked to eat green beans. Or lettuce.  Or tomatoes.  Or beans.  Or broccoli.  Or spinach.   Or Cheese (except American kraft singles). Or onions.  Or liver.  Or fish (except fish sticks). Or a whole host of other foods.  I was a very picky eater.  

For all my parent’s faults, and as I’ve written they were many, they never forced my brother or me to eat foods we didn’t like.  There was always an alternative for us.  As kids I don’t remember my brother being as picky as me, but I flat out just refused to eat certain foods.  

When I started working at Day’s Inn Restaurant in high school, first as a dishwasher and then as a short order cook, my horizons broadened EVER so slightly.  I learned that tomatoes weren’t the devil’s food.  I learned that bakes scrod was not bad.  

When I was 16, I went to prom with my friend Julia.  Completely platonic.  I don’t even think she planned to go until I asked.  I took her to dinner, wearing a baby blue tuxedo with the frilled shirt, at the Marriot Hotel in Lexington, Kentucky.  

We ordered strawberry daiquiris, and prime rib.  I knew all about prime rib because we served it at Day’s Inn.  What I wasn’t prepared for was for the prime rib to be RARE when it landed on the table.  I was not about to embarrass myself in front of my date/friend so I toughed it out and ate it.  In a word, it was delicious.  It was the first time in my life that I learned that steak didn’t need to be shoe leather to eat it.  It was melt in your mouth delicious.  And I was hooked.  No more shoe leather for me. 

Through college I was still a picky eater.  I remember going to Florida for spring break and my friends were ordering oysters.  PUKE.  The very thought of putting a live slimy creature in my mouth and swallowing was disgusting.  Why would anyone want to do that.  

Fast forward to Atlanta and I was still picky.   Once again, I went out to eat with a friend at a fancy restaurant and she ordered portabella mushrooms.  I was asked if I wanted to share, and not wanting to embarrass myself, I said what the hell.  And they were delicious.  Yum.  Yum.  Yum.  I’ve been eating mushrooms ever since.  

Fast forward to New York City.  I’m dating someone who invites me to dinner.  We go out and he orders salmon.  Medium Rare.  At this point the only fish I’m eating is filet o fish at McDonald’s.  Once again, I’m asked if I want to try it, and not wanting to embarrass myself I say yes.  Who knew that fish could be so delicious.  

I could keep going.  I go out to eat.  I don’t want to embarrass myself.  I eat the food.  It’s delicious.  Rinse and Repeat.  

Fast forward to 2009. I meet a boy in a bookstore.  I give him my number.  He asks me to brunch.  I say yes. We meet for said brunch.  I order an omelet.  I eat said omelet.  New boy says he doesn’t like eggs.  17 years later he still doesn’t like eggs.  

Meanwhile, 17 years later I eat everything.  

Medium-rare steak.  Why cook it all?  Steak tartare for me.  Hopefully with a raw chicken or quail egg on top.

Oysters.  Raw, fried, roasted, baked.  Yes, please the more the merrier.  

Escargot.  Snails.  Can we double the order, so I can eat all of them.  

Fish.  All the fish.  Salmon. Swordfish.  Tuna.  Halibut.  Yes. Yes. Yes.  I don’t even care if you cook it.  Tuna tartare is one of my favorite foods now.  

Caviar:  Fish eggs?  Yes, please.  I’d eat it every day if I could afford it.  

Vegetables.  There isn’t a vegetable I won’t eat.  Salad of all kinds is delicious.  

Onions.  LOVE em.  In all foods.  On a burger.  In a salad.  In soup.  Yum. Yum. Yum.  

I have a very small list of foods that I don’t like.  And even then, I will still eat them.  

When we went to Argentina in 2023, I said that I’d eat anything on the table, whether I liked it or not.  

I’m not a fan of olives.  But they started every meal.  I ate them.  

Sweetbreads.  Look it up.  Sweetbreads are a delicacy made from the thymus and pancreas glands of young animals, most commonly veal or lamb, prized for their rich, creamy texture and mild, subtly sweet flavor.  50 years ago, I’d probably have thrown up first.  They are fucking delicious.  

Blood sausage.  Blood sausage is a type of sausage made from blood (usually pork), mixed with a filler like grains (oats, barley, rice) or breadcrumbs, and seasonings, then cooked and solidified.  Delicious. Yum.  

Which brings me to last night.  

For dinner last night, Adam served a meal of foods that I would have not eaten probably even 20 years ago. We had French onion soup, with extra cheese, steak tartare with crostini, spring mix with a light vinegarette dressing, and goat cheese tart with an olive tamponade.  And for dessert pistachio and lemon bars.  

The very idea of little Jeff sitting down to a plate of food that consisted of all his least favorites is still funny to me.  But last night, I stuffed my face.  It was all delicious.  

I’m glad.  Life is so much more exciting and wonderful when you like food.  I’m very adventurous and will try most everything.  I don’t like everything but I will try it.  By the way kangaroo carpaccio (raw kangaroo) is delicious.  

The two foods that I tend to not eat on their own are olives and blue cheese.  I will eat them in a salad or in other dishes, but I prefer not to.  Last night as Adam was spooning out the olive tamponade onto my plate, I said “not too much”, and he said your prompt for tomorrow is olives.  

Country roads, take me home, to the place I belong

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager.

The first time I ever had chicken fried steak was in Memphis, Texas. Adam and I had driven from NYC to Memphis, Texas to see his family. It was a two-day drive (should have been three) that started in an intense snow storm.

If you’ve never had chicken fried steak, it is a thin cut of beef, pounded even thinner, coated in flour then pan fried, and finished with cream gravy. When done right, you should be able to cut the steak with your fork. It should also be melt in your mouth delicious.

I can still remember that day clear as anything. It was coldish, and we parked in the city square where Gloria’s restaurant was located. We got out of the car and walked toward the front door. Adam put his hand on my back and told me I was going to love it. We walk in and someone from across the restaurant says, “Hey, are you Kelly’s boy? I haven’t seen you in forever.” Adam waved and said that he was. We were told to sit where we wanted.

We grabbed a table near the middle of the restaurant, that was open. There were several other tables occupied by people enjoying a midday lunch of Texas home cooked comfort food. We looked at the menus, and Adam said he didn’t need a menu, he was getting country fried steak. I told him I was going to get the same, as I’d never had it. He assured me this would be one of the best versions I’d ever had.

A waitress came over and got our order. Two country fried steaks, and two Diet Cokes. She takes the menu and Adam gently reaches out for my hand. He squeezes it and I squeeze his back in return. We sit there talking as I look around.

It is a very simple café, no frills. Plain tables. Paper napkins. In the back of the restaurant, sat a very thin older woman, taking a drag off a cigarette. It had been a long time since I’d been in a restaurant that allowed smoking. For all I knew that might have been Gloria herself.

We sit there holding hands as he tells me what the rest of the afternoon will look like. We are going to see his cousins. He’s going to drive me around and show me the town he grew up in. And we are going to go a little further out of town and he’ll show me the house they built when he was a really little.

I wish I could say, I was relaxed and comfortable during this conversation. But I couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that I was holding a man’s hand in a VERY small, very conservative Texas town. Were we going to get beaten up?

Here’s the thing that straight people don’t deal with that the LGBT community does. Internalized homophobia. The paralyzing fear that someone might find out your deepest darkest secret.

As I tell this story, I was 43. I’d been mostly out my whole adult life. I first came out in Atlanta in 1987. But even then, there were people who didn’t know. I was secretive in my professional life. I was secretive with my parents. And I certainly wasn’t walking around holding anyone’s hand.

Yes, I said my parents. I didn’t hide the fact that I was gay from my parents. I also didn’t share the truth either. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment, with several boyfriends. My parents came to share meals at these homes. There were Advocate magazines on the coffee table. There was a rainbow postcard on my fridge. We just didn’t talk about it.

Adam was shocked when he learned this. About four weeks into us dating, he told me that we couldn’t move forward if I didn’t tell my mom about him. I wanted to ask him why.

I loved my mother as much as I could. But she was not interested in my life. She barely knew what classes I had taken in high school, let alone what I was doing in grad school. Our phone calls consisted of how’s the weather, how’s everyone doing, have you talked to so and so, and when are you coming home. She really didn’t need to know that I had a new boyfriend.

Adam was adamant.

A week before Valentine’s Day in 2009, while standing in Hell’s Kitchen on the Upper West Side, on Eighth Avenue, I told my mother I was gay. I told my her I had a date with a boy on Valentine’s Day. His name was Adam. That I liked him a lot. She was non plussed. She wasn’t surprised, but I wouldn’t say she was interested either. We talked for a few more minutes and then we hung up. That was done, I could keep my new boyfriend.

The other thing that Adam did, which I had never done before, was hold my hand everywhere we went. Walking down the street. In the grocery store. On the subway.

And eventually, in Memphis, Texas.

To say I was self-conscience, is an understatement. I learned to hold my breath and just go with it. I was convinced that we were going to get beaten up any minute. But it never happened and as the years passed, I stopped giving a fuck. About people knowing in my professional life, and about holding my boyfriend’s hand.

Now we hold hands everywhere. In the airport. In the mall. At dinner in a restaurant. In Kentucky and even in Texas. I keep my fingers crossed that we’ll never get beaten up.

I now love that he unconsciously reaches for my hand. That whenever we are together, whether at home or in public, that I’m only a few seconds away from him reaching for me. It’s comforting and loving. It’s one of the things I like most about him.

There we sat holding hands at Glorias, in Memphis Texas, when our waitress arrived with two chicken fried steaks. It was beyond delicious. I never picked up my knife, the fork cut right through it. The steak was tender. The breading was perfect. And the cream gravy might have been the best I’d ever had.

We ate, continuing to talk about what our time in Texas would look like. Holding hands the whole while.

Adam’s and my relationship is not perfect. Is anyone’s. But he’s made me a better man. And he’s done a lot to eradicate my internalized homophobia. At 61, I don’t much give a fuck anymore. If the sight of two middle aged, well one middle aged, one old man, holding hands upsets you, I really think you need to reevaluate your life.

Because at the end of the day…LOVE IS LOVE.

And sometimes it comes with a serving of the best chicken fried steak you’ve ever had, covered in white gravy.

Today’s prompt was gravy.

To the ones who have come from away, welcome to the rock!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I grew up pretty poor. We didn’t starve. We’re never homeless. But there were times my parents struggled to keep the lights on and food on the table. That being said, my mother always made sure we went to school clean and that our clothes had no holes in them.

We also moved a lot when I was a kid. I think it’s one of the reasons I’ve moved a lot as an adult. We never stayed for long anywhere. My dad would lose his job. The landlord would decide to let his sister rent our house. My favorite reason was the owner decided he didn’t want to rent to people with kids.

I was also a grownup kid. I always wanted to be with the adults and even though they tried to keep the struggles from me, I was acutely aware of our finances even as young as 7 or 8. I rarely asked for expensive things and tried to keep my Christmas wishes realistic.

My father was always coming up with creative ways to improve our situation. Once he bought two keeshond puppies. Pure breads that he was going to breed and sell for hundreds if not thousands of dollars. I’m embarrassed now at how they were treated. I’m pretty sure they died tied to a chain in our backyard. They never had puppies and we never made any money off them.

Another one of his brilliant ideas, was to buy into a housing development in Burnside, Kentucky. Over the course of a couple of years, he and my mom bought three undeveloped lots in a development that was going to be the next big thing in the community. The lots were adjacent to each other. He was going to hang on to them until their value grew, OR he was going to build us a home and we’d move there.

I remember being so excited the first time we drove there. For those of you NOT from Kentucky. Burnside is south of Somerset. Somerset is in the southern part of Kentucky about an hour and a half from Lexington. I can’t speak to traveling there now, but in 1975 it was a two lane road, traveling through multiple small towns.

Every so often we’d all pile in the car and my father would announce that we were going to check out “the lots.” We’d sit in the back of the car, my mom chain smoking in the front, watching the sites go by. After what seemed like hours, my father would announce that we were here.

As an eight-year old, I had no concept of what a quality piece of land should be, but I knew this was NOT a quality piece of land. It was rocky. It was overgrown with weeds. There were hardly any homes built in the development. Although my favorite was the A-frame homes on equally crappy land.

We’d climb out of the car and stand on the edge of the street, while my father walked “the lots.” Three equally rocky lots. He’d tell us where the house would go. What he was going to do. I’d try to stay out of the overgrown weeds, because I didn’t want chiggers. And truth be told there really was NOT much to look at.

After a while, we’d get back in the car and drive home. I don’t remember stops. I don’t remember lunch. I don’t remember anything other than the drive down, the 30 minutes admiring the land, and the drive home.

However, one time, my father took a detour after we left “the lots.”

We went to the location of Old Burnside at Lake Cumberland. Old Burnside was a small town, that was flooded over with the construction of Lake Cumberland. The buildings were left standing, the people moved, the land flooded and the lake created.

He drove us there on this particular day, because we’d had a severe lack of rain all summer. And he’d heard that you could see parts of the buildings. Sure enough, he was right. It had only been 20 years and there were ruins displayed over the water, where the drought had done it’s job.

We stood there looking. After a few minutes we walked back to the car. On our way back I saw a rock on the shore. I thought it was beautiful and asked my parents if I could have it and they said yes. The photo below is of that rock.

I have had that rock for 50 plus years now. It’s displayed in my office. It’s as special to me today as it was back then. I just thought it was cool. And I still do.

I held the rock in my lap on the drive home.

We never went back to Old Burnside, but at least twice a summer until I was in high school and old enough to say I didn’t want to go, we’d pile in what was now the pick up truck and treck down to look at “the lots.”

My father never built that house. And based on the last few times I was there, the lots never appreciated as a housing development never occurred. The last time I was there, it looked like an area where you might make crystal meth, if meth was being made in the early 80’s.

At some point, my mother made my father sell the lots. I have no idea what they bought them for. I have no idea what they sold them for. But I can assure you, my father did not get rich off the deal.

I haven’t been to Burnside in over 45 years. But ’m sure by now the remnants of the buildings are gone. But there are probably lots of cool stones along the shore of Lake Cumberland.

Adam’s prompt tonight was rocks.

Snow, It won’t be long before we’ll all be there with snow. SnowI wanna wash my hands, my face, and hair with snow. SnowI long to clear a path and lift a spade of snow. Oh to see a great big man entirely made of snow.

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

The official weather report from tonight on Channel 6 says that Cape Elizabeth got 14” of snow on Sunday and Monday.  That’s a lot for one storm, even for us.  Although, the most we’ve had since we’ve lived in Maine is just shy of 32” in one storm.  That was intense.  

I really don’t mind the snow.  Especially now that we live in Maine.  For the most part, the cities we live in are excellent at snow removal.  Our street has a thin layer of snow packed on it, but the main roads are all clear, less than 24 hours later.   

You do have to be careful walking around town, as someone at some point decided that brick sidewalks were cool.  They are pretty.  But they are horrible to walk on when they are wet.  They are even worse in the snow.  I highly recommend not having brick sidewalks.  

I also don’t mind the cold.  In fact, I never wear a coat.  It’s in the car just in case I’m in an accident or have car trouble, but I always leave it there.  I did use it a couple of weeks ago, when I knew I had to walk about 10 blocks from the restaurant we were eating at, to the music venue we were going to.  But even then, I took it off the minute I got into the car.  

However.  

With all the photos online of the expansive snow storm, there have been a lot of pictures of sledding.  I haven’t been sledding since 1993.  It’s one of those weird things I know, simply because there is photographic evidence of it. 

There was a huge snowstorm that closed the University of Kentucky campus for the day.   At least five or six of the tech students ended up in the show and we made makeshift sleds.  I can’t remember if we were using plastic, cardboard or metal.  What I do know is that it was great for sledding.  

We hit the hills outside of the theater building.  Fun was had by all.  

I was wearing my big red winter coat that I loved.  And my boyfriend, Sam and I were taking turns going down the hill.  At one point, we went down the hill together, and unbeknownst to us a photographer from the Lexington Herald-Leader took a photo of us. 

The next day we were in the paper.  

We were newspaper famous the next day, as we all got back to our regularly scheduled programming.  

Also, unbeknownst to me, Sam had reached out the newspaper and gotten a copy of the photo.  For my birthday, the next month, I got the framed photo of us sledding on campus.  It’s been displayed prominently; in every apartment I’ve had since. 

I’m way too old to go sledding now.  I’d end up breaking a hip and you know what they say.  But, the photo is a reminder here in Maine that I don’t mind the winter.  We put up with the intense cold and snow so that we can have the most beautiful summers and falls anyone as ever seen.  

On the 12th day of Christmas my true love gave to me…

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Growing up poor is an adventure in restraint.  Especially, when you are a child who’s wiser than his years, and knows that his parents struggle financially.  I learned at a very early age, to hide my disappointment when I didn’t get exactly what I wanted.  If I got it at all.  

Brands that were off.  Colors that were wrong.  The K-Mart version rather than the name brand version. 

To be fair, sometimes I’d be surprised and get exactly what I wanted.  The year we got our pong game, followed a few years later by an Atari console.  These were great years.  

Still, I learned to feign excitement.  I learned to smile through the disappointment.  

It’s a great gift to have learned as a child that is very useful as an adult.  Smiling through the disappointment when the bonus is less than you thought it would be.  When the role you auditioned for was not the one you got.  When your boyfriend buys tickets to the musical you want to see, but buys partial view tickets to save money.  

Or.  

In the mid 90’s I moved to NYC.  My mother asked what I wanted for Christmas.  And by then I’d learned to set the bar low, and to be very specific.  I really didn’t need anything so I asked for white bath towels.  

Easy right?  

The reason I mention that I was living in NYC, was that I was living on my own and only needed a couple of towels.  

The catch was, that anyone who was going to buy me a present that year for Christmas asked my mom what they should get me.  And she replied every time, white bath towels.  

And Christmas comes, and I go home, and we gather on Christmas morning to open gifts.  My cousins pass out the gifts.  I had more packages than I thought I would.  

We are a go around and open one gift at a time family, so the opening commenced.  I open my first gift and it’s a white bath towel.  The opening continues and it gets back to me.  

It’s a white bath towel. 

And this goes on for several rounds.  When it’s all said and done, I think I have seven or eight towels.  Nothing else.  Just towels.  

And I think to myself,  I got what I asked for, but what does a single man going to do with 8 white bath towels.  Plus, I live in NYC, I have one closet, that’s the size of a shoe box.  

I’m very grateful, and not disappointed at all.  I didn’t really need anything and I got what I asked for.  

But wait.  It’s gets better.  

Fast forward 365 days. 

Christmas is here again.  I’ve flown home and am about to start opening gifts again.  They get to me, and what would you know, the first package contains white bath towels.  Two more circles around and now I’m up to 6 more white bath towels.  

When I got back to NYC I had enough towels to open a hotel.  

But wait.  

Yes, the following year, I got two more white bath towels.  

After we opened gifts that year, I said to my mom, “Please for the love of god, can I NOT get bath towels again next year.”  

And I didn’t.  

Soon after, we stopped exchanging gifts, but I’m pretty sure I still had these same towels when I moved in with Adam.  

They say the neon lights are bright on Broadway.

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

Picture this Sicily, 1923. 

Actually, picture this.  New York City.  1983.  

My first trip to NYC. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Speaking of shows.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

But.  

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

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

Then it was time to head home.  

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

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

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

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

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

Climb every mountain!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

My friend Michelle and I have been on many adventures.  

The most exciting, difficult, challenging, rewarding, and overwhelming was hiking the Grand Canyon.  

In the spring of 2002, I flew to San Francisco to join Michelle in driving back home to Chicago.  She’d been there working there for a year, and was going home.  

We left San Francisco, drove down the Pacific Coast Highway, to LA, where I visited my friend Donna Jo. The most memorable part of that visit was how fucking hot it was, “oppressive” to quote Donna Jo.

From there we drove to Santa Fe, to visit a friend, then to Vegas, and from Vegas we drove to the Grand Canyon.  

We checked in to a hotel, knowing that we had to be up early the next morning for our hike.  

We got to bed early, set our alarm and were asleep by 10:00.  

Rise and shine.  We were up and parking at the Canyon at 5:00. 

When we arrived at the top, there was a sign that said, DO NOT TRY AND HIKE THIS IN ONE DAY.  IT CAN’T BE DONE.  

I asked Michelle about this, and she assured me that her friends had done it.  

We walk closer to the beginning of the trail down, passing at least 4 million other versions of this sign. 

I’m assured that it doesn’t mean us.  

And down the trail we start. 

Fun fact.  

We are amateurs.  In the truest sense of the word.  

Our provisions include a back pack, a camera, four bottles of water, and I think 4 power bars.  That’s it.  Why the fuck would we need more water, or food than that.  

Down we go.  Chatting all the way.  We pass a couple of water stations, but we have all we need so we keep going.  

The trail is beautiful and we are bonding as we frolic down the steep incline.  

It was not a short trek down, but after a few hours, the trail flattens out and we are at the bottom of the canyon.  The river is in front of us.  There is a camp ground.  There are people that have passed us, setting up camp.  

We take in the site, I snap a few photos, that are in a box in my bedroom.  

And we start back up. 

Within 30 minutes Michelle realizes that it’s going to be a bit harder than we thought.  We are taking it slow.  And are still having fun.  

However, it’s hot.  And we are drinking our water.  

Soon there is only one bottle left.  I suggest that we ration it.  

And we climb.  And we climb.  And we go slower.  And slower.  And slower.

And soon we are out of water.  

And we climb.  And we climb.  And we climb.  

It doesn’t help that we don’t have a map, so although we are passing landmarks, we have no idea who much further it actually is to the top.  

By this time, I’m getting tired.  Michelle has become exhausted.  

And still we hike.  

Our power bars are long gone.  I’m thirsty, but fun fact, I don’t get hangry.  I can go all day without eating and it really doesn’t bother me.

Michelle on the other hand, needs a sandwich every so often.  

At one point she shouts at me, go on without me.  I’m giving up.    

I don’t.  I walk ahead, then back.    Walk ahead, then back.  

And around 7:30, I walk ahead and discover that we are at the top.

I run back down to her, and say you are almost there.  

And around 8:00 we both crest the hill.  

We sit on a bench.  Exhausted.  

We then notice that there is a visitor’s area with a coke machine.  We are armed with two sodas in no time.  We are sipping our sodas when the bus to take us back to our car comes.  And the driver tells us we aren’t allowed to have beverages.  I assure her that we are breaking the rules today, and she wasn’t happy, but she didn’t argue. 

She dropped us at our car and we drove back to our hotel.  We showered, and then went to dinner, where we laughed and laughed at how crazy it was that we’d just done what we’d done.

And we’ll always have Paris. 

And we’ll always have the Grand Canyon.  

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

I say adult, which means management.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Two days later he was gone.

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

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

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

I can’t wait to hear about his adventures.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tune in tomorrow when I talk about the Grand Canyon.

But ah! Paree!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

In 2000, I was working a corporate job in NYC.  I was an office manager for an internet start-up company, way back when everyone was working for an internet start-up company. 

It was my attempt at getting out of food and beverage.  I was not waiting tables, I worked a 9 to 5.  I wore my NYC white starched cotton shirt, with a tasteful tie.  And I’d sit in the office answering the phones, helping out wherever needed.  

For the life of me I don’t remember the exact date, but I do know it was summer, and the phone rang and it was my good friend Michelle.  She’d just landed at JFK airport, on her way to Paris. 

She’d fucked up and thought she had a three-hour layover, but it was 9:15 and her flight didn’t leave until 9:00 that night.  

We talked for a few minutes and she asked if she could come in and hang out with me, and perhaps at least grab lunch.  I said okay, but I had an appointment with my boss and we were supposed to have a lunch meeting.  

I asked him if he’d mind rescheduling and instead, he said, just invite her along.  I did.  

At 12:00 that afternoon the three of us were seated on the patio of an Italian Restaurant at the Seaport.  We each had a glass of wine, and my boss spent the whole meal telling Michelle where to eat and what to see in Paris. 

Writing this jogged a memory that let me look up the date.  It was July 24, 2000.  I’ll explain in a bit.  

We finished up lunch and were paying, and Michelle let out a sigh and said, I wish you could go with me.  I laughed and said, well that can’t happen.  

And without missing a beat, my boss said why not?  You have vacation time you haven’t used.  I have a connection at Air France and probably can get you a deal on the ticket.  And I’m sure that we can cover for you while you are gone. 

It was 1:30.  

Operation send Jeff to Paris was in full swing.  

Michelle made sure her hotel accommodations would work for both of us.  My boss arranged for a plane ticket.  

At 5:00 I was at home packing, never having been so grateful that I’d just done laundry.  

I packed a suitcase and an hour later we were in a town car on the way to the airport.  

Not only were we on the same flight, we had seats next to each other.  

The flight was uneventful, I didn’t sleep a wink.  

I was so excited.  

The reason I now remember the date is that the Concorde crashed the afternoon after we landed.  In fact, as soon as we heard we both called home to let everyone know we were safe.  

We got there and made our way to the hotel to drop off our bags.  

First stop, meet Michelle’s friends from college.  It was a reunion of sorts and they did not know I was coming.  We found them, had lunch and then were off to the Musee d’Orsay.  All I remember of the museum was that there was a theatrical exhibit, but I can’t for the life of me remember what it was. 

We wandered around, and then had dinner, and then were off to hear Vivaldi’s Four Seasons at an old church lit by candlelight.  It was beautiful, but by then I’d had no sleep in over 24 hours.  I was tired.  I napped through the end of it.  

We did all of the touristy things in Paris.  The Eiffle Tower.  The Louvre.  Shopping on the Champs-Elysees.   I remember purchasing a beautiful watch that day, that I wore until about three years ago, when I broke it and it was unfixable.  

The friends we’d met had already been there for a few days, and after a couple of days we said our good-byes and Michelle and I were on our own.  

Our first night was an adventure and we set out to explore gay Paree.  First stop was a lesbian bar around the corner from out hotel.  

There was a girl at the bar who would say au revoir to everyone leaving.  Very solemnly.  To this day we can look at across the room at each other and say, “au revoir.”  And immediately start giggling.  

Eventually, we split up.  I was off to find boys.  She was off to find girls.

Fast forward a few too many hours.  

It’s late.  I’m drunk.  I find my way back to the hotel.  And I realize that I don’t have a key, because we had to turn it in to the hotel when we left.  I knocked and knocked and finally they answered.  And we get upstairs and we knock and knock but no one is answering.  Turns out Michelle has gone to sleep and is not responding.  The hotel guy gets the spare key and lets me in.  

He is pissed.  

The next morning, we are up early.  We have tickets to Versailles and have to be on a bus by 9:30.  

As we are leaving, the hotel manager pulls us aside and tells us we have to go.  No more American noise.  We have to go.  

We explain very American like that we’ll go, just not today as we have to go to Versailles.   

We leave him very exasperated with us and off we go on the bus, very hung over.  

Versailles in beautiful.  And we’d have enjoyed it more had it not been so hot and us so hungover.  

That night we are in bed early.   Long before curfew.  

And when we get up the next morning the manager reminds us to take our things with us.  

We’d hoped he would forget. 

We go back upstairs pack. 

And then go in search of another hotel, which we find, and this one had air conditioning.  

I was in Paris for 10 days.  The day we flew home, you could see the crash site where the Concorde had crashed.  It was very scary.  

The whole trip was a whirlwind.  And fun.   And it’s a great story of how I went to Paris on about 5 minutes notice, got kicked out of a hotel, and learned to say au revoir, very solemnly.  

Knock three times!!!

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If I loved you.

The Trolley Song.

Suddenly Seymour.

Everything’s coming up roses.

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

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

We exchanged numbers and went out a few times.

I wouldn’t say we were ever boyfriends.

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

We moved to just being friends very quickly.

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

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

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

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

It was chilly there, but so beautiful.

We had about 10 days planned.

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

Much of the trip is a blur 25 years later.

Things that stand out:

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

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

We were the three gentlemen of Verona.

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

Dachau was horribly horrible. I’ll start there.

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

The rest of Munich was beautiful.

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

Seriously.

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

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

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

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

The set was beautiful.

Salzburg, was the most fun though.

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

Do a deer.

Sixteen going on Seventeen.

I must have done something good.

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

We had a blast.

Later that night, we went out for dinner.

Then a bar.

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

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

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

I’m making this up but the instructions were:

Go to the third traffic light and turn left.

Go two blocks and turn right at the museum.

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

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

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

Knock three times and say that Steve sent you.

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

To a tiny, afterhours bar.

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

We went in and assessed the room.

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

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

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

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

She took a liking to us immediately.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It really was a weirdly perfect European Night.