writing

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. 

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

/ fightmasterwrites / Leave a comment

I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Except.  

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

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

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

Finally, I had an epiphany. 

I could go as a carpet bag. 

Not a carpet bagger.  But the bag itself. 

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

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

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

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

Now.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

So my prompt is cotton. 

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

/ 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.   

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.

Gonna give you barley, carrots and pertaters—

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I have always remembered things from my early childhood. Very early. Memories from when I was two or three. Very clear. Very specific memories. And they are definitely not stories that I was told and then created memories of. These are very detailed memories of a small child growing up in Kentucky.

Some of those memories:

I remember a neighbor wrecking her motorcycle in front of our home and my mother passing out because of it. Neither of them were seriously injured.

I remember making mud puddles in our back yard getting the water for the mess from the hand water pump from the kids next door.

I remember putting my hand through our front storm door, when my aunt was chasing me and trying to tie me up.

And my favorite memory from that age, is going to bed. I lived with my mom, her two sisters and my cousin Ricky. It was a four-room house, with a tiny bathroom. I slept with my mom, in a very small bedroom in the back of the house.

On the particular night in question, my mom and I were going to bed. She entered the room, smoking a cigarette, Viceroy’s if I remember correctly, and got into bed. She told me to get into bed as well. But first. I had to say good night to my stuffed animals. My favorite of my toys, was a talking Bugs Bunny Doll. You pulled the string on his back and he said, “What’s up, doc?”

I got into bed, and hugged him close and said, “Good night, Bugs Bunny.” I can see the lamp beside my mom on. She slept on the right side of the bed. Me on the left. Bugs was pulled close on the left side of me. I remember turning over, and hugging him and going to sleep.

There are so many other memories from this time, but that’s my favorite.

My mother took advantage of my love for Bugs Bunny to get me to eat vegetables. I was a very picky eater as a child. And for all of my parents faults, they never forced us to eat food we didn’t like. It was never eat it, or go hungry.

For example, when my mother made liver and onions for my father and her, we’d get a pork chop, or a piece of chicken. While I can eat liver now, it will never be a fan favorite.

However, Bugs Bunny LOVED carrots. LOVED them. So therefore, I LOVED carrots. To this day, it’s probably my favorite vegetable. I love them in any form. Raw. Roasted. Boiled. Out of a can. Out of the garden. In other dishes. Love them. Adam will often roast them in the oven, with just a bit of char. YUM!!!

I googled Bugs Bunny and carrots before starting this post. His love of carrots came from a tribute to It Happened One Night. Clark Gable chewed on carrots and this was a little appreciation from the makers of the cartoons. According to the Google, Bugs Bunny did for carrots what Popeye did for spinach. I do know that it worked on me, because I’d eat them every night as a kid. PS. I was not a fan of popeye, so I didn’t develop a love of spinach until 30 years later.

As I googled information about Bugs Bunny and carrots I learned that carrots should not be a staple for bunnies as they have a high sugar content. A great snack but should not be a staple.

It made me laugh, as I remember working at Day’s Inn restaurant in high school, out off Insterate 75. I started as a dishwasher, but was eventually promoted to cook. A one cook, short order kitchen, with hand written tickets. Fried chicken. Prime rib. Baked scrod. Western omelets. Turkey clubs. I was quick and good at it. Making $3.35 an hour back in 1904.

All of our food arrived frozen and in cans. Thus making it fucking delicious gourmet food in 1904. The carrots came in #10 cans. Giant. I’d use the industrial can opener to get them open. I dump them in a large pot. And then I’d add at least a cup of sugar, because god knows carrots aren’t sweet enough on their own. PS. #10 cans are great for putting table legs on if you need to lift the table to a counter height, which is better for your back.

After the carrots were hot, I’d dump the whole pot into the steam table, and then they’d be ready for service. The fried chicken would come with mashed potatoes (or baked potato if you paid more), a giant scoop of carrots and a garnish of a candied apple ring on a piece of iceberg lettuce. Fun fact, it took a hot minute for the chicken breasts to cook so you the server had to let the guests know that it might take a minute. Probably be a good idea to give them extra rolls or biscuits.

I was a grown ass adult, living on my own in an apartment in Atlanta before I learned that canned carrots do NOT need a cup of sugar to make them good.

Disclosure:

Adam pushes me to write, because he knows how much I love it. However, I get distracted, depressed, tired and its easier to watch Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy than to sit down at the computer and write. He came in tonight and asked me if I was writing yet and I said no. I didn’t know what to write about. And he said carrots. Write about carrots.

So, this my friends is my composition on carrots.

I hope you enjoyed.

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.

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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.

I was lost for you to find. And now I’m yours and you are mine

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I’d like to speak to the manager!!!

I’ve written before about working at Bennigan’s. It was my first “real” serving job. I started there in the fall of 1987 about three months after I moved to Atlanta. I lied to get the job, saying that I had experience. I don’t think anyone ever figured it out.

What I do remember is that the staff had all been there for a while and were pretty friendly with each other.

The story I’m going to tell is about Diane. She was older than me, probably in her late 20’s. About five minutes after I started she discovered she was pregnant. From the moment she knew she was pregnant she wore maternity clothes. Well, a baggy polo and she carried herself like she was 15 months pregnant.

The larger she got, the more she embraced it, as she realized it was good for the pocket book. She embraced the belly and would do anything she could to encourage people to ask her about being pregnant.

Eventually, she had the baby. I couldn’t tell you 40 years later if it was a boy or a girl. What I do know, is that when she came back to work after giving birth, she still looked pregnant. And she continued to look pregnant for another six months. Eventually, it became so ridiculous that the manager told her it was time to have the baby, once and for all and stop being pregnant.

So she did. And from that point on, a photo of her baby, was taped to her tips trays that she presented her checks on. I have no idea, how long this went on.

It has always made me laugh to remember her waddling around the dining room, up and down the stairs six months after she gave birth.

But a girls got to do, what a girls got to do.

Oh, the stories, I still have to do share.

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.

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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…

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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.