Mad Dash To Terminal F

I wanted a glass of wine. That had been the plan all along: get through airport security, find my gate, buy a single serving bottle of Pinot Noir, enjoy.

That didn’t happen. It seems that LaGuardia Airport, unlike JFK, doesn’t have small kiosks near the gates that sell individual bottles of wine along with their sandwich boxes and protein bars. Maybe it has to do with international flights as opposed to domestic. Obviously, I don’t know. Maybe it’s a United Airlines thing. Maybe I just missed it. I convinced myself that as hot as it was in the waiting area, a bottle of wine would’ve probably put me to sleep. I changed my plan to having a glass in flight.

With an on-time departure from NYC to Chicago's O’Hare (connecting on to Paducah, KY), I was finally starting my vacation; my first since July 2017, and boy did I need a break from NYC. I don’t often enjoy the waiting or the traveling. I’m more of a hurry-up-and-get-there kind of person. But one can’t really hurry when he is at the mercy of the airline and the flight time. 

The flight was smooth and actually arrived early into Chicago. I was annoyed (surprise!) by one of the flight attendants so I didn’t bother with that glass of wine. 

Good ol’ Chicago, where winter weather in January threatens to derail my plans every time I travel through it during that month. And this particular day was no exception as the clouds discharged their wintery goodness gracefully and steadily onto the ground.  

I turned off airplane mode on my iPhone as soon as we landed and was immediately greeted by the text:

Your flight to Paducah is cancelled. 

Of course! I should have bothered to have that glass of wine. Hindsight's 20/20.

I didn’t so much process this information as feel my face heat up with anger…then contort with frustration and disappointment. The last thing I wanted was to be stuck in Chicago for a night (been there, done that, didn’t have a toothbrush or clean underwear). I had booked this particular flight on a Sunday evening so that I could wake up at my mom and dad’s house on Monday morning, starting the vacation without a travel day. If I was going to have to spend the night in Chicago then I would be on the same flight to Paducah on Monday that I would have been originally been on had I departed from NYC on Monday as I had initially planned. However, the best laid plans are out of our control when Mother Nature decides to get involved. Don’t be fooled. I’m not that zen.

I could see from my updated electronic boarding pass that I had already been rebooked on the next flight into Paducah, which was scheduled for departure the next day after 2pm. I went directly to Customer Service to see if there was an earlier flight. If I had to stay in Chicago, I at least wanted to get out of her as early as possible the next day. The customer service representative told me that the flight on which I had been rebooked was the first flight departing for Paducah the next day. Then he said something interesting. 

“We have a couple of flights to other locations tonight. Are either of them close to you?”

He mentioned a town in Missouri that I hadn’t heard of before and a town in Indiana. I knew the Indiana option was out of the question but when he turned his computer screen around so that I could see the destinations, my heart leapt in excitement. The Missouri town was Cape Girardeau. He didn’t know how to say it, or at least not the way I’d grown up saying it, so it didn't register until I saw the words.  I knew Cape Girardeau was close to where my parents lived. I called my mom immediately.

Mom: “Hi,” she said, her voice colored with disappointment .

Me: “How far is Cape Girardeau from your house?” I asked with no preamble.

Mom: “About an hour and 15 minutes,” she responded with no real change in her voice.

Me: “Can you pick me up there?”

Mom: “Yes.” The color now tinged with excitement.

Me: “I might be able to get on a flight tonight to Cape. I’ll call you back.”

The flight was already boarding and was scheduled for departure in 30 minutes. You know that joke book title: Fifty Yards To The Outhouse by Willy Makit and Betty Won’t? Well, my joke book title that night was Mad Dash To Terminal F written by Will Power and D. Termination.  

I ran. I ran like Rhoda Morgenstern running through the streets of New York City on her wedding day back in 1974 on an episode of the sitcom, Rhoda. I had a carryon bag in my right hand and I was holding my winter scarf in my left. I didn’t start out holding that scarf, but it’s so long, and kept getting tangled between my legs, that I had a vision of Carrie Bradshaw on the Sex and the City episode where Carrie slips on water that has dripped from a wet umbrella and goes splat! right in the middle of Dior in Paris. I couldn’t have that! Falling and embarrassing myself was not an option.

So, carry on bag filled with laptop and magazines in the right hand (praying the handle didn’t break ‘cause that shit was heavy) and scarf pulled across my body held tightly in the left, I flew past the people strolling along to their gates--or toward that glass of wine I so wanted. I was a vision leaving a gray and blue streak in my wake. 

I was running like my life depended on it. I’m in fairly good shape and yet still I was gasping. I made a right then a left then another right. I was looking for the escalator. Found it. Took it down. Ran past all the people letting themselves be glacially-paced along on the moving sidewalk. People looked over their shoulders as I approached. Peripherally, I could see them watching me as I passed. I stepped on to the up the escalator on the other side of that long space, taking a moment to catch my breath before starting to climb its moving stairs because they weren't moving fast enough. To the right then the left then hugging the curve connecting me to another terminal. All the while looking at the overhead signage for Terminal F. Was I getting closer? It didn’t feel that way. 

I was a man on a mission; determined to make it from Terminal C to Terminal F with breath-catching time to spare. 

As I approached the gate the customer service representative had told me the flight to Cape Girardeau would be departing from I noticed it said Quincy, IL instead of Cape Girardeau, MO. Two lovely women confirmed that this was indeed the flight to Cape but that it made a small layover in Quincy first. I couldn’t have cared less about the layover. I was just glad to be in that line.

I could barely breath. Gasping for air, trying slow my heart rate, I called my mom and told her I was going to be on the flight, providing her with the pertinent flight information. I was euphoric even as I panted. I had made it to the gate with a moment (though not breath-catching) to spare before scanning my boarding pass. The gate attendant marveled that I was in “good shape” as she hadn't thought I would make it from C to F. I showed her, wheezing and coughing, trying to keep composed.

All of those who had been on the receiving end of my disgruntled-passenger-with-a-cancelled-flight texts received the following from me…

I ran from terminal C to terminal F. I made a flight that goes to Quincy IL then on to Cape Girardeau MO. Hope my luggage gets on board. I’m a sweaty mess but I’m on the plane.

…as I sat, sounding asthmatic, buckled-in to my seat on the airplane. Relief was beginning to calm my anxiety. We hadn't taken off but we were supposed to. I was still apprehensive.  Then I realized the plane I was sitting on was the same size as the one that flies to Paducah. The same size plane for the flight that had been cancelled because of "weather" before I had even had a chance to connect to it. The same size plane that was about to take off, in the same weather, toward Cape Girardeau. And it did take off and land and take off and land again. In the weather. I still don’t (and may never) understand why the plane heading toward Paducah couldn't fly in the weather, but I digress.

My gasping cum wheezing had turned into a cough. As my heart rate slowed back to normal my breath kept catching in the back of my throat. I felt as if I had dislodged something. I felt like an undiagnosed upper respiratory problem had chosen that moment to present itself. I could not stop coughing. I was seated on the aisle in the 11th out of 13 rows and we were just sitting on the tarmac while the plane was being de-iced. I had to have some water. I unbuckled the seat belt and made my way to the front of the plane.

“I am so sorry" I began, speaking to the flight attendant who eyes widened in shock at my standing in front of her, "but I just ran from terminal C to terminal F and I can’t seem to stop coughing. May I have some water?”

“Yes,” she answered, her eyes remaining wide with shock, her voice stern as she continued, “but you need to sit back down.”

I get it. The doors were already closed. Okay. But were weren’t moving. We didn’t even have an estimated time for departure at that moment. But I sat back down, assuaging her fear that (even though the plane was sitting still except for rocking of the high-pressure wash of the de-icing fluid), I wouldn’t be knocked down by the “turbulence.” She brought me a glass of water. The cough persisted.

There would be no beverage service other than water on the first leg of that flight due to its short duration. No wine for me. There would be no beverage service at all on the second leg of the even shorter flight. One should always take advantage of his opportunities for wine when he has them because as Cinderella says in the musical Into The Woods, "Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor." 

I finally made it to Cape Girardeau after midnight and found the welcoming arms and smiles of family members waiting for me, happy at my arrival...at last.

It took until Tuesday evening for my luggage to arrive. And it took until Wednesday evening for me to finally get that glass of wine I had so desired at the beginning of this scenario…before it turned into the adventure it became. 

The cough lingered for about three days.

The Lightening Power of Laughter

Sometimes it only takes a bit of laughter. Even the witches of Eastwick knew the power of laughter.

I've been down the dark rabbit hole of misery for much of the past week. Okay, why stop at just a week. I've been in that hole for the better part of this year. I seem to fall into it with more frequency and with much ease nowadays. I'm familiar with feeling sorry for myself and with the wallowing that comes with it. As much as I don't want to be a victim I play the victim quite often. I would rather play the dashing socialite that is impeccably dressed (even in jeans and a t-shirt), whose presence is desired where ever he may be. But alas, it is the self-perceived, undesirable victim that I most often play. Although, I'm still pretty well dressed. Even victims can have style.

The words "I hate people" often exit my mouth on the breath of an exhale. But I know that I need people. I don't really hate them. It's the behavior of many who crowd this crazy, sexy, dirty, gray, radiant, glamorous metropolis that I call home that I really hate.

Last night as I sat in a garden with friends and a stranger telling stories, I wasn't miserable. I wasn't sad. I was happy, content, cold! Glass after glass of wine or beer was filled, emptied, and filled again. The contents of a bowl of Seven Layer Dip were demolished as chip after chip scooped up the goods like a backhoe removing dirt. I was talking, listening, laughing. At one point I was laughing so hard I couldn't breathe. And the coughing started. You know, the coughing: when you're laughing so hard that you can't catch your breath and you start to cough. I had to stop laughing and make myself take deep breaths: in through the nose, out through the mouth. That laughter was wonderful though, even as my lungs burned. I was enjoying the human interaction that we humans are on the planet to enjoy. The interactions that I don't get when I'm down that rabbit hole, isolating. I had forgotten the lightening power of laughter.

Life changes. There is always something that we wish we had done, or wish we were doing. It's up to us to either do those things or find the joy in what it is we are actually doing. I'm currently binging Parenthood on Netflix. I often make myself feel guilty that I'm not taking advantage of everything my City has to offer. But truthfully, I really enjoy sitting on my sofa watching Parenthood. That guilt is so self-inflicted that I should wear a body condom to protect myself from its infection.

As I write this, I'm sitting at my desk listening to the cast recording of the musical Come From Away. It's a 9/11 story. A tale of fear, sadness, compassion, and friendship. This day is heavy. I may never forget what I was doing on that morning 16 years ago when my sister finally got through to me on the phone and informed me of the devastation that was happening outside my window.

As I write this, I'm thinking about my mom and how I wish I could feel her arms around me right now. Sometimes a mother's hug is all one needs to comfort him. I think about how often I don't indulge in her hug when I have the opportunity. This train of thought inevitably leads down the track of impending loss toward that someday (hopefully many years from now) when I will no longer be able to feel her arms around me. My sigh is loud and as heavy as the day. I sent her a text to tell her I love her.

Change can happen in an instant. We can all attest to that. I don't laugh enough. I'm really hard on myself. I wait for things to happen instead of making things happen. Life may seem like it's long but it isn't. It's already September and just yesterday it was June. Time is flying. My waiting and isolating and not laughing only makes what little of it there is miserable.

I have to live. I have to live. I have to live. I am here. I am breathing. I am alive. I have any opportunity I want. I can make choices. I can play the victim or I can write myself a new role. I am here. I have to live.

Laughter was indeed my best medicine. But with medicine, one has to take it in order to feel better, to heal. In order to heal, to feel better, to enjoy my life I need to laugh more. I need to spend more time with my friends. I need to speak the stories instead of just writing them. My sofa will still be there when I want to binge the next television show. But laughing with people is different that laughing at the television.

I've been too heavy lately. It's time for the lightness.

"Il est notre temps ici-bas."

The sound of the steamer heating the milk was loud. Almost overwhelming. Yet perfect noise for the scene in which I was a background player. The setting: a café in Paris (Café du Marche des Enfants Rouges). The time: a Septembre day in the 21st Century. 

The solo traveler took himself on a stroll down the rain soaked streets of Paris in search of a neighborhood café to enjoy a bit of vin rouge and fromage. The rain fell in fits and spurts from the gray clouds that hovered above the City of Lights. 

It was all about atmosphere. The rain. The café. Paris. It was all about being alive in that particular moment and being aware of how happy I was. I was eating cheese, drinking wine, and (still) reading The Phantom of the Opera. It was heaven on Earth. Time didn't matter. There was no where to be; no work to be done; no appointments to keep; no agenda whatsoever. This was my time. To quote from The Goonies: "It's our time down here." 

What led me to that moment in the café was something that would normally have sent me down a panic spiral, but ended up being something that I had to Be An Adult and handle. And once it was "...handled" (thank you, Olivia Pope) I was able to relax and enjoy the time still in front of me.

This morning I woke up around 8am and had an alert from Expedia that I could now check in for my flight. Departing Paris tomorrow afternoon (Sunday, 9/13 @ 2pm) en route to JFK in New York City. The check in went beautifully; smoothe. Passport number entered. Name confirmed. Flight number and time confirmed. Boarding pass sent to mobile. I was checked in. It was time to get up and get on with my final day in Paris. 

I showered and dressed and took myself out into the sprinkling rain of the morning on a journey toward Père Lachaise Cemetery. As you know, a Metro snafu and a stop at Hermès deterred me long enough to miss my opportunity to walk through Père Lachaise yesterday. No regrets!! Those Hermès purchases were so worth it! So today, even though it was raining, I was determined to walk through this City of the Dead. Honestly, it was a pretty cool idea to me to walk through the cemetery under the cover of gray rain clouds. It seemed the right atmospheric setting for an eerie mood of melancholy. About halfway to the cemetery -- a near two mile walk -- I received an email from Air France followed quickly by an email from Expedia. I didn't think anything about either email. I was checked in; confirmed. The flight was scheduled to depart on time. Eventually, however, something told me to look at the email. "Following an operational problem, we regret to inform you that we were not able to accommodate you on your original flight. We sincerely apologize for the inconvenience." Well, those are not the words a man wants to hear in a foreign country, so far from home, on the day before his departure back to home, while trying to enjoy his cafè crème and stay under his umbrella at the same time. I felt the panic rise. Then I realized I needed to take care of this situation. According to the email, I was already booked on another flight departing on Monday morning. Okay. So I didn't need to panic about that. And on the plus side, I was getting one more day in Paris. I continued walking toward Père Lachaise Cemetery until I realized that I would not enjoy the stroll at all until this extra day wrench that was thrown into my spinning wheel of life was taken care of completely. I immediately turned around and walked back to the hotel. Today didn't seem to be the day to commune with the dead either. I had to find out if the hotel could accommodate me for one more night. I had to notify the private car service scheduled to transfer me to the airport tomorrow morning. Changes had to be made. The largest one -- the flight -- having already been changed for me. 

It turned out that the hotel could accommodate me even though it meant switching rooms for the last night. That's not really that big of a deal. So, I checked that off the list. The concierge at my hotel called my car service for me and told them of my change and ended the call with a "Merci" to them and a "You're all set" to me. Of course, I emailed the car service anyway just to give the details in writing and to have a confirmation of the change myself. I'm used to having everything in writing. It's hard to trust that it's just going to happen. Yes, I have trust issues. "Who are you to judge me?" (Yes, I'm using the Dorothy Zbornak quote a second time this week.) 

New flight booked: check. One more night at the hotel reserved: check. Car service pick up day and time changed: check. An extra day in Paris: OUI!

Hence the cafè, the vin rouge, the fromage, and The Phantom. 

To sit in a café in Paris and read or write is a most exhilarating experience for me. Neither seems out of place surrounded by conversations, laughter, wine and coffee consumption. And the cigarette smoke. I can't leave out the smokers. They are part of the Paris café atmosphere; the fabric of the City. Without them sitting at the café tables that line the sidewalks of the café fronts, the cafés wouldn't quit feel the same. This normal part of life in Paris would be so detested and frowned upon in New York City. I can hear the old men complaining now. How is it that the French smoke more and enjoy more wine than we Americans yet live longer? Maybe they've got it right. Eat, drink, and be merry...and work less. Enjoy life! Yes, maybe they've figured something out that we're too busy working to realize.  

One of my favorite people in the world -- a former roommate, and teacher when I was in desperate need of emotional growth -- moved to Washington D. C. seven years ago. I don't think we've seen each other since. We live four hours apart and never see each other. How ridiculous is that? She saw one of my Facebook posts this week about Paris and realized I was actually currently on holiday there. She reached out with a comment on a picture I'd posted that she was traveling to Paris by speed train from Barcelona the next day. What are the odds? This beautiful, young-spirited, wise, centered, happy, spiritual woman and I got to reconnect in Paris over dinner and a bottle of wine. As we played catch up after seven years (it didn't even seem like a day we fell back into our flow so quickly) I became aware of the signage outside the window across the street. We could have been getting reacquainted in the West Village for the way the street looked. But we weren't. We were around the world, on another continent, in a bistro in Paris. Two old (don't get snarky) friends telling stories about life as it is and life as we knew it.

The day that could have been didn't end up being the day that was. The crises were averted. The rain eventually ended. Words were read, written, and spoken. Time was enjoyed, not wasted, in a café. And divine intervention brought someone back into my life at a moment when I least expected it. 

Drift Away

June 12, 2011

"The Island smiled on us all week and then turned cold and started raining as if to say GET OUT." Words from Neal as we waited to board our ferry back to the mainland and the reality of our lives.

The rain started the night before and continued throughout the night and into the morning of our departure. I slept like a baby, unaware of anything until I heard the rain on the roof and skylights as I began to drift toward consciousness from my dreams.

Instead of getting out of my comfortable bed immediately, I chose to lie there, covered to the chin, drifting in and out of shallow sleep, listening to the rain.

Rainy days can be sad and melancholy. End of vacation can be sad and melancholy. I must admit that as the house became decluttered of our belongings and the bags, previously stowed away in a closet or under a bed for the week, began to fill up again, I was a little sad. It's natural. I was also happy to be returning to my life with memories that I would keep forever.

The beautiful blue and green water from Monday's arrival had been replaced by murky gray water for our departure. Out the fogged window by which we sat I could see the choppy waves of an angry ocean. Okay, that's dramatic; let's call it agitated. We watched as Martha's Vineyard slowly became smaller, fading away from our distance. I couldn't help but smile. No one could take the experience away from me. Everything has to end, we just have to live in it fully while it's happening and know that we were present in every moment. Side note: we saw Beth’s parent’s house from the water as we passed. We could actually pick it out even at our distance from land. That was cool.

The ride was smoother than I had anticipated it being. From the Oak Bluffs ferry dock we watched our ferry bobbing in the water. When we boarded, we could feel the sway of the boat. Out in the Atlantic it didn't feel much different than our initial passage.

There we were, comrades in cars, all of us waiting to debark the ferry. Smiles and nods one to another. Some of us had been on the Vineyard for a week, some of us for just the weekend.

We had started listening to Grey Gardens The Musical the previous evening on the way to Vineyard Haven to see Super 8. We continued where we had left off as we drove to the ferry. It seemed only natural to finish the show now that we were off the ferry. It was the day of the 65th annual Tony Awards. Why not indulge in a good musical score?

We stopped at Duncan Donuts to pick me up a coffee now that we were back on the mainland. I’m a little unclear whether we were still in Woods Hole or had made it Falmouth. Really does it matter that much? I mean a Duncan is a Duncan. It’s been my experience every time I go to one that the coffee is too light and too sweet. This time didn’t disappoint. Well, it disappointed in that I don’t like it that light or sweet, but I did need/want the coffee so I’m going to shut up about it.

The drive to Boston was roughly an hour and half. Without giving Neal a choice, I pushed play on the cast album for the 1992 Tony winning Best Musical Crazy For You. Neal and I have a history with that show. We were doing summer stock together the year that it won the Tony and were completely obsessed with the Tony telecast performance that entire summer. We both saw the show in New York at the Shubert Theatre on Broadway, albeit separately. We’ve both performed in productions of the show (again separately) and had the time of our lives. It seemed like a no-brainer. We talked about our experiences with our respective productions and how brilliant we thought Susan Stroman’s choreography was for the original Broadway production. It was the second show I had ever seen on Broadway. It was the show that allowed me entrance to the Shubert Theatre where A Chorus Line had played for 15 years. I have a lot of great memories wrapped up in that show.

It song-and-danced us all the way to Boston

Back at Neal’s we unloaded the car and then went to Burger King for a little lunch. I remarked to Neal that fatty (talking about myself) was going to have to start walking to work across the Queensboro Bridge in order to rid my body of the crap that I allowed myself to consume during the week. Vacation is not an excuse to eat whatever you want. I just let myself believe that for about 7 days. Oh where was the person who chose the apple over the M&M’s at the beginning?

When all that day’s errands were completed (groceries, car rental return) Neal started doing laundry. He threw mine in with his. He was watching So You Think You Can Dance when not emptying the washer, starting the dryer or folding the clean clothes. I was hard at work writing about the amazing experience I had just lived for a week.

Then it was Tony Awards time. That time of the year when those of us who love theatre watch as the Broadway season’s best are honored for excellence. Well, sometimes it’s the best that are honored. Sometimes it’s the politically correct choice or the easy choice. Anyway, it was Tony time. I was excited, as I always am on this very special of nights. Living in NYC has made many of these telecasts all the more special as I’ve had the opportunity to see the shows, hear the gossip, etc.

This season I was particularly interested as the company I work for, Stage Entertainment USA, was represented with a Best Musical nomination for the “divine musical comedy” that is Sister Act The Musical. Most of us didn’t think it had a chance in hell against the blockbuster, runaway hit that is The Book of Mormon, but one could always hope.

When all was said and done, it was really a no-brainer, no major surprise kind of evening. The Book of Mormon took home 9 wins out their 14 nominations and Sutton Foster took home her second Tony Award for her performance in Anything Goes. All the predications came true. Anything Goes took Best Revival of a Musical and Kathleen Marshall took home the Tony Award for her choreography for Anything Goes. When things are too predictable it can be boring. Two other predicted wins also happened but were anything but boring. The Normal Heart, Larry Kramer’s play about the AIDS crisis at its beginning in the 80’s took home Best Play Revival and Ellen Barkin, making her Broadway debut in said play, took home the Tony Award for Best Featured Actress in a Play. Those two moments were predicted, but amazing. Then there was the surprise factor. Nikki M. James was so surprised to win the Tony Award for Best Featured Actress in a Musical for The Book of Mormon that her speech made me cry. Tears fell down my cheeks and dripped off my face. It was such a beautiful moment to watch a truly thankful, humbled actor accept an award for something she loves to do. The shocker of the evening for me came when Norbert Leo Butz won Best Actor in a Musical for his role in Catch Me If You Can. I didn’t see that one coming. One shocker in a night full of The Book of Mormon, The Book of Mormon, The Book of Mormon, Anything Goes, The Book of Mormon.

Ah well. I bet Sister Act still had one kickin’ party.

Super 8, Not the Motel

June 11, 2011

It was a lazy day. The morning was overcast. There was a chance of rain all day. We really had no plans. We thought if it didn’t rain we might walk a hiking trail in Menemsha that led to a rocky beach, but the gray skies that greeted us that morning quickly moved that hike to the “to do” list for next time.

A gray day does not equal a bad day. This one was one of those perfect days to lie on the sofa and read, have an in-home spa day, see a movie. Neal and I did all of the above.

We seemed to rise early each day on the Vineyard. It didn't seem to matter how late we went to bed, the rise time was between 6:30 - 7:30 am. This day was no different. I came downstairs and made coffee. I was almost finished with my first cup when I heard Neal moving around. He came downstairs shortly thereafter. He exclaimed that he thought he was going to use his facial steamer. It was a day for beauty treatments.

I refilled my coffee cup and moved over to the loveseat, Dead Reckoning in one hand, the coffee cup in the other. I situated myself on the loveseat, covered my body with a throw and proceeded to enjoy the end of my book.

In the meantime, Neal had decided to start his beauty regimen. There were curlers and wax sticks flying everywhere. The hot wax machine was plugged in and turned to low for a slow melt of the wax. The pumice stones were set out, the hot oil treatments, the Nair, toenail polish and mud masks.

Okay, hardly any of that is true. Neal did use a pumice stone on his feat. He did take a long shower, shluffing and buffing the dry spots. He washed and conditioned his hair. Then he came downstairs and steamed his face.

While he was in the shower I managed to end my time in Bon Temps and proceeded upstairs to grab the second novel I had brought we me on the trip – The Distant Hours by Kate Morgan. I was half a chapter in when Neal appeared freshly exfoliated and pumiced. I thought I too should shower and try to pretty myself up. It was a hard decision to put down The Distant Hours at that moment though. I love it when a book can hook you right away. This one had me around its pinky. Not surprising though as I had so enjoyed Ms. Morton’s two previous novels, The House at Riverton and The Forgotten Garden.

My choice of spa treatment had to do with a facial scrub. I like the apricot scrub by St. Ives. I scrubbed my face then washed it with a gentle cleanser. It felt very smooth when I was finished. I completed the treatment by moisturizing my face. The cheeks had just enough pink to them for me to know that I had done something. The forehead felt smooth. The blood was flowing and the skin was hydrated. Done with my brief spa treatment I was anxious to get back downstairs and back to Edie and her discovery of the secrets of Milderhurst Castle.

Neal was covered in a rust colored mask when I got back downstairs. Upon close inspection, his lips blended in with the color of the mask. He had steamed then applied the mask while I showered. He was now ready to wash off the mask, rinse the conditioner from his hair and possibly steam his face again. We don’t take enough time for these moments in our lives.

At some point I managed to get dressed. I cannot for the life of me remember if I came downstairs fully dressed after my shower or if I got dressed later. I do know that I plopped myself back on that loveseat and continued reading my book. Neal joined me soon after to lie on the sofa and read his own book – The Appeal by John Grisham.

Okay so it’s gray outside, we had pampered ourselves and we were being very lazy (not a bad thing on a vacation). I noticed Neal’s breathing had changed. I intended to glance over at him, but I held my gaze. His finger was on a spot in his book as if he were following along, but he wasn’t moving. I continued to stare, taking in the picture. He had fallen asleep. I decided what the hell and closed my book and joined him. I kind of just rested my eyes for about 5 minutes. I never really went to sleep. He stirred and looked at me, I smiled, he didn’t smile back; he hadn’t really seen me. He was still asleep. His eyes closed again. About 5 minutes later he stirred and did come to complete consciousness. It was almost time for us to depart for Vineyard Haven and the 4 pm showing of Super 8.

We arrived at the Capawock Theater on Main Street with 30 minutes to spare. The sky decided that now was the time to wring the clouds of their moisture and dampen us with its droplets. No bother, we had umbrellas. We bought our tickets ($7 each, must be matinee pricing) and then proceeded to a store called Off Main where I had seen some blue bottles that had peaked my interest on Friday. We went inside and I purchased two of them. I’ve wanted a blue glass vintage seltzer bottle for quite sometime, but haven’t managed to find one. I mean I’ve seen them online, but I want to be able to hold it in my hand and inspect it myself. I decided that the blue bottles I had seen on Friday fit the bill for the color I wanted, and I needed a blue bottle fix, so I just did it. On our way back to the movie theatre we stopped in another store, Bespoke Abode, when bottle on display caught my eye. It turned out to be green and not exactly what I was looking for, but on the way out the door Neal saw a different shade of blue (maybe cornflower?) bottle than what I had previously purchased. I decided to get that one as well. My souvenirs from Martha’s Vineyard were destined to be bottles in varying shades of blue.

Oh my God Super 8 was so much fun. We were in a tiny theater that you could tell was very old. It had one center aisle with approximately 210 seats. There weren’t many of us inside for the 4 pm showing, but more than I thought might be there. I guess the rain caused others to think of this day as a movie day. I am leery of going to the movies. It’s hard to find a time when you can actually watch the movie in peace. People just don’t respect each other anymore at the movies. Cell phones and smart phones changed everything. My brief stint on the east side of midtown Manhattan was the only place where people didn’t pull out their cell phones constantly. Maybe it’s because they’re an older crowd. I don’t know. I know that I loved going to the movies over there. Back to Vineyard Haven and the Capawock, there was a row of four people about 5 rows in front of us across the aisle and each of them had their phones out. A man two rows behind them had his phone out. Even the two older gentlemen two rows in front of us pulled out a cell phone. I was nervous. Seriously. I was hoping that the Vineyard moviegoers might be like those on east side, but I was becoming more skeptical and afraid that I was mistaken. Let me add here that after Neal and I had chosen our seats, four adolescent, unaccompanied by and adult, boys sat behind us. I was nervous. I wondered if we shouldn’t move. Then the lights went down and something magical happened. All the cell phones were turned off and actually stowed. If any of them came out during the movie I never saw it happen. That’s difficult to conceal with a big light up screen. That leads me to believe no one brought them out. As for the boys behind us, I loved them. We were watching a movie that had four boys and a girl, junior high age – I would say roughly their own ages – as its leads. Our boys were amazing. They added to the atmosphere of the picture. They were respectful and delightfully perfect.

At one point, a rather dramatic moment in the movie I might add, the film broke. The screen went black. One of the boys behind us in a very high-pitched voice said, “What” with a fantastic inflection on the end. I couldn’t help but laugh. It took about five minutes to get the film going again. People brought out there phones during the down time, but promptly stowed them again when the movie started. I’ve had only one other film break on me before. Actually it melted. It was Eyes Wide Shut; a terrible film that my sister and her husband wanted to depart upon melting. I refused. It was wretched, but I had to see it through to completion.

Super 8 was the opposite of wretched. It was exciting and funny and exhilarating and more than I ever expected it to be. It’s the movie I will recommend all summer without one thought to any of the super hero tent pole movies that will be opening over the course of various Friday’s during the next two months. Neal said that his husband Stephen had described it as feeling like an old Spielberg movie on par with Close Encounters of the Third Kind or E.T. I had to agree. It was like The Goonies meets Stand By Me meets E.T. If you’re reading this and you haven’t seen it just go see it and you’ll see what I’m talking about. It’s 1979 and the attention to detail is superb. I was 8 that year. It was a nostalgia trip worth taking and a story worth watching.

After we left Vineyard Haven we drove into East Chop to visit with one of Neal’s coworkers, Beth. Her family has a home on the Vineyard. It’s near the East Chop lighthouse and only a few doors away from the house used as Chief Brody’s house in Jaws. The house owned by Beth’s family has been in their family for at least 4 generations. I may be mistaken about that, but I believe the home belonged to Beth’s father’s great-aunt. He barely knew her, but she left it to him in her will. He wasn’t even old enough to occupy the house. It’s a little convoluted to me, I mean we did drink some wine while sitting at the house, but I do know that there is a photo of Beth’s father as a little boy, on the Vineyard, breaking a bottle of champagne over his grandfather’s boat. There is history in that house. Her family has history on the Vineyard. You could feel in while inside the house. The small rooms, the old wood floors, the low ceilings, the smell heightened by the damp air; it was amazing. And their view, ridiculous. I asked Beth if they ever took it for granted. She chuckled. I compared it to my former yellow bedroom. I loved it. I woke up with a smile every day when I opened my eyes and saw those yellow walls. She smiled. She said it does not get old, the looking out the windows and seeing the magnificent Atlantic Ocean across the street. We would all have to be bitter and dead inside if looking at that body of water got old.

After finishing off our bottle of Zinfandel, we took a few minutes for Beth to show us their collection of fossilized clamshells and their collection of sharks’ teeth. The shells were intriguing, but the teeth were incredible. Some of them were huge. I was fascinated and a little freaked out.

When we left the house to go to dinner in Oak Bluffs, we drove past what was used as Chief Brody’s house. The house has since been remodeled and looks nothing like how it did in the film. Beth had a hard time remembering between which two houses it actually was. No matter. I’ve been in front of it regardless of not knowing exactly which one it was. I won’t lie. I would like to know which one it was, but I was there and that’s interesting too.

Dinner was in Oak Bluffs on Circuit Ave. We chose Thai food. It was good. I’ve had better. The conversation was enthusiastic. Overall, the night was a pleasure. Being at Beth’s parent’s house was second in excitement only to Super 8.

We dropped Beth back at her parents’ house and drove back to our cottage and began the inevitable process of packing. We had actually lived in our cottage for the week; really lived. We had used the drawers and the closets and the refrigerator. Of course, emptying those storage spaces and packing the items back in our luggage didn’t take that long. It’s easy. Throw out the disposable keep the necessary.

With all the clothing except the next day’s outfit packed, the dishes washed and in the drainer, the perishable food placed in a bag in the trash, I rejoined Edie and continued learning about the Blythe family of Milderhurst Castle. Soon enough sleep took over and the same paragraph I had read 3 times continued to make no sense.

Candle extinguished, lights out.

Once Upon a Time...

Once upon a time there were four little girls…okay one girl and three gay boys. They lived in the magnificent city of New York: a concrete jungle of looming buildings made of glass and concrete, full of beauty, despair, glamour, wealth, fashion, poverty and cocktails. They needed a break from the treacherous winter that had held them in his icy grasp for far too long. They decided to take a trip. It was a journey in their rubber-wheeled carriage that would take them six hours away from their beloved city to a weekend of splendor and relaxation in the small village of Provincetown on the tip of Cape Cod.

During their journey there was much laughter in the carriage as well as a little sleeping. There were musical sounds hailing forth from the sound box. There was singing. Their tensions began to melt away the further they got from home.

The four friends began to call themselves Mildred: a collective – one name for all four friends. They had no need of last names or initials for designation, as they knew which Mildred was being spoken to when the name Mildred was called forth. If there was ever an uncertainty, any Mildred could answer the question.

Along with their new name they used new words to describe when things were good or bad. When something delighted them they referred to it as “fetch” and when something was distressing or annoying they referred to it as “kennel.” The later word was not always agreed upon as an appropriate word for their new lexicon, but at least one of them continued to use it: Mildred. “Kibbles ‘n bits” eventually replaced “kennel” as the opposite of “fetch.”

To their new name and new words, developed for their new location, they created a new game just for them. From the dried milk of the teat, which had turned to powder, they would shoot one another with a squeeze and a sound, much like that of a tranquilizer dart flying through the air. The outcome was unconsciousness. They gloried in the ability to take one another off guard at a most inopportune moment and cause the catatonia. The only way to end this torture was for one or the other of the Mildreds to dust off the benumbed Mildred. Again they laughed as they inflicted their new game upon one another.

They did ordinary things like having locals shine their nails and use sheers to trim their locks. Some of them even allowed hands to be placed upon their bodies to remove knots that had crept into their muscles while toiling away in their normal lives.

Relaxation and merriment ensued.

There were evenings of cooking beef over an open flame, evenings of baking fish. There was bread and cheese and wine aplenty. Wine that seemed to flow from a river on Mount Olympus, as its power seemed touched by the gods. They laughed as they consumed libations made with the spirit Ketel One. There were fruits of the vine and vegetables from the earth. There was chocolate by Raisinette and Cadbury. All of these things combined to create a debaucherous experience for the four friends from the city.

They did control themselves. They didn’t wreak havoc on the small village. They went out and met the locals. They played established games where sticks are used to hit balls into holes in a table. They danced. They spent money at local eating establishments and emporiums. They allowed themselves to truly escape the humdrum lives they led everyday in the city.

The most important thing is that each Mildred respected the other. No matter how fetch or kibbles ‘n bits something may have been, they enjoyed each other. When the time came to leave the village, the four Mildreds took to their carriage and began their journey back to the land of concrete and glass. They held fond memories of the shingle-covered house they had called home for three nights.

Although their time in P-town – as it is known in local lore – was short, it was well utilized. With their bond strengthened and their energy renewed, the collective Mildreds vowed that they would return once more to the gay village by the sea.

Thanksgiving at Chez Coco

I’ll start with Wednesday night. Thanksgiving eve. My plan was to spend the night at my friend Michael’s apartment so that I could get up the next morning and make monkey bread. You may know it as pull-apart bread. It seemed like the perfect, decadent, overly sweet goodness to have for breakfast on the morning of a holiday – a holiday that is all about eating. Well, not really all about eating, I mean it’s about being thankful and taking the time to acknowledge what you’re thankful for, but then it’s about eating.

So, with work over for the day by 8:30pm, I took my list out of my backpack and headed to Food Emporium. It was crowded, but not as crowded as I expected it to be on the eve of Thanksgiving. I don't really shop for groceries at Food Emporium any more since I moved from Manhattan to Astoria Therefore my lack of knowledge of the store’s layout became apparent when it came to finding the necessities on my list that happen to be non-necessities in my everyday life. Some things I knew exactly where to find, but I had to search for vinegar and oil and Hershey’s cocoa. Then there was the matter of the buttermilk and the Karo syrup. The buttermilk was an ingredient in my red velvet cake recipe and the Karo syrup was needed for the butter cream frosting. So I'm standing in front of the milk products and all I'm seeing is Lite Buttermilk with 1/3 less fat or some amount of less fat. I was thinking to myself, this is red velvet cake; it's decadent and deserving of all the fat that buttermilk has to offer. I did make a quick phone call to my friend Neal, from whom I had gotten the recipe, to ask about the "less fat" buttermilk. There was no answer so I just made the decision myself. I didn’t buy it. Now on to the Karo syrup. I needed Light Karo syrup. I found the aisle with the cake mixes, flour, sugar, spices, syrup etc. This is where the crowd was. Seriously, one just had to park a buggy and walk because there were so many people in that aisle looking for baking soda, sugar and spices etc. that walking was nearly impossible. I found the cinnamon, baking soda, flour and sugar that I needed. I was happily surprised to find the syrup also on that aisle. Unfortunately all they had was Lite Karo syrup. Really, I thought, only Lite Karo syrup? Had the pecan pie lovers hoarded all of the Light Karo? First the buttermilk now the syrup! I'm all about the healthy eating, but some things just beg for the full-fat, full-bodied ingredients. Frustrated I exited the aisle and found myself standing in front of a Thanksgiving staples end cap. There on the second shelf was one bottle of Light Karo syrup. It was slightly to front of the shelf as if to say, "Here I am Michael; I've been waiting for you."

I boarded the R train to Queens with three bags full of ingredients. I still had to go to my apartment, repack the supplies into my Urban Luggage bag (green is the way), pack pajamas and clothes for the next day then walk to Michael's house. It was a time consuming amount of things to do, but I was working at warp speed. I might have been dillying a little, but I was not dallying at all.

I got home and filled my Gladware with the measured amounts of flour, sugar and cinnamon that I would need to prepare the next day's sweet delights. I thought it would be better to compartmentalize and consolidate than to take the full bags of flour and sugar. There was no need to carry the extra weight to Michael's and I was ahead of the game for measuring out the dry goods the next day.

I managed to get out my door slightly before 10pm. It’s a 20-minute walk to Michael's. Even with the extra weight I was anticipating a 10:30pm arrival. I was prepared for a long evening as he thought it best that I bake the cake that night. I had to stop at the grocery store on the way to his house and buy the buttermilk. Imagine the look on my face when all I found at C Town was the same 1/3 less fat buttermilk I had not purchased at Food Emporium. I just thought screw it! I'm not going to another grocery store for a little more fat. I didn’t mention that I also needed to buy some vanilla extract. I purposefully didn’t buy it at Food Emporium, as I knew I had a bottle at my house. Much to my surprise I found my vanilla extract had dried up. I had only had it 5 years. Who knew? Obviously, not this guy.

I did arrive at Michael's around 10:30pm. It wasn't before, but it was shortly after. It was cold that night, but with the coat and the scarf and the walking and the extra baggage, I was sweating by the time I got there. I was so glad to shed my coat and top-layer shirt.

Michael had spent the day preparing everything he needed to in order to make Thanksgiving Day as smooth as possible. We weren't planning to eat until 7pm with a guest arrival time at 5pm. That meant the turkey didn't have to be put in the oven until 2pm. You know what that meant for me? I didn't have to make the cake that night. I uncorked a bottle of wine, threw on my pj's and parked myself on the sofa to watch Modern Family and let the wine relax my tension away.

Thanksgiving Day morning I was up by 8:30am. I went to the kitchen to start making the monkey bread. First thing on the agenda – preheat the oven to 350°. Then I started cutting the first of three tubes of 10 Pillsbury® buttermilk biscuits into quarters. After the first tube was quartered, I sprayed Pam®, with flour for baking, into my bundt pan and then started shaking the biscuit pieces in the sugar/cinnamon mixture I had prepared the night before. I couldn’t help but feel like the little girl in the commercial for Shake ‘N Bake; “It’s Shake ‘N Bake, and I helped.” With my southern roots, I had no problem sounding just as southern as she did, probably even more as I tend to find humor in an over-exaggerated southern accent. Skip to all three tubes quartered, shaken and waiting patiently in the bundt pan for a caramel brown sauce to smother them with sugary goodness. I just had to make it – two sticks of real butter, ½ cup of brown sugar and ½ cup of the remaining sugar/cinnamon mixture heated over low heat until bubbling brown. I poured it over the biscuit pieces and placed the pan into the over. Only 30 minutes to go until breakfast sweet enough to rot your teeth would be ready.

How to pass the time? Watch the parade.

Yes, it was time for a Thanksgiving Day tradition – the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade. I’ve watched it for more than 20 years. I can remember times at my parents’ house watching it while sitting in the living room floor cutting up apples or grapes or bananas for mom’s fruit salad. I also have the best memory of all. It involves my mom, sister and packages of craisins flying through the air.

In November of 1997, my mom and sister came to NYC for the first time. I had moved here in May of that year so it was my first Thanksgiving in NYC and the perfect excuse for their visit. It was only natural that we go to the parade. We arrived on the parade route about 6:30am that morning. We already had to fight for a place to see. We ended up on the corner of Broadway and 34th, right where the parade made it’s finally turn after stopping in Herald Square. We were blocked part of the time by a woman in a red hat. I can’t tell you how happy we all three were when she left. The funniest memory of that day comes at my mom’s expense. There were people walking the parade route that year throwing airplane snack size packages of craisins. Well, wouldn’t you know one of them would have to hit mom, square in the face. We still laugh about it to this day. We also wondered that year about the people dressed as a clown or slice of pizza or piece of cake. We imagined what it must have been like to tell their family that they were going to be in the parade dressed as a slice of pizza or wedge of cheese. On Thanksgiving morning 2010 while talking to my mom, I told her what I was in the parade this year. I used the most downtrodden voice I could when I told her I was carrying a pumpkin and waving. My sister was a slice of pizza and my nephew Dylan, not even a thought in our heads in 1997, was craisins. Yes, the craisins live on! Mom had yet to decide what she was in the 2010 parade when we spoke that morning.

The timer went off alerting us that the monkey bread had spent the required time in the over and was now ready for us to behold it in all it brown, glistening, ooey-gooey glory. I dumped it onto a cake platter and removed the bundt pan. It was beautiful and it was ooey-gooey. I’m not sure if I had never made it with real butter before or what the difference was, but the coating looked like caramel and as it cooled while running down the side, it just froze mid drip. It was amazing; so rich, so warm, so sweet. Add the cup of coffee I was enjoying along with the parade and you’ve got a Thanksgiving Day morning that got off to the right start.


When the parade ended at noon, I had two hours, in which to make my first-ever red velvet cake from scratch, before Michael had to put the turkey in the oven to bake. I found myself in the kitchen staring at the ingredients. I was intimidated. I don’t know why. I think I’ve always thought red velvet cake was difficult to make and that everything had to be done perfectly or it would be ruined. I decided the best thing for me to do was to jump in and get started. I must admit that I was shocked at how much oil went into the batter of this cake – 1¼ cup. I just let myself be in the moment. I’d wanted to make this cake for about 5 years and I was finally doing it. One thing I had to remember is that it should be fun. I put a lot of pressure on myself to succeed. Failure is not an option. I wanted the cake to be amazing and was freaking myself out about it. Honestly, it’s just ingredients, blended together, placed in a pan and baked. It’s not like I was removing someone’s liver.

Because I made the monkey bread that morning, and it required a bundt pan, I decided, at Michael’s suggestion, to make the red velvet cake in the bundt pan. It was a beautiful, shimmering shade of red. I must confess that I licked the beaters. Is there anything better than licking the beaters? Only eating the cake, in my opinion. Anyway, the batter tasted amazing. I could only hope the finished product tasted as good. On that thought it occurred to me that unless I burned the cake, it had to taste good. It could only taste like the baked version of the wet batter I had licked off of those beaters. Relax Michael, I had to tell myself.

Once it was in the oven, the hardest part was over. I poured myself a glass of wine. It was noon! The smell of cake filled the air as I waited for the timer to beep and alert me to check the progress. Back to the intimidation. I found myself whispering as I opened the oven door to look at it. What was this a soufflé? No! It was merely a cake. Intimidation be gone. It was baking and it was fine. It took longer because of the thickness of the cake due to the bundt pan, but I checked it every five minutes for about 50 minutes and when it was done, the toothpick was clean.

Twenty minutes into the cooling time of the cake I started making the frosting. I like butter cream frosting for red velvet cake. It’s much richer and more elegant on such a gorgeous cake than the easier, and in my opinion, cheaper, cream cheese frosting. I will admit that I was a bit confused by the fact that the frosting recipe I was using did not call for butter. Call me crazy, but I would think butter cream frosting would have butter in it. I got the recipe from a reliable source and chose to not question it any further and just combine the ingredients of the recipe and hope for the best.

I learned two things about frosting. I had no idea what “soft ball stage” was. Michael had to Google it. Turns out that sugar syrup dropped into cold water will form a soft, flexible ball. That’s the first thing I learned, as I had to cook the sugar concoction until it did that. The second thing I learned was that I had merely made white icing. It was perfect for drizzling over my red velvet cake, but it tasted like marshmallow cream and hardened as it cooled. My mom is sending me her butter cream recipe for next time.


The drizzled cake reminded me of a candy cane. There was nothing wrong with the frosting either. It wasn’t what I wanted, but it worked. The cake was very moist and the crunchy texture of the hardened icing was a nice compliment.

I can actually say I was proud of myself for both of my sweet creations on Thanksgiving Day. I’m thankful that I didn’t burn either one. I’m thankful that I tried something new.

The friends arrived at Michael’s apartment; the wine flowed, the food was eaten, laughs were laughed over dinner and during games of Celebrity and Apples to Apples. Michael’s table was gorgeous. It was his grandmother’s. He also has her china. He wanted to host Thanksgiving dinner at his house this year to use the china and the table that had once belonged to such an important person in his life. I know about that importance in my own life. I think she would have been proud. The day was lovely and joyful. The only thing missing was Tynan, who thankfully joined us twice that day via Skype.


While I’m being thankful I want to take the opportunity to say that it is a wonderful thing to have people in this world that you can be with on special holidays when you can’t be with your family. Those people become your family. For much of my life, being a theatre performer, I wasn’t home for Thanksgiving Day. Now, working in an NYC theatre box office, our business not only don’t close for holidays, we add more performances during the week. So I am thankful to have people to laugh with, eat with, share with, cry with and drink wine with.

I am truly blessed everyday of my life. I have a wonderful family, beautiful friends, good health, a great job, an amazing home and a red velvet cake recipe that will now become part of my baking repertoire.

Thanksgiving at Chez Coco

A Summer of Discovery & Rediscovery

It's been a while since I've concentrated on writing about what I'm doing. It's been since August 19th to be exact. I've been doing things. Living life.

It's been a great summer. I hate to think of it as being over. Technically it isn't, but the kids have gone back to school.

This was my first summer as a resident of Astoria. I enjoyed the peace that my home brought into my life. I've had to remind myself that what I'm feeling these days is happiness. It's been a while since I felt truly happy.

One major thing that has been going on with me this summer is: I've been meeting with my friend Mandy on Tuesday nights to read. We're not reading books. We're reading what the other one is writing. It's been amazing. We meet for dinner and catch up on the goings on in each other's lives over the past week. We talk and laugh and eat. After the plates are taken away, we order coffee and pull out the pages for that night's reading. It has been so exciting and pleasurable to read what Mandy has been working on. It's a funny story and I can't wait to read the new pages each week. I look forward to finding out what new, ridiculous experience she puts her characters through. Sometimes it's just a paragraph or line that is the stand out. Other times it's the entire scene. I never fail to laugh though.

It's also been a confidence boost for me to have her read and critique my first foray into fiction writing. She sort of acts as an editor. She helps me clarify things that don't make sense. She doesn't necessarily know that I listen to her entire reaction though. There were things in my first story, Ocean Point, that I wrote because she mentioned that she couldn't wait to find out about such and such. They were things that I maybe wasn't even concerned with. However, writing those descriptions or explanations made the piece better. So thank you Mandy for just being you and wanting to know.

I have now moved on to another story - 327 Chesterfield Road. It's a different tale than the first. More challenging really. The first one was a challenge, don't get me wrong. When I'm writing about something that I did or experienced, I can give you every detail because it happened to me. I can describe it to the point where you feel like you're there. Writing something that is unfolding in my mind makes the details very difficult.

I think about where I want the piece to go. Then I concentrate on getting the words on the page. Then I concentrate on editing and clarifying and making sure that what it says conjures the image I have in my head. That's why I'm publishing one installment a week.

I'm constantly thinking about whatever piece I'm writing at the moment. The ideas swirl around in my head like water swirling down the drain of the sink after the plug has been pulled. And just like that stray piece of corn or that manages to cling to the sink, instead of going down the drain, I have kernels of ideas that stick. I have pulled out my BlackBerry® on the train more times than I can count and started to write about the people in these stories. Thank God for memo pad or I'd be screwed.

Anyway, it's been a great summer. My blog turned a year old. I went to Newport, RI. I went to Amagansett in East Hampton. I went to Boston - twice. I hung out in Central Park. I walked across the Brooklyn Bridge - twice. I ate at new restaurants in Astoria and Brooklyn. I hung out with friends in Astoria. I smoked a hookah for the first time. I published my first piece of fiction. I watched a lot of True Blood, Mad Men and SYTYCD. I reconnected with a cousin and met his family. I started publishing my second piece of fiction. I tried new wines. I cooked new dishes. I read three books. I got new music. I got a couple of new pieces of furniture. I took lots of pictures. I found happy again.

Thanks to all of you who continue to keep up with my life. Keep reading. I'm going to keep writing about me and keep creating characters with interesting stories to tell.

Cheers!

A Launch at Elmo

It had been way too long since Coco, J-Slaw and I got together for some come-what-may good times. The last time the three of us hung out was at a fashion week event back in the Fall. Too long.

What could be better than the trendy vibe of Elmo? Located in Chelsea, it's a hot spot filled with beautiful people. Named after the fabulous 1940's New York nightspot El Morocco, Elmo was thumping with the sounds of today's artists from Britney to Madonna and back again. We three sat down and I, of course, grabbed the wine list. It was quickly decided we would get a bottle. At $9 a glass or $38 a bottle, the bottle seemed the most beneficial. Being Winter, a red was appropriate. Being me, I suggested a Malbec. The boys agreed and the Malbec was ordered.

Before leaving our table to procure our bottle of wine, our waitress told us of the evening's specials. One was chicken and the other was lamb. Lamb shank to be precise with goat cheese polenta and baby spinach. Coco immediately wanted the lamb and I said, "She had me at goat cheese." J-Slaw chose the chicken.

We enjoyed the wine with the conversation. Lots of catching up and picking on. Actually, lots of picking on me. Specifically about writing my blog. It's all in fun though. Isn't being picked on a sign that you are liked? One thing I'm learning is that I'm not really offended when the boys use my blog as a punch line. They often read it themselves and know that anything and everything can be included in it. I also know that both of them are proud of me for writing it. It takes guts to put yourself out there in words. There is something very personal about writing. Whether it be a fictional story created in my head or these true experiences from my blog, putting words to paper and wanting the world to read them, except them, and even like them is nerve-racking.

The lamb and chicken arrived. The conversation turned from anything else to praising the food. The lamb, served in a fabulous, deep bowl, fell off of the bone. It was amazing. And that polenta - delicious goodness! We drained the bottle dry and ate every morsel. Eating slowly is the way to savor every bite and finish the meal.

Part of the reason we chose Elmo was because Coco had been invited to a launch party being held in the lounge downstairs. It was a launch party for a play. None of us were quite sure what that meant. It's a new play adaption of the novel "The Picture of Dorian Gray" by Oscar Wilde. However, we still weren't sure what they were launching. It wasn't like it was the launch of a new television series or even a new boat. It was a play. Maybe the point was just to get the word out and publicize the fact that performances were to begin January 22, 2010. It doesn't really matter. We had a good time. I even tried my first gin martini. I'm more of a dirty vodka martini man, but I'm glad to have tried the gin. Now I know I'm not missing anything and don't need to do it again.

I ran into two people that I knew and hadn't seen in a while. After introductions were made, I was able to catch up with each of them. One of them is writing about a specifice portion of his life. He doesn't know if it's for himself or public consumption. He's never written before. He told me about his fear of writing and from where that fear stemmed. I told him about my blog and about my initial fear of posting the link to it on Facebook. I do feel the fear of people reading my words every time I publish a new blog, but it's getting easier, in increments, each time I post the link on Facebook and Twitter. I just keep hoping that people will find joy in my words and enjoy reading the stories of my life as much as I love telling them. Our words are always out there. Spoken words that make us smile, angry, or hurt our feelings can linger until time helps them to fade, but these written words are there for all to see as long as the cyber ink is visible.

I love finding myself in a situation with good friends and good wine. It makes the writing easier and so much more interesting.

A Day in White Plains/A Night In Queens

Thursday night I stayed at the TONY Lounge for karaoke. We hadn't had it in two weeks because of the holidays so I was kinda missing it. I didn't intend to stay very long, but the excitement of singing took over my body and I stayed.

I grabbed some dinner at the Amish Market. Their hot buffet is discounted after 8pm It's a great way to get a decent meal for cheap. Cheap is good! When I got back to the Lounge, I finally gave Dakota a chance to do what he gets paid for: pour me a drink. I haven't had a drink in the Lounge in months. It's really been about not spending unnecessary money. Thursday, however, I wanted a drink. Jamison to be more precise. A nice Irish Whiskey that I enjoy diffused with one ice cube. I nursed the drink for quite a while. I only wanted one so I made it last. It was so nice to hang out in the Lounge with old friends and enjoy the drink and the company.

When karaoke started I knew I wanted to sing. I had been testing the chords all day. Having been a little congested for the past few days I wasn't sure if I could sing. I could! "And I Am Telling You" got a revisit. I nailed it. People screamed and applauded at the end. They loved me. I needed that ego and confidence boost. It made singing again easy. I joined my friend Patrick on the pop tune, "Taking Chances," then sang "Goodbye Earl" (country) and "Mercy" (pop). It was fun to put my voice and my spin on three different genre's. I want to tackle some jazz next. So back to staying later than planned. I had to get up early the next morning to go to White Plains, NY, with my friend Colleen. She was signing the paperwork to buy her first apartment. How exciting. I was a little jealous, but mostly excited.

Colleen was to pick me up in her newly rented zipcar at 9:45am. I made sure to be up, showered and ready on time to hit the ATM and get coffee before the drive. Colleen was running late. Driving in the City can do that to you. Traffic and nerves are a bitch. She left me a message which I didn't get until after I was in the car with her. Must have walked through a dead zone at the exact second she called. America's largest 3G network. "Can you hear me now?" Guess not!

No worries. We were on our way. I had Colleen's hand written directions from Google in my lap. We start merging onto ramps and taking exits toward interstates with ease. Everything was smooth. There was a spit of snow falling from the sky, but nothing detrimental to driving. As is somehow always the case, we hit traffic going slightly faster than a crawl. No stress. No worry. We left an hour early. Of course when the traffic started to flow freely again, there was no indication as to what the hold up had been. What are these phantoms that find joy in slowing traffic! Jeez!

We were driving along, catching up on our goings on for the past couple of days when we began looking for what should be our exit into White Plains - 8C/Mamaroneck Ave. Or as Colleen thought it said, "Mama no neck." We see exit 9. I'm thinking it will be the next exit. The next exit was 12. Then 13 and so on. Where was 8C? Had we missed it? How was that possible? We were supposed to be on Hutchinson Pkwy N for about 10 miles. A distance we hadn't traveled. We finally exited, out of fear of driving to far out of the way, at exit 17. I put the directions into my Google Maps App on my Blackberry and we tried it again. It looped us back around to Hutchinson Pkwy N and told us to look for 8C/Mamoroneck Ave. All we could figure was that somewhere Hutchinson was going to merge with something else and the exit numbers would reset. No such luck. Turned out our exit was 23N/Mamoroneck Ave. We took the chance that this was indeed the exit. It was. Google needs to update that info. We could have been stuck looping on ourselves for hours looking for 8C if it wasn't for our common sense and chance taking abilities. We made it just after the appointment time to the document signing destination. Colleen had called her lawyer to say she might be late. She was late, but earlier than she thought she'd be. I sat in the lobby reading my current book, Mississippi Sissy, by Kevin Sessums for almost an hour. The new home owner emerged from the room down the hall with all the papers signed and all the information muddled in her head. We decided to hit the mall or in this case the Galleria. My friend Michael says, sarcastically, that Galleria is french for mall anyway. I can honestly say it was just a mall. Sears, Spencer Gifts, Hot Topic & Cinnabon were all present along with other stores I'd never heard of. And that smell that's a bit over powering on the second level? Yep, The Yankee Candle Company. I guess I thought a Galleria would be somewhat upscale. Doesn't the name Galleria scream "upscale boutiques?" I commented when we arrived that I felt like I was in one of the malls in Nashville. Not the Cools Spring Galleria though. One of the other run-of-the-mill malls.

We spent almost two hours wondering around that suburban mall. A feat we urban dwellers don't have, or some might say take, the opportunity to do. First thing on our agenda however was lunch. We were both hungry. What to eat? Do we choose Wendy's, Taco Bell, Panda Express? No. Bourbon Chicken was the winner. Can't remember the last time I had Bourbon Chicken. It was a little greasy goodness. Hey, we were out of the City for the day so we gave ourselves permission to live a little.

I needed to find a long sleeved black t-shirt. My cousin Leah bought me a most fabulous gift while she was here. It was a Fashion's Night Out t-shirt. White with the aforementioned words in black letters along with a partial NYC skyline. Kind of abstract. I thought the hippest way to wear the shirt now would be to wear it over a black long sleeved t-shirt. We got side tracked though. A little kiosk in the middle of the mall was selling sheet sets. Full size, 500 thread count, 100% Egyptian cotton sateen sheets. I didn't really need them, but for that price wouldn't I have been just a bit foolish to pass them up? Since I didn't, we'll never know. They're caramel brown.

We spent quite a lot of time looking for me that black t-shirt. I'm picky, and not usually one to settle for the first thing I see. Well, after looking everywhere but Sears and Macy's we ended up right back where we started. A store I'd never heard of called Epic Designs. They had thermal style tops on sale. Two for $20. I bought a black one and a blue one. The first choice was the perfect choice.

Finally time to leave the Galleria, we headed toward Cinnabon. The Galleria didn't have a Great American Cookie Company so we had already decided to split a six pack of mini cinnabon's. I also wanted coffee. We went to Duncan Donuts for the coffee. I asked for a medium with cream and sugar. When we got to Cinnabon, I opened it to make sure it was well mixed. Imagine my shock at seeing the lightest coffee ever. Colleen said I was having a little coffee in my milk. Surprisingly enough, it was pretty good. From now on though, I would prefer to add my own cream and sugar.

Our drive back to the City was not without incident. It was perfectly lovely until we took the exit toward the GWB. What we didn't notice was exit 4S immediately veered to the right just off of the ramp. We stayed on the ramp and missed it. Realizing almost as quickly as we passed it, we tried to loop ourselves back around to it. No such luck. We ended up getting back on Hutchinson Pkwy N, taking some random exit and just driving until we found a way to get back onto Hutchinson Pkwy S. Lord have mercy! After getting past that one faux pas of a missed turn, we made it back to my apartment without incident. That is to say I made it back. I can't speak for Colleen after she left my place to drive the car back to the drop off location, but I heard tell that Third Avenue was a bitch and she got trafficked right onto the Queensboro Bridge and ended up in Queens. Sadly, that's no where near where she wanted to go. Oops!

I called my friend Michael to see if he had his roommate Tynan's phone number. We had been trying to find a time to watch "Far From Heaven" together. She had never seen it. It's one of my favorite films. It's so beautifully shot and acted. Of course, I own it. We just needed to find a time that worked for both of us. Anyway, she suggested Sunday night. My schedule is a little tight on Sunday night and there's "Brothers & Sisters" to watch so I wasn't sure Sunday would work out. I suggested Friday night. I suggested it via facebook. I hadn't heard from her and so the call to Michael for her phone number was to ask her if she was free that evening. He told me she had been pretty incommunicado with the computer for the past few days, but knew she was due home that evening around 9pm He suggested I come hang out. He said we would have a little wine and dinner on the cheap and wait for her to get home. If she was up for watching we would watch, otherwise we'd just hang out. His other roommate Corey was out of town so Michael suggested I just spend the night. Gladly and quickly I packed a bag. About an hour after my arrival, a glass of wine consumed, The replay of Oprah over and Ellen started, Michael suggested we go get some food. He suggested we go to a little gay-owned place just on the other side of Broadway. Thinking we were house bound for the evening, we were both dressed in pjams already. Easily rectified.

Dressed in presentable clothing again, we bundled up and headed out into the cold. When we arrived at Mundo Astoria it was packed. It was easy to see why as there are so few tables. There was a slight wait, but nothing we couldn't handle. We were third on the list to be seated. The waitress said several tables were getting ready to become available. Picking up the menu after being seated, I noticed he tag line, "A journey at the table." I was excited. I chose a Malbec for my wine and Michael chose the house white. Then we proceeded to order five appetizers and share. We ordered what the menu called their, "must-try signature dish," Red Sonja. It consisted of red lentil patties with cracked wheat, scallions, parsley and oriental spices on a bed of lettuce with lemon wedges. You spritzed the patty with the lemon then wrapped it in the lettuce like a taco. Amazing. We ordered edamame, falafal with hummus, an Argentinian beef empanada, and cheese rolls. The rolls were hand rolled dough stuffed with feta cheese. Oh the goodness! During dinner, Tynan actually came home. She must have seen our empty wine glasses, my bag, the movies. She immediately sent me a comment on facebook: "WHERE ARE YOU????? Please tell me you are just picking up a bottle of wine and will walk in the door any moment?!" I laughed out loud at the table. I had a missed call and a message from a number I didn't recognize. It was Tynan. Turns out she looked in the address book on Michael's phone and found my number and called. I called her back and told her where we were and that we were getting ready to pay and would be heading back to the house.

Back at the house there was brief conversation before a bottle of Prosecco was uncorked and "Far From Heaven" was placed in the DVD player. As I had hoped, Tynan loved the movie. It is such a beautiful film as I've already mentioned. It's also sad. The whole experience is made up of vivid colors contrasted with gray shadows and characters playing out a situation from the past informed by the present. It always makes me think of what a small piece of ground we've covered for how far we've come.

Tynan and I stayed up until 2am talking civil rights, equality, prejudice, family, career, life. It was amazing. Just sitting there talking and listening.

Life is good!