Drag Dreaming

This past weekend, I was so excited to see one of the best drag shows I have ever watched – the Fabulous Playgirls at Toucan’s Tiki Lounge in Palm Springs. With every performance, I found myself reminiscing on my own performance days. When I left Boston at 24, I never dreamed of putting on a dress and becoming a drag queen, let alone one under the spotlight taking tips and mesmerizing the crowd - but I like to say that I became one by association. 

When I was 24, I was living on the peninsula and before I had a car, I had to rely on CalTrain to get me into the city. Since the last train back was at midnight, I decided to check out the Rawhide II Country and Western bar because it was the closest establishment to the train station. It was the early ‘90s and the country craze was in full swing. The bar was packed and I was instantly hooked.

Perhaps it was fate that I made friends with those whom I dubbed “The Rawhide Elite,” because each of them were the most spectacular and beautiful drag queens that I had ever seen. From their make up to their gowns to their heels, everything about them was spectacular and one Halloween, without much convincing, I joined their ranks. 

Now, although my first foray into heels and wigs was not pretty, you would think I was the most stunning creation on the planet the way I couldn’t stop staring at my reflection. There was no way but up with each dress up and when I entered the San Francisco classic contest “Closet Ball” in 1997, Shanda Leer was born. She stunned the crowd (and her mother) and soaked up the applause, but did not yet dream of performing until one fateful day at a show in the Castro.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing – a drag queen on stage not even in sync with her lyrics. How does someone not know the words to their song, I thought. The insanity of it all and the disappointment of watching forced me from my seat to approach the intimidating hostess. She took one look at me out of drag and deigned to give me but one song to perform the following week.

Then the doubts began to creep in. What have I done? Could I do it? What should I perform? I called my makeup artist extraordinaire and we decided on a song I’d always loved – "Bring on the Men" by Linda Eder. It was sure to not be covered by any of the regular girls in the show and I knew the lyrics in my sleep. When show night arrived, all of my friends had packed the small bar, Harvey’s to the brim and when I took to the stage, Shanda Leer took over as high as her four inch heels could stand. I never missed a lyric and the crowd jumped to their feet with thunderous applause as the hostess and all the regular girls watched in awe.

“Can you do another number,” the fat queen who refused to grant me a second song asked.

 

I looked at the mountain of dollar bills in my hands and in my bra and although I had but the one wig and dress, I took to the stage as the closing act of the night to the tune of “I Will Survive.” It was a scene right out of A Star is Born, and one I will never forget for as long as I live.

So standing in the audience this past weekend, watching as the likes of Delta Work and Morgan McMichaels, both of Rupaul’s Drag Race fame flawlessly performed – I was taken back to those days when the sound of applause echoed in my ears. 

What set me apart from the San Francisco girls, was that I never wanted to make drag my career. I enjoyed becoming Shanda Leer, relished in the illusion she created and reveled in the flawless performance she gave each and every time. Despite the other jealous queens who couldn’t remember their lyrics and backstage would steal my gloves or not speak to me, I had a great time. 

And whenever I watch the spectacular queens of The Fabulous Playgirls and throw money at them, I wish I could thank them personally for performing so flawlessly. I know what goes into their performance – and they never disappoint me. And when the music stops, I don’t have to just remember Shanda Leer as a memory – for the recordings of some of her best shows are always at the ready. To watch her, just ask and this time around, you won’t even have to tip her.

The Long Road Back

Like putting on weight – debt piles on fast and quick and it takes dedication and a lot of hard work to overcome it. It’s a lesson I’ve learned on both fronts, and one that perhaps, even at the ripe old age of 46 can teach others that there is a way out. 

When I was much younger, I never really knew the value of money. Chalk it up to my youth or thinking that the world would just give me what I wanted when I wanted it. But what really gets you what you want is hard work and dedication. If you think you can lose those twenty pounds without good eating habits and a lot of sweat and tears at the gym or get that debt down by paying the minimum payment – it’s time for lessons you won’t find in any school curriculum. 

Over the years, like my debt, my weight has fluctuated. While at my thinnest I was 155 pounds (ah…good times) one day, I turned around and I was 220. Where did that number come from? The scale lied, I told myself, but my jeans and shirts told me another tale. Then, one Christmas, I saw a picture of me at a party and there was the proof. My round chubby face stared back at me and announced in no uncertain and silent terms to wake up and take a long hard look at what I’d done to myself. I had gotten lazy, perhaps complacent with where I was in my life and I knew the solution did not lie in fast diets or crazy late night contraptions sold through infomercials. It was simple – take my fat ass to the gym, not just once a day, but twice if I could manage. Run, spin, jump rope (well, not jump rope – I could never master that even when I was a kid) –anything that made my work out clothes damp with sweat told me I was on the right path. At night, it was chicken salads, tuna, anything green and healthy. I saved the pasta for mid-day and the right snacks at my fingertips throughout the day. Given the choice between sitting on the couch or going to the gym, I forced myself to choose the latter. After all – since I was paying for that membership (a topic that comes into play later), I’d best get my money out of it.

For as quickly as the pounds came on, and I swore I couldn’t remember how I’d gotten so big, the loss of each calorie was arduous. Sometimes 3 pounds a week, sometimes one, but I set a goal and if I lost even just 2 pounds a week, then by a certain time I would be at my goal. And that goal was a pair of pants I’d bought myself in Mykonos when I was celebrating my 40^th birthday year. They hung in my closet, tempting me to try them on and I lined up each pair of tight fitting jeans and dress pants in front of them and each week, I dared myself to try them on. Then as each one slowly began to fit, I’d move the pair behind those Grecian clothes – bringing them one step closer to being worn.  Those pants were the only thing I saw as I spun my ass to a sweaty mess on Tuesday, Saturday and Sunday mornings and even Tuesday and Thursday nights. And the day they slipped over my big thighs (for no amount of diet or exercise can disguise that fact that my thighs will always be meaty) I thought to myself, good job, and even though as someone once said, I had “a whole lotta ass,” this ass was no longer a whole lotta fat ass.

And in the same token, I turned around one day to find the credit card bills overflowing in my mailbox. I’d charged $10 here, maybe $50 there, maybe even $100. Like my weight, one day it had just become too much. I’d moved back to San Francisco after being gone for 2 ½ years and with no job and the money I’d brought back with me quickly running out  combined with a bad job decision and just trying to live slowly caught up to me.  The sad part of it all is that I can hardly remember what made up all the charges for that astronomical figure.  Sure, I could pinpoint some as just a way for me to live. Food, clothes, but in the end, if I had to write down everything I put on that plastic, I’d come up empty. The one thing I do remember is receiving that oh so stylish American Express Blue card in the mail. How pretty it looked and how honored I felt that they had chosen me to be one of their “valued” card members. In an instant, I felt as if I were drowning and relocating again to find my path in life – I seemed to incur more financial woes. What was one more $50 charge when the bill was already so high? 

 

Then, one day, just like that picture of my fatness looking back at me, the statements in the mail with their hateful due dates and tempting low minimum payments arrived seemingly on top of one another. And then another bill – I needed braces to the tune of $5,000 (I was old, thank God, they were at least invisalign). I felt as if I were drowning and like my weight – I had a choice. Wallow in my situation or devise a plan, set a goal and reach for it. I was thwarted at every turn by so called helpful debt consolidation loan options and then I realized that since I had created this situation, as dire and depressing as it seemed, it was only me who was going to free myself. 

And like getting on that treadmill – sacrifices had to be made. When I realized my gym membership was costing me more a month than my weekly grocery bill – I eliminated it and found other, more economical ways to work out. I stopped buying anything new, clothes, shoes, even socks. Every time I was about to pay for something outrageous, I put it back, thinking that was one more payment I could make towards my financial freedom. At the time, employed by higher education, my paycheck barely covered the rent and minimum payments, so despite the rent control, I moved so I didn’t have to shoulder the cost of living in Los Angeles alone. Every extra cent, from tax returns to birthday checks was funneled away from me and to the credit card companies.

But I still needed help and I turned to one of my very best friends who never judged me and never made me feel as if I were a failure. 

“Honey,” he said to me. “We need to fix you.” 

And he made me a spreadsheet that tracked my payments and showed me in black and white where I would be and when depending on how much I paid each month. That spreadsheet became my golden ticket. If I fluctuated in payments, I knew exactly where I had to make up the payments to keep me on track. For the first time, I could see the goal posts.  It looked impossible and many nights I tossed and turned wondering where my life took a wrong turn. But like any turn, either you stay on the road that gets you lost or you take another to get you back on track.

Paying triple or sometimes quadruple the minimum payments, I saw the balances drop and switched the amounts to zero interest cards. Why not use the companies who for so long had used me, I thought. 

It has been a long road and today, I made the last payment on a debt that has been living with me for almost seven years because one day, like my weight, I couldn’t stand it a second longer. Like those pair of pants in my closet that kept me on that spin bike, the thought of never getting another bill I couldn’t pay kept me on the right road. There is no easy way out – no quick fix, no diet pill, and no lottery winnings. The ticket to salvation is within you, and when you are ready, when you can no longer stand your situation and the picture of your life makes you see clearer than you ever wanted, you’ll find the strength to overcome the obstacles and do what has to be done to take back control.

My Love Affair with Cookie Tins

My love affair with cookies and more importantly, cookie tins began many holiday seasons ago. My mother always had a stash of Royal Dansk Cookies in the cellar and you may laugh at me for this, but every time I see those tins in the stores, I’m instantly transported back to my childhood. The cookies were there, not because my parents loved to serve us store bought concoctions, but because if we were ever invited to someone’s house, we always had something to bring to them. It’s a lesson that was deeply instilled in me and one I value today. The first time I go to someone’s home, I never arrive empty handed. (And if someone comes to mine for the first time empty handed, they move down a notch, but that’s another blog.)

Not only were the butter cookies quite yummy, but their tins were valued just as much as the sweets they held inside. We were and continue to be, a family of cookie bakers. My grandmother was always in the kitchen at Christmas time. Flour decorated the counters like a dusting of new fallen snow and her cookies were always stored in festive tins from gifts that made their way into our home. Small, large, oblong – no matter the shape, every time we were at a gathering and someone was going to throw away a tin, it was quickly snatched and given a new home.

To this day, my grandmother’s sister, Aunt Lil – has a stash of empties in her house. When she baked regularly, she always asked me to save the tins for her and now I find that each holiday season, I go on the hunt for ones that will not only store my Christmas cookies, but make the perfect holiday present. When food gifts make their way to our department, I stash any empty tins in my office as I think of what kind of cookies I should make to keep them company. 

Recently, I was in Target and the holiday decorations and storage options were almost too much for me. I wanted to buy them all and then remembered that the party invites have been few and far between this year. If I bought all the tins and filled them with cookies, where would I bring them? Except, I do buy a few for the sheer fact that it makes me turn my kitchen into a floured wonderland, and that brings me back to when I was a child baking with my grandmother. I start the recipe and I can feel her beside me, I know my mother would compliment my latest batch even though they are slightly on the done side, I hear my aunt telling me to save her the tins, and all three of them make me feel warm and loved. Then, once I’m done, I take a look around at the volume of sweets I've baked and hope against hope that someone will invite me to a party.

Customer Service Eruption

Maybe it was my last blog post that caused a lack of customer service explosion on my part, or perhaps it was simply the fact that I had reached my breaking point on people messing with not only my money, but my time. This morning, I diligently brought my car back to the dealer to finish round two of my major car repair. Arriving, as is my usual practice, right on time for my appointment, everything seemed as if it were going well. I settled into the service area with my work laptop when 90 minutes later, the service man came up to me.

“Forgive me,” he said trying to hide the bad news he was about to deliver with a chuckle. “But we ordered one part and it looks like you need a second.”

Dumbfounded, I sat there, peering over the top of my glasses at him, not yet feeling the rush of anger that would soon explode like an erupting volcano.

“We don’t have it here so if you can bring the car back tomorrow –“ he said before I sliced his sentence in two.

“Get that part now.  I’m here, you had all day Saturday to figure out what you needed.”

He then, unsuccessfully, tried to explain why the dealer warehouse would not deliver today to just one location. Then after telling me to return on Saturday, he came back and said that deliveries are not made on the weekend. The poor bastard could not shield himself from the onslaught of profanity and frustration that swept from my lips like a raging tsunami against the shore.

Perhaps it was the work week of IT mishaps and server crashes catching up to me, or the fact that my “service adviser” told me last week that driving my reliable auto would be a safety issue if driven much longer that fed the fire in me. Maybe it was a combination of every wronged customer service experience I had encountered up to this morning, but it was about time that my time (and money) be treated respectfully. If they weren’t going to offer it, then my outrage was demanding it. 

So, fifteen minutes later, underneath a grey and threatening Southern California sky, I walked into their rental car reception area only to be told by the girl behind the counter that for $12.99 more a day I could upgrade the rental. The look on my face shut her up before she uttered one more word. With my laptop beside me, I drove off in a GMC pick-up truck – the very first time I’ve ever been behind the wheel of a car bigger than a compact, but the first time a car has been covered by a dealer for the duration of the weekend. 

In all honesty, yes, I could have taken the car and returned for a third time on Monday, however, in some small way, my rage did what I have wanted to do so many times in the past: grab attention and make it known that a “customer service” person needs to do exactly what the title of their job tells the public what they should do. I deserve to be treated courteously, and if you tout on your website that you’ll get your customers in and out quickly with the best service, then I am here to make sure that I, your customer gets exactly what you advertise. And now, I'm going to settle into this mini pick up truck and attempt to feel butch for an entire weekend. Maybe by then, the volcano will go back to sleep.

Customer Service is Six Feet Under

Customer service is officially dead and buried. Perhaps I have such high standards because I began my career tethered to a telephone and the skills of follow up and courteousness were ingrained in me as if I were a cattle branded with its rancher’s mark.  For years, whether it was for a long distance phone company or an up and coming software firm, I was never allowed to let any customer wait for an answer. Even today, working in the entertainment industry, I'd like to think people outside of my expertise contact me because they realize the level of my customer service skills.

Just this past weekend, after spending almost 6 hours waiting for my car to be serviced, it was finally ready, but, as the service man told me. “We don’t have a part we need, so you’ll need to come back.” Since I made my appointment a week ago, didn’t they know the parts they would need? Dejected and tired, I walked up to pay my large bill and present my coupon for $50 off to the cashier.

“I don’t do coupons,” she said to me without a hint of apology. “You’ll have to go back to the service adviser to have him give you a new bill.”

Seriously “customer service woman”? Seriously? I have to do that?

And the good times kept rolling during my call to make a dermatologist appointment. After leaving a message because the office “was away from the desk,” I had to call again later that afternoon. Not once did they mention that they had heard my message. And, a day later, they did call – only to inform me that the office would be closed on my appointment day. Seriously, Dermatologist office? Seriously? You didn’t see your office was closed when I booked my appointment?

I hesitate to use the phrase, “back in the day,” but more and more, I’m finding that I continually look back to the past and wonder when it all changed. Just today, I called the Honda dealer to see if the part they ordered had arrived on time. I knew I would have to call them to check, but I remained hopeful that someone would follow through and take the initiative to call me. 

"Can I call you back," the man said to me.

 Can you or will you?

To combat it all, I continue to harken back to my training and give people what I think they deserve. And my reward? I get calls outside of my expertise because everyone knows that I will follow through and get them an answer, no matter if it can help them solve their problem or not. Though at times I felt brainwashed by the constant hammering of monitoring in my youth, I wish I could go back to those days and thank those task masters for the one skill that I am most proud to possess.

Men, Boys and the Bitches In Between

Is there a marked difference between boys from L.A. and those from other states? Before I continue, I need to clarify that I continually flip flop in calling  men boys. For one, they never really grow up and two, they seem to always be chasing a real honest-to-goodness one that it’s just easier to lump them all together under the boy topic. Occasionally, I meet a man but sooner or later he reverts back to his adolescence, so to save time – boys it is.

If there were any doubt how different boys can be, then you had to only spend a few hours at one of the three birthday parties I attended in Palm Springs this past weekend. Surrounded by countless gorgeous Atlanta boys at every turn, I was happier than Scarlett O’Hara at the Twelve Oaks barbecue. Beyond their good looks, what amazed me the most was that no one possessed an ounce of the attitude I find in West Hollywood and L.A. in general. For a second there, I thought I’d driven too far down the 10 freeway and landed in some alternate universe.

For years, I used to say the difference between L.A. and San Francisco boys could be summed up thus: If I wore a Mickey Mouse sweatshirt out, the Bay Area boy would ask, “When did you go to Disneyland?” while his Southland counterpart would probe, “how long have you worked for Disney?” And now, I’m certain that the Atlanta boy would not even care but simply return the hello you throw his way.

Not only did the hosts welcome the two friends I invited along with me, but every guest we met was nicer than the next. From lipstick lesbians who surprised even my keen eye to boys who have been together for years – everyone I spoke to was welcoming and unassuming. And best of all – every boy was secure in his relationship.

“Don’t you mind that you always meet the married ones,” my friend asked me.

I didn’t even have to think before I answered in the negative. The single ones never pay me any mind and after I put it out there that I am indeed open and ready to know them more – they disappear. For years, this bothered me and only recently have I become secure in not caring simply because if a boy is secure in sticking around then I know he’s worth more than just a flash of my smile. I take the cards in front of me and play my best hand.

As with any gathering that results in an overflowing smorgasbord of boys, I was in my flirting element. Never at any point did any boy’s partner come up to me and threaten to beat me, cut me, punch me out or make it perfectly clear to steer away from his other half. Everyone I met was secure in their relationship and that is something I very rarely experience in L.A.

Once, at a restaurant’s bar, my friend and I were making eye contact with an incredibly breathtaking man.  Neither of us could tell his nationality and I took it upon myself to walk over and simply ask him his origins. I flashed my smile, said hello and presented my question only to hear a bitchy tone reverberate in my ear that I can still hear to this very day.

“His boyfriend is right here.”

“Yes, I see you,” I said without turning around to that nasty queen who was just one of a long line of bitter boys who spit their venom at me. “But your location wasn’t my question.”

I could write for hours on the boys who threatened to get me fired or throw a drink in my face for simply being me. The simple fact is that I know where I fall on the food chain of gay boys and I use the assets that work to my benefit. I continue to spend a lot of money on my dental work and am never shy about using it to say hello. And the fact that I have a full head of curly hair doesn’t hurt either.

Perhaps it was the Southern gentility that made every boy such a refreshing delight to meet. Or maybe, it was that I’ve become better attuned to choosing friends who are as secure as I have become over the years. At any rate – it’s good to know that there exists a class of man who doesn't just exist in the pages of a book. And it's nice to realize that like Scarlett - there is a belle deep down in that flirtatious facade of mine that will love only one man when he makes his presence known.

Moving to the Slums

Today, I vacate my plush NBC office and move to what we are lovingly referring to as – “The Universal Lot Slums.” The new offices are a hop, skip and a jump from our current location, but as in any neighborhood, the difference between here and there is substantial. This is the third office move in three years at the network and over the years, since I was 24, I have moved too many times to enjoy the sight of boxes and packing materials.

To me, moving when I was so young was a new beginning – an exciting chapter of my life where the ending was unknown. I never really knew what my relatives thought about me leaving for a state 3000 miles away, but as is typical of me, I never gave it much thought. What others think of me is none of my business. It may bother me for a bit, but you either love me or in the case of some ex-friends, really hate me. Either way – I have always stayed true to myself. I’ve looked at my past as events that have shaped and molded me to the person I am today and I wouldn’t be where I am if I had taken another road. A decision in life, no matter how big or small affects everything.

It was New Year’s Eve, 1989 into 1990 when I called my mother from my hotel and told her that I loved California so much that I could live here. I had stepped off the plane in San Diego that December to spring time temperatures and instantly knew that I never wanted to shiver in below zero temperatures ever again. My friend Bruce and I nixed going to Los Angeles and opted for San Francisco instead and for years, that one decision has filled me questions. If we had come to Hollywood and I’d chosen Southern California as my destination, who would I be today? Who would be my friends? Would I be in a relationship? Would I be a porn star? (My secret is out – I’ve always been fascinated by the what if of that scenario.)

My mom laughed uncomfortably at my news, but she knew deep down that what I said would come true. Determination to follow my own path is something I’ve never lacked. These days, major moves are a thing of the past for me. Even when I buy my place in Palm Springs – I plan on not packing up from my current residence. I’ll simply live in the desert and reside in Los Angeles during the week. There won’t be any boxes to pack or movers to hire. After all these moves – I finally know what my destination was to be all along. The ride has taken me on quite a circuitous and complicated route and patience, which I do not possess, is needed to finish the journey. There is no doubt that more moves on this lot are in my future, but these are "industry slums," and at least, unlike a friend of mine who lives in Oakland, I won’t have to worry about walking around after dark.

Where Has All the Social Gone?

I’ve long held to the belief that social media has signaled the end of being social. It’s never more obvious to me than when I go out to what used to be the main places to meet people: bars, restaurants and the neighborhood coffee shop. Back in the day – a phrase I find myself saying repeatedly, there was no other choice but to socialize with the outside world and make a concerted effort to meet another person. Today, I’m sorry to report, that the person who knows how to meet someone without the help of their smart phone, laptop or iPad is as rare as finding a pink panda in the wild.

Case in point, this past weekend, I found myself once again in Palm Springs, which has, over the last few years, become my favorite place of escape from the madness of Los Angeles. There, amongst the palm trees, the cooling waters of the pool and the refreshing endless cocktails – I use what has always, until late, never failed me – my smile and what is left of my outgoing personality. It’s become a fun game of sorts to see how fast someone will scatter when met with a simple greeting and a flash of the results of great dental work and flossing hygiene. Years ago I was quite adapt at conversation and picking up a stray here and there, and yes, on occasion, everywhere. But today, take a look around and you’ll see what seems like the entire establishment on their social media device of choice even while hordes of people surround them.

Granted, the Internet has given those painfully shy and socially challenged people an outlet, but I can’t somewhere feel that it’s given them a crutch that will always need to be at the ready. It was amusing when I gave my business card to the good looking age appropriate man at the bar this past weekend. He looked at it as if it were a foreign object that needed to be disinfected. In his defense, I suppose people no longer hand out cards and instead immediately exchange numbers via their phones. But, somewhere in the devious corner of my mind – I want to test them to see if they’ll make the effort of saving the card and dialing the number themselves.

Perhaps I’m too outgoing in this new world of texting and twitter. Should I act the same in person as some of those profiles? Only talk to those 5’11” or taller or demand to know what “scene” they’re into before I invest any time on them?

“What’s your type?” a man asked me once after I spent over half an hour talking to him and intermittently flashing my smile. 

“I’m equal opportunity,” I said instead of answering the way I wanted which was it was you until you acted as if you were typing on your keypad and failed to notice how many times I flashed these expensive teeth. Did you miss the fact that I offered to buy you a drink and you declined?  He then took his leave, checking who was closest to him in the vicinity of the bar on the latest gay app. A little extra effort goes a long way - except it seems, in my direction.

It all makes me remember my favorite episode of Sex and the City, “They Shoot Single People, Don’t They?” In synopsis, Carrie has a magazine cover shoot that goes terribly wrong, as she’s photographed ragged and puffy from a night out of partying.  Elsewhere, Samantha is horrified that she has been stood up in a restaurant where she is forced to pretend her date is still coming. While Samantha can’t handle being exposed as single in such a public environment, it’s Carrie, who at the end, sits down at a sidewalk café and announces to the waiter, that, indeed, it’s just her for lunch. No book, no magazine, no single armor - just a glass of wine and the company of her own company. It’s the one episode where I am Carrie.

To be fair, I’ve leaned on my phone to keep me entertained while I’m enjoying a cocktail or two, but in my defense I still know how to read a person’s body language. I can easily tell when the object of my affection wishes he could block me as easily as he would delete my cyber greeting. It’s amusing many times over – but on occasion gets a bit exhausting as I’ve paid a lot to keep my smile fresh, white and straighter than I could ever be. It’s an attribute that will always read better when face to face with it.

Once upon a time I used to believe I would meet someone in the aisle of a grocery store – we’d reach for the same apple and the fruit display would come tumbling down around us. I’d smile, pick up the rolling granny smiths and offer to make him a pie. I even wrote a story about that – but In the end, I recognize my own fiction from the truth that is all around me. Yet, I remain ever hopeful that when I sit at the counter for a meal or enjoy a beverage in a crowded room, that there exists one person who’ll log off their app, walk across the room and hand me their business card.

Packing Up Again

In two weeks, I lose my plush executive NBC office and relocate to a smaller space across the Universal Studio Lot. And although I despise moving, in the grand scheme of things, this move will be one of the less painful ones I have done over the years. From Boston to San Francisco and then San Francisco to Boston and back again, I have moved too many times to enjoy it ever again. And to top it off, as if those cross country moves weren’t enough – I took off again from the Bay Area to Los Angeles six years ago this month. So when the announcement came that we were to vacate our offices – I was less than pleased.

My current space is perhaps the best office I will ever have in my professional life. From its private bathroom to its sprawling balcony, once the higher executives discovered my oasis, I knew that it would be taken away from me. It’s a lesson I learned many years ago – anything you have that’s job related is never yours. From your phone to your car to your parking space to your paycheck – whatever the perk that you claim as yours, readjust your thinking as soon as possible. Once you do, you won’t be under any delusion that you are indispensable.

The move of course reminds me of all those times I’ve packed up for a brand new start. I’ve bubble wrapped and newspapered just about every possession imaginable and along the way, I’ve filled a lot of dumpsters with things I never wanted to see again. Hiring movers the last few times to take care of everything was an even better luxury. I’ve also said, why should I do something that I can pay other people to do and they may actually enjoy it? Hell, I don’t even do my own nails, why should I do my own packing.

All of this is just a rant of course, as what I’m really upset about is I have to share a bathroom again with a floor full of people. Sure, I will have a door and windows and not be stuck in a windowless cave crammed in with three others or even worse, in a hallway cubicle. But where the heck am I going to read all my trashy magazines in peace and quiet?

Life on Celluloid

Recently, I read a blog where the author did not want to remember the past and I remember thinking what a shame it was to have that point of view. Despite the pain and sadness of whatever the memory, the past should never be swept away and unacknowledged. I know first hand, because for years, I was running from that very outlook  – leaving my childhood, my family and shamefully, some of the memories far behind me. I let the appreciation of my relatives fall silently by the roadside as I reinvented myself over and over again. As I’ve gotten older, my connection to the past has been one of almost zealous proportions. I’m like a fresh paper towel, absorbing every story I can find before being ringed out and seeking more. I’ve hunted for pictures of relatives, asking family members to id the black and white photographs, picking their memories for the sliver of stories they can recall.

It’s come into focus for me even more as recently, all the home movies my father recorded when were young were transferred to DVD. Over twenty reels of 8mm film capturing birthdays, holidays, weekend barbeques, walks in the parks, trips to amusement parks and more are now there, not only for me, but also for generations to come.

As I watch, I can still smell the cake that my mother is cutting at my fifth birthday and the cacophony of voices from my cousins, although silent on film, still echo in my ears. The scene envelops me and is my own personal time machine to the past. The movie starts a dialogue with my brother. Does he remember this day – that present? We laugh at how crazy Julia was always in the same seat, smoking a nasty cigarette in the kitchen at every celebration and the sheer size of my mother before her thyroid was under control. And then my aunt – my godmother – with her glamorous up do and sparkling earrings, eating cake and laughing with everyone at the table. And, then, the person I’ve been waiting to see – my father’s mother. She sits at the end of the table, smiling, laughing and grabbing my arm. Her touch is as real for me now as it was then. I watch the recording of our walk in the park, wishing I could recall the feel of her hand in mine as she guides my little stubby legs across the grass.

For anyone who’s met me or read my stories, it’s no secret how much I loved my grandmother. She was pure and simply, my entire world. In 1974, ovarian cancer ravaged her body and took her from me - from all of us - when I was only eight years old. But today, I can look at her smile and see her as if she were waiting for me in my old home, and despite the sadness – I am filled with comfort and happiness.

I was hesitant to show the films to my aunt – my grandmother’s youngest sister – thinking that perhaps it would make her too sad seeing all the people who are no longer with us. But today, when we talked, she was as happy to have seen the movies as I.

“You looked just like Dom when you were born, “ she laughed referencing the fact that I resembled my father’s oldest brother.  For sure, there is no mistaking that I am a Tella.

Together we remarked at the beauty of her sister-in-law Angie and reminisced about her own 25^th Wedding Anniversary movie. There was no distant longing in her voice, just a tilt of joy at seeing everyone who has made our family so special.

I spent some time this weekend watching the movies, escaping into the past and letting all that love and happiness wash over me. Perhaps it has been growing older in a state far from the rest of my family that has taught me all of this. Although California is the place I belong, where I came from and who made me the person I am is just as important in my life. To not want to look back and remember would be a disservice to everyone in those movies. I’m grateful to my father for everything he has taught me and for spending countless hours documenting the good times we all shared.

I’m more than ever, so in love with my family, and today, I embrace the generations before and the ones that have followed. When I get lonely and want to see the love that was all around me, I can watch these movies. And somehow, as crazy as it may sound, I know my grandmother is still right beside me. No matter where I walk or if my still stubby legs will falter, although I cannot feel her, she is still holding my hand.

Making The Happiest Place on Earth a Little More Gay

Walt Disney World was in its infancy when I first walked through the gates of the Magic Kingdom. It was the country’s bicentennial - 1976 – a year that also marked the first and last vacation the family Tella ever took together as a complete unit. Alas, getting to the house of Mickey Mouse was not going to be easy, as back then, my mother was far from the world traveler that she is today. For a day and a half, we were stuck on an Amtrak train, seeing parts of the country that to this day, I have no desire to ever see again. It is without a doubt, the reason I am no fan of road trips. If it takes longer than two hours to get somewhere, then I’m logging onto United.com.

There was only one park then, for the theme park behemoth was in its infancy – its current massive Orlando footprint a far off imagination. Growing up, my brother and I were never allowed to stay up late – so you can picture how exciting and wonderful it was that during that week, we were allowed to stay up until the park closed its gates at midnight. Midnight. I was able to pass twelve o’clock – the time Cinderella had to be home after dancing with her prince or her coach would turn into a pumpkin and she once again would be clothed in her tattered rags. For an eleven-year-old boy who dreamed of a world where imagination was limitless, it was the ultimate high. And to make it even more special, my father had gotten us all “E” tickets. Alas, if you don’t know the history of the lettered tickets, there’s no Disney hope for you.

Even back then, I was the one in charge. I determined where we ate lunch, what rides we went on and where in the park we should be at the proper time to see the parade or the characters.  If we got lost or separated, my brother and I were told simply to meet in front of the post office on Main Street. There were no mobile phones and no worries about being kidnapped by pedophiles. Looking back, I miss those times. Where did the innocence disappear?

During our quest to meet every single character in the park and get their autograph (don't ask), the one who stands out the most was Tigger. I can only imagine the worst now about the feisty person in that costume. He pawed at us  – it was an innocent time, remember? Of course, it probably was nothing – for I was hardly a slim and handsome little boy that would cause anyone to think lascivious thoughts. Thankfully, I grew out of that awkward stage and today, when I seek out the characters, I can only hope for the opposite truth. Especially since the gay days at Disneyland Resort in California are now one of the best times of the year for me. 

It was 1990 when I first walked into Walt Disney’s original creation and eight years later, I was one of the about 2,500 people in attendance at the very first gay days event. Now, over 30,000 descend upon the park every first weekend in October. If you didn’t think the Disneyland Parade was gay before, then you should watch it among the sea of red shirts gathered outside of It’s a Small World. No matter how many words I write to describe it, I couldn’t do it justice. What always causes me to laugh, however, is just how many straight men like the color red. It takes them some time to figure out just what is going on during this particular day and the result is always priceless.

This year, my friend Josh is flying out from Boston to join me and just like that first and only vacation visit, I am still the one in control of the path we take through the park, where we eat and where we go to find our favorite characters for pictures. I avoid Tigger since I don’t know who’s inside that costume and set my sights on the princes. After all, we’re going to be up well past midnight and if I can score a date with a prince, real or Disney-fied, finding my clothes in tatters would be a whole different fairy tale. 

A Crystal Blue Sky

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a sky as blue as I did the morning of September 11, 2001. It had been a year since I strangely decided to move back to Boston after spending ten years in San Francisco and I was quickly becoming the lay off queen of the world. With my job terminated in California, I came back to the place I’d left when I was 24 years old. After countless interviews, I landed a horrible job at Akamai software where two very large fat girls made my life miserable. Searching for a new job to be my savoir, I thought I found it at an advertising firm, only to fall quickly back in the unemployment line. And then, that crystal clear day, I was temping for a telecommunications company in a windowless basement, shut off from the world save the time snuck on the Internet. I can still recall looking up at that gorgeous blue, cloudless sky as I walked into the office that day - thinking how beautiful it all looked so early in the morning.

Someone said one of the towers was on fire and everyone still went about their mindless routine, whipped back to the task at hand by some nameless worker bee exerting his perceived power over the temps. And when I heard that one of the towers had collapsed, I thought it must be an Internet hoax. How could the tower come down?  And when we were finally released from our working jail cell – the mass pike was eerily vacant of cars. I made it back to my condo in what seemed less than 20 minutes. Was I speeding or just going the normal limit?

I sat in front of the television, holding the phone and listening to my mother crying as we watched the images of that day over and over. It was impossible to not imagine what the passengers on those planes felt. I learned that one of the founders of the Cambridge technology firm I briefly worked at was on board one of the planes and that American Airlines flight 11 was a flight I had once taken to go back to California for a visit. In the days that followed, I had an interview at Fenway Community Health and worked there until they, too, laid me off, which finally was the hint I needed that I was meant to live nowhere else but California.

Has the patriotism that filled the country slipped away from us since that terrible day? Where are all the flags I saw outside every neighbor’s house? Why has the bickering and finger pointing in Washington reached new heights? I must shamefully admit, that often times, I have forgotten as well, but in my defense, perhaps it’s simply because, as much as it seems unfair, life moves on and we need anniversaries to remind us of what’s important. Whether it’s a wedding anniversary that forces a married couple to look back at what first made them fall in love or a move date that causes a young man to remember why he left the city he grew up in – everyone needs to look back and remember. Everything we touch and witness touches our lives, forms our beings and ultimately shapes us.

I can remember that summer, before the world turned upside down, my once and forever almost boyfriend and his partner had come to visit me. We spent a week in Provincetown – drunk on good times and great friendship. There wasn’t a care in the world except how to avoid the hangover, which went away by eating the horrible yet strangely appetizing Spiritus pizza at 1 a.m. The world was now simply defined as before and after the terrorist attacks.

It’s impossible to ask, “what if?” Living is full of the outcome of choices and actions by you and others in your past. Remembering makes you stronger. Despite the tears that stream down your face and the tug on your heart that makes you gasp for air, you must continue to live, you must never give up on the hope for the future. Remember that your actions do affect others, and despite the uncertainty of what lies ahead  – never forget to stop and look at a crystal blue sky and remember how beautiful it all looks.

The Labor of Friendship

Since it’s labor day, it seems a good time to reflect on how much work goes into being a friend. Over the years, I've had a lot of jobs that have introduced me to some of the most bizarre people I have ever met. Some have tried to take me down their path of crazy, while others who might have been a blip on the radar of my life have remained some of my greatest friends. 

Back at the start of last century’s last decade, I started a job answering phone calls when the world of customer service was still firmly planted in the United States. The queue was backed up for hours and there we all sat with our headsets and phone consoles being listened to and monitored by those who acted better than the rest of us behind the glassed in wall. The motley crew of employees on the floor were tethered to their phones answering call after call from people seeking credits for wrong numbers (does this even happen any more?) to long distance conversations made to Asia with denials that anyone in the Asian family knew a soul in China to make such a long call.

In this cesspool of craziness, the pied piper of children came into my life. Together, we have survived earthquakes, lay offs, love, marriages, divorce, death and a million other acts of nature the world has thrown at us. I can still remember the looks and attitude all the others gave us over the course of our employment. From the woman with the perfect marriage and family to the lesbian sharing her world with the love of her life, to the girl so in love with her fiancé who was going to have the perfect life - all of them befriended us but beneath their smiles, the look of pity and sadness directed at us was all too evident.

Deep down, I knew the piper was forever. There were no red flags with anything she asked of me, and as the year played out, the two of us were the only ones who could smell the stench of hypocrisy that surrounded us. When the call center folded and the slow truth about our co-workers leaked out, we still remained true to ourselves. It was our turn to shake our heads. From that woman with the perfect marriage who sent herself flowers to the office and signed them from her husband to that lesbian whose partner beat her while she covered up the bruises to that very perky blond who moonlighted on the sex toy phone lines to make money for her wedding that ended in divorce, all of them kept their blinders on as our jobs disintegrated. 

Over the years, there have been many jobs and an even greater number of people I often thought would last forever in my life. The occupations threw us together and gave us a common bond - but it’s so much more than just a job that keeps true friends together. It’s what they see reflected back - what they don’t ask of each other that is willingly given that matters and makes all the labor they share worth it.

Each year, new faces came into my life as the piper and I grew older. There was yet another lesbian, one who asked too much of me and was unable to face the truth about the alcohol that consumed every dinner party and night out. There was the redhead who expected me to be her husband in every way but the bedroom and fought for the spotlight in a friendship that had no stage. They were more labor intensive than the birth of the child I watched come into the world. I walked away from the jobs that brought the drama into my life and left the friendships in the rear view mirror, but not without high speed road kill to stain my tires and dirty my car. And as this labor day continues, I spend it with a blue-eyed friend who asks nothing more than to share the new world I have yet again created for myself.

I have chased the sun until it warms my very soul and it gives me hope for all that’s ahead in life. And through it all, the piper’s song still plays and we skip down the path of true friendship. Many have followed us, but when the music stops, they have fallen back and disappeared. Yet, the piper and I continue because the music that plays is in our souls.

Of Dogs and Men

 

If my friend Josh were to buy the puppy he’s always wanted, it would no doubt be the kind of dog that approaches any breed, regardless of its size or intimidation factor. He would wag his tail, threaten to jump up on your lap, but not quite take that next leap, and given the chance, beg to be taken on a hike through some god forsaken mountain trail on a sweltering hot summer’s day, stopping to pee every five minutes.

I’m sure Josh would agree with me because, one night last week, we both came to the same conclusion after watching the boys of the South End walking their dogs: the man you may be interested in dating is best understood by spending five minutes with his four legged companion. The two may not look alike, but their personalities are directly and inexplicably linked.

Dog number one was a black lab puppy. Four months old, still a bit tentative on his paws, but willing to walk over and let us pet him. The tall, young twenty something who controlled the leash stood just off to the side and smiled, answering only the questions we asked about the puppy, never venturing any more or less. Though it would be a one-sided conversation with him in a bar, we agreed that the boy would no doubt get the attention of all of your friends.

Dog number two was a boxer regulated to the window of an Audi A4. Its owner, instead of inconveniencing the drivers along Tremont Street, pulled into the Doris Day spot in front of us. He left the dog inside with the window rolled down just far enough to prevent escape from the front seat.

“We’ll watch him,” Josh offered, to which the boy smiled and hurried off to the corner liquor store. And there the boxer sat. Not a sound. No barking. No whimpering. Just staring down the street, patiently waiting for his owner.

“He’s cute,” Josh ventured.

“A little nelly for me,” I replied. “I don’t think he’s worth waiting, all happy and obedient for. Though he does have nice tastes in cars and clothes.” Josh made no comment and rolled his eyes at me.

Then the nelly boy strolled back with his brown bag. Josh motioned to the patient boxer, not panting in anticipation of his owner’s return.  

“He’s still in there,” Josh chuckled. “Didn’t go anywhere.”

“Oh,” said the well-dressed owner. “She’s a good girl.”

Josh turned to me and whispered. “It’s a girl.”

I have to admit, female dogs are my favorite, and not because I get to call their owners the same slang term. An acquaintance of mine, Devin, owns one of the cutest dogs I have ever met. Of course, she’s cute despite Devin’s fur dying her any color that sparks his fancy. Pink. Blue. Green. Color combinations that even rival the gay flag during pride. It doesn’t matter, he says, since she’s colorblind. My friend David loves the dog more than I do, and takes her out running whenever he can, but he’s always prepared with his usual statement lest he be mistaken for her crazy pent up cosmetologist owner.

“She’s not my dog.”

He says it very emphatically and articulates every word so he doesn’t have to repeat it, which would mean that if you dated David, he’d take care of you no matter who you belonged to and what shape you were in. He’d just add the disclaimer to someone else that you were definitely not his boyfriend and was available to date. You can guess what dating Devin would do to you psyche, let alone your hair color.

Of course, my favorite dogs of that milkshake drinking night were two miniature Jack Russell Terriers. Without hesitation, and not even waiting for an invitation, or allowing me time to put my drink down, that bundle of energy pup was on my lap and licking my entire face. The other sat watching, wanting to join in, but not quite ready for a group scene. The two owners laughed, loosely yanked on the frisky terrier’s leash, at which point, he jumped quickly jumped over to Josh. Once they left, I turned to my friend.

“Now, they’d be fun. Couldn’t commit, but fun.”

And then, the two of us stopped slurping our shakes when we saw the beefiest boy of the night. He emerged from the brownstone next door, dressed in eye-popping color sweats that were loose, but tight enough to wonder what good was imagination? Following him were two lumbering bulldogs. They finally reached the sidewalk, and all three bowlegged, walked in the other direction. Ten minutes later, the three made their reappearance from around the block, the two grumpy bulldogs, without a leash, taking a wide berth and moving like sloths across the sidewalk, out of our reach. 

“They just love taking their time, don’t they?” Josh laughed.

“Huh?” replied the beef, his feet dragging along the pavement in his flip-flops.

Josh tried again.

“Yeah,” came the mumbled response from the beef without even a show of teeth. Josh shrugged his shoulders, and I slurped the rest of my milkshake, taking the top off the cup and greedily spooning the chocolate chips into my mouth.

“You pig,” Josh said to me. Then he shook his head. “I have to pee.”

Reflections on LA at 40

I'm no longer forty, but I found a story I wrote back when I entered a new decade. It still has a lot of truth in it.

Lots of things were different when I was 24. Cruising men meant picking up a boy in person. No Internet fees, no online profiles with stats and codes that needed a gay dictionary to decipher. It was face to face and the decision if this one was it was made in less time than it took for microwave popcorn to pop and burn. I also believed that sex would lead to dates that would lead to the perfect relationship with the man who held my number in his hand and whose apartment door just closed behind me. The Castro district had no chain stores; getting drunk was easy and cheap at $1 beer busts; and in Los Angeles, one of my favorite places, the Abbey, was a small and quaint coffeehouse. 

Today, realizing the man on the other side of the door won’t call you is a good thing, getting drunk on a Sunday afternoon will set you back a few twenty bucks, and the Abbey has somehow taken steroids and expanded like the boys of the very town it inhabits. One look and you hardly recognize the quaint gathering place it used to be. It was where you could once meet a cute boy reading his newspaper while he sipped a double mocha. Now you go out of you way to avoid the quintessential bitter queen who’s smoke escapes from his curled lip in a snarl of smoke that matches the look of disdain he throws to the crowd packed in shoulder to shoulder on a Saturday night. If the bar were in San Francisco, everyone would have a coat to keep them warm from the relatively cool temperature. But this is LA, and displaying your pumped up and expanded body is what sets it apart from the rest of the world. 

So what is it about LA that I love? There’s a thrill to this town. It’s been written about, been photographed, documented and broiled to a crisp by the Southern California sun. But it’s the money and the power — or perhaps the illusion that you have one or both that gives the city its life.  But sometimes I think it’s as simple as the weather. Growing up on the East Coast one would never step foot out of the house in January without seven layers of clothing to keep you warm. And in that same month, here I was standing among the beautiful people with an outfit that would have caused me to catch frostbite within seconds. With one shrug of my shoulders, my coat slips off my shoulders without my spilling one bit of my $11 cocktail. I turn my attention to my small circle of friends, keeping the bitter cowboy in the corner behind me. 

One boy more beautiful than the next passes me every second and I find myself exhausted from the sight of them before I’m even drunk. My friends crack a joke and I smile.

My smile was once my fortune, and since smiles are as rare in an LA bar as an unattractive boy, I could take anyone by surprise and put them at ease. But this night, not even the bitter cowboy in the corner would give me the time and getting drunk was getting me broke.

A round of drinks and with my wallet fifty dollars lighter later, we were leaning against the corner vacated by the bitter cowboy queen. 

“I think half these boys don’t even know how to start a conversation,” my friend said.

“Hey, you got a cigarette?” I asked.

“I stopped smoking four months ago, missy. Or haven’t you noticed?”

“Of course I noticed. But you always have a pack when we come here. Come on. Give me one.”

He sighed and reached into his jacket pocket. “Why aren’t you working your mojo tonight?” he asked as he handed me a Marlboro Light. “You didn’t slip that wrap off your shoulders to talk with me all night.”

I lit the cigarette, careful not to curl my lip as I exhaled. “I’m a bit out of practice. I think I’ve forgotten how it all works in person.”

“You? Forget how to pick up a boy? That’s like me forgetting how to be cheap.”

“Very funny.”

“Have you seen me pay for a round of drinks?”

“Point taken.” The smoke circle I attempted folded sadly in the air in front of me. “There’s no one here I want.”

“Bullshit. Get out there and meet someone. Take them home and put your legs in the air.”

“It’s their legs in the air, dear.”

He grabbed my cigarette and took a puff. “My, times have changed, haven’t they?”

I looked around the Abbey as the crowd got bigger and bigger. “They certainly have.”

It’s not that I didn’t want to try my luck with the LA boys; it’s just that I hadn’t forgotten how the taste of rejection tasted, even after five vodka and cranberries. I’d gotten complacent, content at how much easier it was to cruise the Internet than it was to smile and strike up a conversation. And most importantly, it was simpler to just close the chat window and plop myself in front of my television. Ironically, that all changed the next day at the gym.

Although pick-ups at the gym are stereotypically porn, I couldn’t resist when I saw the boy across the floor. Endless hours with my personal trainer would only cause me pain rather than results of looking like him. For the first time in my life I was nonchalant in my approach. I picked machines close to him, but not too close and managed a closed smile the few times his eyes glanced over at mine. No need to flash full force so soon, I thought.

When he finished his work out and headed to the showers, I was right behind.  I turned the cold water on to relax and calm down. And then I followed him into the unbearably hot steam-room.

After fifteen minutes of feeling as if I would evaporate from the heat, the object of my steam got up and headed towards the showers. Not caring what the other towel wrapped sweaty boys next to me would think, I wasted no time in following him. I felt rejuvenated and just like old times, my heart was racing and the anticipation of what would happen was exhilarating. As the cruise gods would have it, his locker was next to mine and I flashed my full smile and uttered a pick up line that never failed me.

“Hi.”

The boy looked up. “You didn’t melt in there? I thought I was going to die.”

“I would have rescued you.” Okay, so that was corny, but it just slipped out. 

“Would you now? I’m Chad,” he greeted and offered me his wet hand.

“Jim. Nice to meet you.”

And with that, our dance of small talk began and being this close to him, I realized he must be extremely young. Nobody my age had zero percent body fat and an ass that was quite that round.

As the conversation progressed, I became more and more relaxed and in the back of my mind I wondered why I didn’t do this more often. It was a refreshing change from the computer screen and the endless nights spent chatting with faceless men. And, I admit, better than a vodka and cranberry.

“Do you live around here?” he finally asked.

“Oh, no. I’m staying at a friend’s house, I just walked here while they went to the movies.”

“You walked?” He sounded as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “If you’d like a ride I can drive you back to your apartment. You can’t walk in LA, people will think your either homeless or a hooker.”

And for a second I thought should decline and take my chances at gaining some unexpected income. But I’d picked him up the old-fashioned way, surprised that my once flawless skills still worked. And although I was dying to know, I didn’t dare ask him his age before we’d finished what I set out to start.

On the ride back, we made mindless conversation about the weather, the difference between San Francisco and Los Angeles and the type of boy that frequents either city or both.

“I’m not sure why I love it,” I answered after he asked about my attraction to the city. “I’m in love with the sun in January, I guess. Or better yet, it’s just a place I can skip out of town and not go very far or spend much money. Though I’m beginning to be an old face in town and that’s never a good thing.”

He laughed at that and I realized then he had no idea how old I was.

“Are you sure your friends aren’t home?”

“Positive.”

Whatever nervousness I sensed from him was gone the second we got back to the apartment. And before the gym bags hit the floor I was lost in his kiss, and as quickly as it started it seemed to end just as fast.

Afterwards, sitting on the edge of the bed, I rustled his hair.

“I have to ask how old you are.”

“I’m 21.”

 I laughed.

“What’s so funny, you’re only what? 28, 30?”

“Bless your heart,” I smiled. “I’m turning 40 this year.”

“Oh that’s a great age. All the guys I meet are these young and immature snots. They’re too flighty for me. It gets so old, you know?” He reached for his pants and threw on his shirt. “It was great to meet you.” 

I stood up, hugged him and then I felt that familiar something slip into the palm of my hand.  I kissed him again and took another look at his sweet face.

"It was my pleasure.” 

“I’ll be in San Francisco in March for a few days on work," he said with just a hint of an unfinished question.

“Stay out of trouble until then,” I joked as I closed the door behind him. 

I turned the lock, balled my hand into a fist and slowly crumpled the business card in my hand.