Viva Las Vegas

The first time I stepped foot in Las Vegas, I despised everything about it. My friends and I had gone to see Celine Dion during her first go round at Caesar’s Palace and the escape from the San Francisco weather was more than welcome. I did not expect to be so taken aback by the sheer audacity of Sin City. The sweat pants worn by overweight women, the breasts overflowing over the breakfast buffet and most of all, how the customer service improved when you slipped some greenbacks into the host’s palm. 

This is everything that is wrong with this country, I thought. It's just disgusting. And, besides a fabulous concert by the Diva herself, I was ready to come home. Flash forward to when I turned 40 – the first time my hair was a platinum shade that all my Bay Area friends politely endured. My once and forever, almost boyfriend and I were celebrating a milestone year and when he suggested Vegas, I was extremely hesitant to join. But that weekend, I looked at the desert oasis in a whole different light. I embraced what Las Vegas represented and all that she represented. She makes no excuses for what she is – and lays her cards on the table so that you either play the game or fold. And that is an attribute that I admire – no matter if it’s in a person, place or thing. 

That weekend was magical and it’s one I will remember for the rest of my life. My wonderful, dear friend Doug was with us and it’s a memory I will treasure for the rest of my life. We drank, we ate and we drank again. My once and forever climbed into bed with the fat girl who had eaten the midget (a whole different blog) and sobering up, I escorted him, past the crack whore in the Luxor elevator, back through the blinding light to our hotel. Yes, it was dawn and there was activity all over the strip and I loved every single second.

This weekend, I leave for Las Vegas for a whole different experience – the annual meeting of the NBC affiliates. It will be one entire week of breakout sessions and being on stage to smile, sparkle and charm each and every promotion director I have spoken to over the course of these four years with the network. My hair is once again a lighter shade and although I won’t be able to indulge in the debauchery from seven years ago (surprise, you’ve figured out my age), I know that Las Vegas, in all her bright light splendor, has reinforced what I already know - You can do nothing but respect and love anyone who shows you what they are and makes no excuses for it.

Happy Pride

I remember watching my very first gay parade back in Boston in 1984. I was working at Mrs. Field’s Cookies on Charles Street and had no idea that such an event existed. Suddenly, there they were -hundreds of men and women marching past the store and exploding en masse through its doors buying every sweet concoction on the shelves. I was often times the only one in the tiny cookie palace on the weekends and this day was no exception.  Taken completely off guard, I feverishly tried to make as many sugary sweets as was possible while being strangely excited by all these boys who were suddenly in front of me. Yes, because back then, believe it or not, I was firmly in the closet.

And among the crowd was the handsome man who always came into the store for a double chocolate chip brownie. I never got his name, but I can still remember his face and how he had the most delicious looking lips I have ever seen. I always gave him a free milk or soda and never charged the full weighted price of the brownie.  I didn’t realize then why I was so attracted, or rather, I should say I didn’t want to give voice to what I knew was the truth.

The parade passed me by that year as I looked out from behind the counter, and I looked forward to when I would see my favorite customer again. As the years went by, I had many opportunities to join in other celebrations – romantic and parades alike. And as I’ve gotten older, my participation has faded and I escape to quieter destinations. There’s something soothing about being in Provincetown or Palm Springs when it seems all the gay world has congregated in the major cities. It doesn’t mean that I’m not proud – as some may question.  I like to think that it is just a reflection of the person I have become.

What kind of person is that you ask? Okay, maybe you aren’t asking that, but for the sake of argument, let’s pretend you are.  Thirty years after my first pride experience, I’m still a work in progress, one who took the gay scene for a great spin when I came tumbling out of the closet and  is still as proud to be whom I am today as I was back then. 

The one thing that hasn’t changed, though is my desire to meet that someone who makes me feel the way I did when the boy with the luscious lips came into the store. It is that thrill of seeing someone in person, finding that one spark – that uncertain something that makes your pulse beat faster and causes you to feel flustered that no matter what anyone tells me cannot be duplicated through a computer screen. It’s an emotion I’ve felt a few times since, but, not one that’s been of any recent memory. Every time I come to the desert or board a plane or go someplace new, I wonder if this will be the moment it happens. Who will take the seat next to me on this cross country flight? Who will be eating next to me at the bar of my favorite restaurant? What could that moment bring? And when it doesn’t happen, I still never lose the sense of hopefulness that it could happen the next time. For as bitter as I may seem or how I portray myself, there is still that young boy who is watching his very first gay pride parade, staring at the object of his affection and reveling in the celebration that will follow.

Hooray For Love

In one short week, I get to return to Boston (technically, it’s Medford – pronounced "Med-Fid" if you’re from there, not "Meffa" as the amateurs say). And the reason for my once-a-year appearance in the city I grew up in is to celebrate love and family – something that, over the course of the last five weeks, has grown more important to me. My parents will be married 50 years on May 12th and, that, in this day and age, is cause for celebration.  In 1960, over the Christmas Holidays, my father, making present deliveries with his Aunt Lil, walked into a room and saw a blue-eyed blonde girl sitting at the kitchen table. The rest, they tell me, is history.

Over the course of my life, I have pictured a long and lasting relationship for myself, and when I was young I thought each new date would lead to that picture perfect dream. I can still name each and every one who broke my heart, and the circumstances surrounding them are as clear today as if they happened yesterday. Back then, there was no Internet (how’s that for showing my age), and I met each and every one the old fashioned way. I flashed my smile, I said hello and we carried on - wait for it – a conversation that didn’t start with “’sup,” or “stats?”

From Bruce to Brian, to Edward and the boys who all begin with the letter M, each one made me feel as if I were on top of the world. The problem with being that high up is that the fall to earth is incredibly painful. And, in between, there have been glimmers of hope and stories to entertain for years, including the infamous story of the dinner made and left in front of the door because he was working late. It was one of my better moments - the lowest being the screaming break up in the middle of Castro Street at 2 a.m. Yes, I was one of THOSE scene making queens.

So, next week, as I toast to my parents, who, of course, have had their share of fights, but whose love and affection for each other outshine all the dramatics -  I’m reminded that lasting love does exist. Perhaps this is the year I’ll meet that person across the room. Or maybe, like I’ve written in one of my stories, I’ll reach for an apple in the grocery store at the same time he does and the whole display will come tumbling down around us. 

Whatever the case, I will never force it, and although we will celebrate with Aunt Lil next week, (a gift in itself); I know that my own catalyst will make its presence felt. Whether it happens this year, next or – shudder- when I’m in my 50’s – all you really need is the belief that you will walk into a room and see the person you’re meant to be with sitting right in front of you. And when you reach the top of the world again – the view will be breathtaking.

A Little Disney Magic

I first experienced the wonderful world of Disney in 1976, shortly after Walt Disney World had opened and during the American Bi-Centennial. The theme park was in full celebration that week and every memory of that vacation is still vivid in my memory today. Perhaps the happiness that I still remember from that week is what makes the joy of Walt Disney so important to me.

The past few weeks have been filled with enormous emotion on so many levels. With the sudden passing of my roommate and friend, the stress in my life has been at an all-time high that, not only shook me like an 8.5 earthquake, but also swung my emotions in so many directions I was dizzy just standing still. And, then, this past weekend, for the first time since everything happened, I took a weekend for me and the destination was the happiest place on earth. 

At first, I was going to drive to my desert paradise, but as it turned out, Saturday was mini-gay day – a smaller gathering in Disneyland than the huge 3-day October event held every year in the park.  And, with my friend Steve flying in from Phoenix to join me, it couldn’t have been more perfect.  Steve and I met 20 years ago, when we both worked at Intuit software in Northern California. When I bought my first condo in San Francisco, he graciously let me live with him until escrow was done and through rodeos, commuting together, nights out in San Jose and San Francisco, and work, our friendship was a solid one. Even when I moved back to Boston and lost touch, I was never worried about the foundation we had built and two years ago, when the time frame between us had grown to over a decade, we reconnected as if no time had passed. That - I’ve come to realize, is what makes a true friend. There’s never any blame on who lost touch with whom or a diatribe of excuses thrown in the wind – you simply pick up where you left off and the years in between melt away. And throughout this ordeal these past few weeks, I’ve come to realize that I have great friends – solid friends who are there for me no matter what.

Just wait until October

I knew how disconcerting it was for Steve to leave the heat of Arizona for a  cold and rainy April day in Los Angeles, and not a minute went by all weekend that I was not incredibly grateful for his company. When the water stopped pouring out of the sky and the sun shone on Saturday, it was almost as if Walt himself had declared that it was not to rain on our Disneyland day.

“I’m on your schedule,” Steve said at one point when I asked what time he wanted to reconvene one night for dinner and that simple gesture spoke volumes to me. For anyone can simply say they’re a friend, but like love and a relationship, it’s the actions behind the words that never fail to prove it. 

Amongst the red shirts of the folks who attended Mini Gay Days, Steve and I got lost in the magic of the Kingdom. Drinking (a lot) in Downtown Disney, including an interesting concoction at Trader Sam’s in the Disneyland Hotel, we talked about a million different things. I shared the experience of the last few weeks and, though the images never leave me, they are slowly fading and easier on my mind. The weight of that night and the following days has begun to lift.  

Surrounded by all things Disney, avoiding Goofy at all costs (that’s another blog), hanging out with Steve, Pluto and all the red shirts, the weekend did exactly what I had hoped - it brought the magic back into my life.

Requiem for my Friend

If there’s anything I’ve learned over this past week, is that life is a precious gift and that knowing, really knowing your self worth is the greatest gift you can give yourself. Last week, I, shockingly and unexpectedly, lost my friend of seven years and roommate of three. Andrew and I met through a mutual friend and over the years, although we could never be described as best friends, we knew each other pretty well. From my grumpy demeanor in the mornings to his early evenings in bed, the both of us knew what made the other tick. When I was in need of a new place to live, he graciously offered me his spare bedroom and bath and financially, the Peoria born dance floor fiend gave me a lifeline that saved me from moving in with a friend and her husband that would have proved disastrous in so many ways.  

Some of the best times we spent together were in front of the television commenting on shows from RuPaul’s Drag Race to Hot in Cleveland, to our latest comedic find, The Exes. Andrew and I both looked forward to that short amount of time where we could laugh and talk briefly about our days. During the hectic holidays, we made a date to meet for a drink because our schedules at home were just so insane, and there we sat in the new West Hollywood Revolver, two friends playing catch up despite living under the same roof.

Five years ago, after Andrew had heart valve replacement surgery, his outlook on life, naturally changed and two years ago, he began working out like a mad man with a trainer and AKFit. One day, I looked up from the couch and couldn’t believe what phenomenal shape he was in – he was trim, slim, toned and beaming, and I was floored. I suppose because we saw each other every day, the transformation in front of me slipped away. And then, this past January, I’d hit rock bottom with my physical self. I looked in the mirror and thought, I deserve better than what I see. I called Andrew on my way home from the desert that day and asked to join his work out regime, an integral part of his life that he constantly asked me to do. So together, three days a week we worked out in a West Hollywood park. It was dark and cold until only recently, but Andrew inspired me and every bead of sweat was because of that. On more than occasion, as my weight dropped and my old pants began to fit, I told him how inspirational he was to me. He shrugged it off – not knowing, I think, how serious I was. So, to tell him in more humorous terms, I would often drunk text him during my frequent happy hour Fridays in the desert. A practice I found out that he looked forward to every time I left for paradise. He would jokingly scold me when he did not receive any at all. He would not take credit for my transformation, but told me it was all my doing, yet without him, I would not be where I am today in any aspect of my life.

At last year's Kylie concert. We danced for hours.

I can’t really speak of that horrendous night just one week ago – the memory of my friend is burned deep in my brain and I want to wash that away with every other happy memory. Our Kylie concert at the Hollywood Bowl, pool parties at my friend M’s, taking him to the NBC Christmas party, countless Sunday nights drinking tequila at Marix and a thousand other times we laughed and bitched together. I knew he deserved a partner who loved him completely and took nothing from him, but deep down, I don’t think Andrew knew what he was worth. He was a great man, too giving at times and not confident enough to know that the universe will bring him that perfect someone when he least expected it. Endless searching and settling for users and phonies would never bring him joy.

We would talk about such things on the short drive to our work outs and I knew deep down he knew what a good soul he was but, I also knew he would never make himself believe it. He had accomplished and survived so much that the bigger picture was lost.

Although my hands are tied and my rights are nothing, I have done what I can over the past week to bring him the peace he so richly deserves.  Andrew affected my life more than he let himself believe and though I can never drunk text him again, I can only hope that whatever place comes next after this life, that he at last realizes how much he was worth on so many levels. 

Best Friends Forever

Two years ago, plans with my mom for her very first trip toEurope were in full swing. It’s hard to believe how fast the time flies. After that vacation in Paris – my all-time favorite city in the world, I thought it would be some time before I would be able to return and then something wonderful and unexpected happened. One of my very best friends, Josh, was relocated to the city of lights by his work. It was a dream come true, more probably for me than him, but a dream come true nonetheless. 

I first met Josh when I moved back to Boston for a brief period when I left San Francisco for the first time. It was the year 2000, I had been laid off, at a crossroads (one of many) in my life and I thought returning to the east coast was the answer. Despite how it turned out – moving back there brought me the best gift I could have asked for – a true friend that I could add to the few that I value so deeply in my life. At a party I somehow finagled an invite to – Josh was there with chocolate chip cookies and doling out his famous neck massages. We hit it off instantly, and shortly after, what I would soon discover was a very rare occurrence, he arranged a plan for a bunch of us to attend a sing-a-long Sound of Music night. One by one, the boys declined until there was only me. The two of us, instead, decided to meet for dinner in the South End, not far from his apartment.

And then the worry began. Would he think this was a date? Does he think I like him that way? And it was ironic that he was imagining the same thoughts and all through dinner, as we laughed and talked about I don’ t know what (probably about the two fat girls who were making life at my job unbearable - but that's another blog) – we fell instantly into a perfect friendship. 

From New Year’s Eve celebrations to nights getting drunk off our asses, to trudging through ten feet of snow to meet at Starbucks, the two of us were inseparable. I could not have asked for a better friend and when I made the decision to return to the west coast, I think he was afraid that I would be gone completely. However, he soon learned one of my greatest traits – I stay in touch with you until I know for sure that what I put out there is never returned. 

From there, it was countless visits to San Francisco and then to Los Angeles for him and vacations back in Boston for me, where I took over his living room with my infamous “crime scene” unpacking. In all these years, we have missed but two New Year’s Eve celebrations together. Our disagreements have been few and famous – but always, we’ve emerged stronger and better friends because of it. He’s pulled me up from the depths of despair more than he knows and I think I’ve pulled his head out of the oven more times than he's had it in it. We laugh a lot together and when the Sambuca arrives, I know we've reached the point of no return.

Last year, when he had to cancel meeting me in Palm Springs for his first business meeting in Paris, I easily forgave him. And, a week ago, I booked my flight to my favorite city in the world to see one of my favorite friends in the world.

I always let him do the cooking.

This year, with the time difference between us, our emails are always waiting for each other in our respective mornings. On weekends; I have been just stumbling home when he is finishing breakfast. The texts between are us during those overlapping hours are for the record books. And, this May, when I return to Boston for my parent’s golden anniversary, he’s letting me stay in his condo. I will try extremely hard to not create a crime scene.

When I arrive in Paris, I can’t wait to show him my favorite city haunts – from the bars, to the restaurants that I adore to just a walk along the River Seine, I know we’ll talk about how a fateful invite to a party changed the course of our lives. Not a day goes by that I am not grateful for the true friends I have in my life. They make all the craziness and stress surrounding everything else manageable. And when I sometimes think that returning to Boston was one of the biggest mistakes of my life – I remember that had I not, I would not have met Joshua. And, just so you know,  going to Paris has nothing to do with that thinking - but it sure doesn’t hurt.

Are there drag queens like this in Paris?

The Flat Downstairs

I have many memories of the flat downstairs from where I grew up. Mostly, surrounding my grandmother, Christine, which is no surprise to anyone who knows me or has read anything I’ve written. She was my entire world and for eight years, I had the joy of her company. Running downstairs when I came home from school, spending weekends watching her bake and spending time with her as she babysat my brother and me on those rare occasions my parents took a night out for themselves. Although smaller than our unit upstairs, the flat was still wondrous to me. From the statue of St. Anthony covered in plastic in my grandparents' bedroom, to the plastic that covered the chairs and couches, to the alcove that housed her gigadellis (Ghig-A-Day-Lees, it’s what we called chachkies), the flat downstairs was more my home than my own.

This past year, believe it or not was the first time I heard the story of how she fell in love with the house at 14 and 16 Carney Street in Medford. It brought all the memories flooding back and made me see the place I grew up in and left behind so many years ago in a different light.

 

After her passing, I hardly ever ventured downstairs and when my grandfather passed away, I never again set foot across the threshold. My uncle continued to call it home until his untimely passing and it was then that my parents rented the bottom floor. My father worked night and day restoring the unit to its earlier glory. The sparkling and shining hardwood floors were refurbished and restored to their original shine after being imprisoned by years of wall to wall carpeting. New doors, new appliances and bathroom fixtures replaced the familiar. From the pictures, I could hardly recognize the place. Where was my favorite blue glass poodle gigadelli that I had broken and glued back together because my grandmother warned me not to play with her knick knacks? Did the green plastic coated lamps survive in the storage of our attic? In a way, I mourned the loss of a different time as renter after renter took up residence. Through the years, some were horrible - taking the flat where I’d spent so much of my childhood for granted. They skipped out on the rent, left trash behind, threatened to take my parents to court, begged for a rent reduction while they demanded my parents look for a new tenant to replace the roommate who skipped out. Finally, three years ago, an incredible couple took up residence. They, like my grandmother had done in 1949, fell instantly in love with the house on Carney Street. They treated my parents with respect and lived in the flat downstairs as if it were going to be theirs forever.

But like all great things – their time there has ended and after getting married, the two are starting a family and moving, leaving me wondering what was going to happen now. And, then it happened – one of those full circle moments in life that I love so much – my brother and his partner are taking up residence in the flat downstairs. There among the memories that I hold so special, will be new wonderful moments to come. My father’s precious house – the one he holds so close to his heart is a full two family home once again. I will be able to go downstairs, sit in the alcove where my grandmother kept my blue glass poodle and its companions and remember all those special times. Although I would never travel back to Boston in the dead of winter, my brother’s famous Macy’s Christmas Store explosion decorations during the holidays will be a picture perfect memory that I’m looking forward to seeing within the walls where so much love and joy existed in our family. 

 

Over the years, I've often felt my grandmother around me almost as if she were there to pull me in my little red wagon like she did when I was a child. (No comments - I know I'm too big to fit in my little red wagon) But now, I know she is smiling seeing one of her grandsons take up residence in the place she loved so much.  For so many years, I have thought of the lower unit as just the flat downstairs, but these latest tenants have made me realize that it’s so much more.