My First Pride

Ah  - June - the month when rainbow flags are more prominent that ever and "Happy Pride" rolls of the tongue to everyone you meet in West Hollywood. While I think it's a wonderful thing to be out and proud - for me, I was more than happy to spend the weekend away from the festivities taking place at the bottom of the hill. Years ago, I remember my very first pride parade - I was a closeted young man working at Mrs. Fields' Cookies on Charles Street in Beacon Hill. Back then, the parade followed a different route and, alone as the manager of the world-famous cookie store, I watched as hundreds of gay men and women marched by the store. I was overwhelmed with customers and with one in particular.

I never knew his name, but to this day, I can remember, above anything else - his lips. Full and unbelievably sexy, I could never stop staring at him each time he came into the store. I'd give him a free cookie or even a carton of milk. I never knew his name and to this day, I wonder what he thought of this shy (yes, I was shy back then) cookie maker. I bumbled my way across the store each time he came in and my heart leaped each time without my ever knowing why.

At my first pride, he was among the crowd who stopped in the store and I watched as the throngs marched by twirling their batons and shouting out their refrains. In the end, that was the last time I saw him. I left Mrs. Fields, attended my first parade a few years later and never once ran into him again.

Flash forward to my years in San Francisco - the mother of all mammoth parades - I suppose New Yorkers would care to differ, but for over four hours, I sat on the edge of the sidewalk and watched every marcher and "act." I wouldn't miss a parade - a party - it was all new and exciting. Year after year, pride after pride - it was all exciting, until one day, it just wasn't.

Today, after years of being out, I find it amusing to watch how excited people get about pride. Maybe I'm just too jaded or maybe I've just had my fill of crowds and drunken revelry. I enjoy being away from the madness. Or maybe it's because I know I won't find my full lips boy among that crowd - and, I wonder what it would be like if it were just the two of us, prideful in a quiet setting. And, that always makes me a little bit nostalgic and, not in a bad way, just a little bit sad.

Jumping into the Sea

So, my winter vacation is over - and what a time it was. Now, with a statement like that, you'd be led to believe that because I was on a gay cruise, that I am referring to the sex adventures on the high seas that so many might think about when they hear that almost 3,000 men are taking to the Caribbean Sea for a week.

Ah, but what I found on this trip and quite by accident, is how much being with a good friend and enjoying life really matters. Now, I met plenty of boys (always boys, never men, because men are really, just wanting to be boys again) - but in most of those cases, I was not on their menu as an appetizer and surely not as an entree and by the time dessert rolled around, I had more interest in listening to the ocean from my balcony whilst drinking a glass of wine

 

 
And amidst all the beautiful boys, who somehow, I don't think, really see themselves as being in their mid-forties and without their six packs; I found, once again, that what counts is what I make count. Did my charming and sarcastic wit embarrass my cabin mate? Perhaps, but you can't tell me he didn't enjoy it as much as I. Because, being friends for over a decade well,you kind of know what you're going to get.
 
And on one of our excursions, as the speedboat raced across the sparkling blue waters and stopped in the middle of "the swimming pool," I looked at the ocean and thought; do I stay on board and miss out on this experience? Or do I jump off and do something I have never done before? Sure, the water was only five feet deep and my rainbow colored toes touched the silky white sand, but still, I was bobbing in the ocean people without a floaty.
 
That day was the highlight of the trip. Sipping Rum and - gasp - Pepsi in the ocean and then on a white sandy tropical beach surrounded by coconut trees and gorgeous men, I thought that this is truly what life is all about. Meeting people I would never otherwise have come into contact and sharing it all with a friend who knows me well.
 
And as the week went on, it's not that I lost interest in the pursuit of adventures, it's just that I valued myself more than to be merely settling for the daily special, or sometimes, what was clearly, the day old entree.
 
Funny how escaping from the world can somehow make the world seem so much clearer. Like jumping off a boat into the crystal blue water and seeing the bottom of the sea. 

A Halloween Treat

In less than two weeks, I fly back to Boston for one single reason – I miss my mother. It has been a fast moving year and for the first time, it has almost been a year since my mom and I spent time together. Our next trip to Europe isn’t planned until summer of 2014 and with work being insanely busy and airfares at their crazy prices, I just couldn’t find time to go back East. Then, a month ago, I saw, what I was certain was an online error: A nonstop flight to Boston for $297 INCLUDING taxes and fees. I refreshed my browser twice, but still the fare remained and without trying my luck a third time, I whipped out the credit card and booked it. Only when I got my confirmation Email with the price was I able to believe the price. 

In my early tenure in California, I was somehow young enough to think that I wouldn’t miss where I grew up. After all, I’d spent enough time there and was itching to leave, but as I approach my mid-century, my priorities have changed and along with them, what I want out of life. Last year, perhaps, was one of major importance for me: my parent’s golden anniversary, my cousin’s wedding and the passing of my Great Aunt Lil. All three events had me flying across the country and each time, when I landed, I felt a sense of calm and peace. With each event’s set of emotions, it was harder and harder to give my mother one more hug before I left for the airport.

It seems 2014 is taking shape with a Caribbean cruise and a European jaunt, but what about now? What about 2013? It is still here and I didn’t want to be one of those people who just say they want to do something but then never do. Work has been often times crazy and frustrating. I’ve been sick with food poisoning (never let it be said that one does not need their mother when the porcelain god is your only friend), and just been, at times, feeling a bit out-of-sorts. And recently, as I look at my cousin’s daughter in the midst of a European tour and the way she stays in contact with her mom, she’s indirectly made me so reflective.  While she Skypes and Facebooks with her, when I was in my twenties, it was a different time. I was in Europe looking for payphones and Internet cafes. In fact, my mom still has copies of the Emails and postcards I sent and years later, as we walked those same European streets, not one of those cafes existed anymore. Time does change everything, except, I know, the need to sit with your mother, walk arm in arm and just relish in the time spent together.

On this trip, we’ll turn the clocks back an hour and I joked that she gets to spend an extra hour with me. But, it’s me who gets to spend an extra hour with her. I arrive on Halloween, and it’s the best treat I can think that I’ve given myself all year long.

Dining on Memories

Today, I heard that a piece of my childhood was closing its doors forever. The Hilltop Steakhouse in Saugus, Massachusetts, a glorious, over-the-top restaurant with its shining gigantic cactus will be gone. And, although I haven’t dined there in many years, with its shuttering, I feel a touch of sadness as the pieces of my youth disappear in the rear view mirror.

In its day, the Hilltop was THE place to go, in fact, it was the only restaurant my grandparents would eat. We’d all pile into my father’s ’69 Chevy Impala, (yes, the car was THAT big) and we’d drive up Jerry Jingle Highway, often times on a Friday. Approaching the sprawling restaurant, the delicious smell wafted across its massive parking lot and my brother and I would race to the front, to see who would be the first to get a number from the old woman firmly planted in her hostess seat at the doorway. She was the guardian of the gates, the mistress who called your number and allowed you to enter one of the restaurants massive dining rooms. Sioux City, Kansas City, or the smaller Dodge City. And on those days when the place was unbelievably packed, Santa Fe.

Her voice would echo through her microphone above the buzz of the hungry crowd. “Number 2, 3, 54, 23, 64 for Sioux City….”  And my family would all take bets on what dining room we’d be assigned to. My favorite was always Sioux City. At times, we’d wait over an hour to be seated, the anticipation of lunch or dinner causing us to get even hungrier. Surrounded by the fake Western paraphernalia, the delicious aroma of the bread and the hustle and bustle of the waitresses dressed in white, we were together as a family. 

We were creatures of habit, my father and brother would order the chopped sirloin, well done for Alfred, of course, until there was certain to be no hint of life left in the meat.  I would order the cutlets with the sauce on the side, and my mother the steak tips. Always, French Fries, thick cut and crispy, baked potatoes, corn, mashed potatoes and massive salads would litter our table. We’d stuff ourselves and then my parents would order coffee and grape nut pudding for dessert. 

Years later, after my grandmother passed away, I can’t remember my grandfather ever joining us again there. It was the place my Great Aunt Lil loved to go, my friends and I went there after our high school graduation, and when I worked down the street, we’d eat a late night dinner and stuff ourselves until we couldn’t even move. When I got my Lasik surgery in 2000, we stopped in for lunch, where, wearing my giant protective sunglasses, I felt right at home with the now elderly clientele. 

As time went on, the ownership changed, the quality of the food declined and the cutlets disappeared from the menu. The plastic cows remained outside but there were no lines, no hostess holding the power to let you in the dining room. You could walk right in at any time of the day and the hustle and aromas of my youth were no longer. But what is there, and will always remain, are the memories of that glorious kitschy steakhouse on Route 1 - the place where my family came together to laugh and dine; to be together, to take bets on the wait time and to do what all Italians love to do. Eat.

When I return to Boston, I’ll drive by and see its emptiness, but as I watch in the rear view mirror, I will see and taste all those delicious memories.

When I Come Home To You...San Francisco...

So this past weekend, I went to San Francisco to celebrate my pre-birthday. When your big day falls on a school night, there’s really not much else to do but to claim the prior weekend for your festivities. Instead of escaping to my desert paradise, I decide to visit the city that gave me my start in the Golden State.

A lot has changed in the city by the bay – certainly not the fog or the breathtaking beauty of its 7 square miles. As my oldest friend in all of the state drove me through the Presido, I found myself catching my breath at the sight of The Golden Gate Bridge. As a young man, when I first saw that famous structure, I had a hard time grasping that I was actually looking at it. It’s played such an integral part of my life here. I had many viewings of her foggy gates alone and with the potential of romance. Once, after a particularly heart wrenching break up, I decided to take a walk along it. Two friends saw me, and the look on their face when they saw me walking alone was priceless. They knew of my drama and I could only guess what they must have thought as they saw me all alone looking over at the water below the bridge.

My life really began in San Francisco and on this visit, as my oldest and dearest friends all gathered to eat at our favorite pizza place in the Mission – I thought to myself that I couldn’t remember being this happy. Here I was, surrounded by the friends I’d met and formed into a family. We were laughing, remembering friends gone but not forgotten, slinging the bitchiness so no one at the table was safe from the knife, and relishing in the fact that we were all here  – still together though not seeing each other regularly. If they had looked closely at me, they might have seen the water in my eyes.

I couldn’t have asked for a better birthday weekend. I spent it with my friends who are my family – who will always be my family. No matter what the distance or the time between visits. And I better start saving now, because paying for a party in Palm Springs an open bar when I’m fifty is going to cost a pretty penny. And I know that these bitches may complain about the heat but they’ll be there. And I’ll put them under a mister and we’ll laugh like we did when we were all…ahem…twenty-something.

When I was younger, a night and weekend like I had might have made me want to pick up and relocate. But with age comes wisdom, and with wisdom, I’ve realized to just enjoy that moment. San Francisco will always be special to me, and although I don’t know where my life will go as I get older, I really did leave my heart there.

Once Upon A Time In Person

In a crowded bar - packed with eye candy, I watched one boy after another immersed in their phones - logged into cruising apps looking to see who was less then 250 feet from them. Ironic, I thought, as they stood among some of the hottest scenery around. I was tempted to go up and crack a joke, but most were so intent on flipping through the photos, I thought it best to just have another drink and call it a night.

Once upon a time, when there was no internet, I was the master of meeting men. On the street, at a party, in a bar - my skills were second to none. Making eye contact, flashing a smile to let the other person know that I was not as bitchy as I might look standing by myself- there was no situation I couldn't handle. Some of pick up lines fell flat, some were embarrassingly bad, but sometimes, they'd hit the mark and my potential suitor and I would carry on an actual conversation.

I can remember when I poured over the ads in the Boston Phoenix that required an answer by letter (yes, snail mail). I'd wait for the response addressed to a secret post office box I'd rented, and my heart pounding nervousness as I read each one. And when the 300 pound author of one of those letters showed up to meet me, there was no "block" feature. I had to simply get through the date and politely wish him well. Overall, though, nothing matched the skill I had at introducing myself and feeling that instant spark. Whether, it was the other person's eyes, their smile, the way he laughed - the list of what attracted me is something that isn't visible through the smart phone screen.

Now, as I approach another birthday, inching ever so closely to the half-century of my life, I find myself missing those days more and more. Has the opportunity to meet someone in person become extinct now that the world has mobile apps and dating web sites? When I try to reach back into my bag of meeting tricks, I'm reminded of a lyric from one of my favorite Streisand songs, "Alone again I search a street of unrelated faces - Where strangers look the other way -They're so afraid my smile might say "come in."

In no way do I think the "old" days were better. For sure, the internet has been life changing to those in the middle of nowhere and has for sure helped bring a community to those who've felt isolated and alone. I'd like to think I'm still the master of the in-person pick up. My skills are just rusty because the objects of my affection are just too buried in their mobile phones to notice what's standing right in front of them. Then again, maybe I'm a relic from the days before the Internet - like checking a paper map for directions or the phone booth. Although my pick up lines have vastly improved, my way of wanting to meet people could be thought of as antiquated and out-of-touch. But, I say, some people pay top dollar to own outdated treasures. What was old is always new again and since I'm getting older, it's just a matter of time before the same can be said for me. 

Sweet Baby James

I’ve once again returned from my desert paradise, and on the ride down, on my playlist, a song came on that brought back memories of my very first boyfriend in San Francisco. It was a time when I was much younger and full of hope of what my life would become. 

It was a classic covered by the country band Highway 101, the James Taylor song, “Sweet Baby James”  – and, when Donald played the song for me, he changed two of the phrases. “Dreaming of women” became “Dreaming of The Women” (because I was obsessed with the 1939 classic) and “Glasses of Beer” to “Glasses of wine.” I was a young cowboy then, deep into the country music scene and he called me his sweet baby James. Each time I hear that song, I am transported back to a night overlooking the Golden Gate Bridge, a candle in a hurricane lamp so it would not blow out in the cold San Francisco night and a man beside me who thought the world of me. How could defenses hold fast against  such a show of affection?

I’m not sure when it all ended  - maybe it was the night in Hawaii when he told me not to  worry if he finds me sexy or even that we weren’t having sex on an island full of lovers, because he can sleep with any one of the men that “the world finds attractive,” instead he chooses to focus on “only those that I do.”  Did that mean I should be lucky to be with him because the world would reject me? It was a drama filled night that fell further with the worst turbulence of my life across the Pacific. My only thought was that the plane was going to crash into the ocean and I recited the Hail Mary over and over until we were safely on the ground. (It is perhaps, the last time I have recalled that programmed prayer with any fervor.)

It seems that all my attempts at relationships in those years were filled with drama. Maybe I thrived on it – perhaps it was all I knew? When you ended what you thought was something special, the screaming matches and hatred were what made it easier to end things, right? I can still see myself, standing in the middle of Castro Street in yet another chapter– my tear stained face still as vivid today. There were others that I thought would be the love of my life and when those too ended in chest pounding anguish, I took a long break from the world of the plus one. 

Looking back on all those dating experiences, I realize that the present will repeat the past if I let it. Growing older has put an end to the drama in my life, and taking control is empowering, because what matters most, in any facet of life – is action. So when I recently called a halt to my latest attempt, it felt mature and the right thing for me. There were no screaming matches, no words of hate to make the other person feel lower than you to raise yourself up, just a simple statement that the two of us were on different planes. And I, for one, don’t want the turbulence. Sure, there was a tinge of sadness, but I am Sweet Baby James, and since that over look at the Golden Gate, there are more than ten miles behind me and for sure, not ten thousand more to go before I reach what I know is waiting for me.