Falling into Fall

Fall has always been my favorite time of the year, and maybe because it is my ninth year in Los Angeles and my 21^st in California, but I've been missing some parts of where I grew up more and more. Recently, after a debacle in my quest for a new position based on the East Coast, I somehow found myself wanting to just breathe in the smell of autumn where the season ought to be experienced. A cheap airfare and a guaranteed upgrade made the decision even more right, and tomorrow I leave for a nice nine-day vacation to Boston and Provincetown.

The secluded city at the end of Cape Cod has always been a favorite place of mine. When I moved back to Massachusetts for a little over two years, I used to drive to the artist colony almost once a month. And the off-season was always my favorite time, especially October and Halloween. With crisp days and cool nights, just enough for a jacket but not yet cold enough for earmuffs and scarves, the weather somehow put a whole different spin on a city that swells to an unimaginable population during the summer. It was, in a way, what Palm Springs is to me here – an escape just a quick drive away that can make you feel like you are a world detached from everyone and everything.

When I was little, my brother and I would go trick or treating in our home neighborhood, and one year, for some strange reason, we got a goldfish from a tiny pet store instead of candy. Needless to say, the fish lasted in life as long as it took us to eat all our candy. I can think of a hundred different memories, Halloweens as vampires, monsters, superheroes, and oh, yes, that one year in drag. That blue and pink dress couldn't hold a candle to half of the outfits I would, years later, have made for my foray onto the lip-syncing stages of San Francisco, but it’s always nice to remember your beginnings.

And my beginnings are just what this trip is all about. I’ll visit some old friends and drink in what will always be there for me whenever things don’t quite turn out the way I’m planning for in this city where fall and summer can never be differentiated and it seems where water will never again fall from the sky. The colors of the leaves will remind me that change always comes and when winter comes to blanket the scenery, right under the surface is a whole new life ready to begin.

As I continue in this year before my milestone birthday, I have lots of thoughts swirling in my head. Plans that I make and then unmake, pictures of where I think I ought to be, coupled with thoughts of how realistic it will be to make my visuals a reality. But one thing is certain; I can always go back to where it all began for me. There, I can take a step back, remember who I was and maybe, for just a brief moment, experience an afternoon of walking in the rain.

Happy Birthday to Me

Today is my birthday and I really didn't notice it all day. I've been so busy trying to catch my flights up and down the central part of the United States, that it just didn't really register. If it hadn't been for Facebook sending me so many wishes, the day would just have easily slipped away as just another hump day.

Perhaps it's the age I'm turning - 50 is on the horizon, I'm in the last year of yet another decade - or maybe I purposely planned this work trip to coincide with this day so I could just let it fade away. 

Last night, as I wandered Beale Street, yes, I was walking in Memphis - I stopped into a quiet little place for a salad and dessert, and it was here, amidst the secluded cafe, away from blues blaring on the streets and the Elvis impersonators singing in tiny clubs that I thought to myself, "It's my birthday, tomorrow." 

It shook me a bit and I wondered at what point did I reach this chapter in my life? Am I where I want to be? Do I have everything I want? Are those even questions that can be answered? There was one couple in the cafe with me and when they left, there I sat, loving the solitude. I didn't want to wander into one of the many bars on Beale. I contemplated Coyote Ugly - didn't see anyone dancing on the bar and the many signs in the windows of the BBQ joints and establishments that declared 'no firearms allowed' and 'we love the Memphis police' made me just a tad uneasy. I was so content in this quaint little establishment.

From that first birthday I spent in San Francisco to this one spent during dead Elvis week (google it, you'll be amazed), I've come a long way. If the managers and supervisors who held me down because of their opinion of me could see me  now, ("You're right," one said, "I don't like you.")  I wonder what they'd think. Then, I thought as I wandered back to my hotel, their opinion of me would not matter anymore. When I was younger, it was everything. Today, it is just their view. Their image of me is none of my concern. I'm certain that outlook comes with age. Just as it has happened before,  where ever this box I've checked leads me will be because of the choices and steps I take.

As I finished my meal, I laughed with the owner and chef. She invited me back for open mic night and when I told her it was my last night in Memphis, she told me as I left, "You have a blessed evening, honey."

And, then I thought,  I'll go one further - it's my birthday, I'll have a blessed year.

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.