"Nothing Good Happens After Midnight..."

Sweaty~City, USA

2012-06-21T09:42:00.000-04:00

Well, it's here everyone -- that time of year that makes you feel like a character right out of a Tennessee Williams' play. It's that time of year; if you live on the East Coast. you know that summer's here; it heats up…and stays hot, from now, until the end of time - or the end of the summer - whichever comes first.

Last month we had one or two hot-and-sticky days when temperatures simmered around the 90 degree mark. But that was just a taste of what was to come (Or you might say, it was only pre-heating of the oven…) Now, it's nice and hot, and ready to bake - and the timer has been set… set for Late August. Sure, we might get lucky and have a few temperate days, mixed-in here-and-there. But for the most part, it's going to be really hot, really sticky, sweatier than usual, and a bit smellier; from now until probably September. This time of year, you tend to spend most of your day wiping sweat off of your face, yanking your wedgie out of your butt, and trying to find the coolest spot -- wherever you are -- in a public place. Because, in the summer - nothing else, but the heat, stands a chance. You can fight it all you want...but, no matter how much you try and cool down, the sticky and muggy air seeps through, and sticks to your skin like a slick slime. Even if the wind would be kind enough to blow your way, it would feel more like you opened the door of the oven, than feeling like a nice breeze. Rain, you would think - would most likely cool down the temperatures on a hot day, but even a torrential thunderstorm in mid-July doesn't last nearly long enough to cool anything off,. With the ground being so hot, the raindrops don't stand a chance. They hit the pavement with a sizzle, like drops of water hitting a frying pan.

I actually know some people who genuinely love the summer, and - they even love the summer's in Philly. Ok, now I love this city too… but, Philadelphia, in the height of the heat is not so lovable. The whole city stinks. It has an offensive, fart-like smell, that just...lingers in the air...but, after a while you don't seem to notice it as much, but that just means that we begin to get used to the smell. But, it is still there, whether we choose to think about it or not. Just travel even fifteen minutes in any direction outside of the city - and you will notice that the smell is gone. When the temperatures really start to rise, the whole city begins to take on an even more invasive smell. So if people claim they still love this city, and still love it in the summer, that would mean that you could fart, right in front of them, and it really shouldn't make any difference to them at all.

I would think, that the only people who would look forward to summers in this city, would be, maybe, a student. If you are young - and still in school, this clam-bake that we call "summer" may actually be a welcomed time of year. But, the city in this heat sucks, especially if you have to go to work in a suit and tie everyday, and not look like you just swam to work in your suit and tie. But, it's only because in the summer, school's out. All you need to do is lie around your (hopefully air-conditioned) house, or flock to a beach or pool… everyday. No suit to wrestle with, after several attempts to dry off after your shower. (Getting dressed in the summer is like being an Egyptian Pharaoh being mummified for burial. And getting undressed in the summer feels like you are trying to find the end on a Saran Wrap roll). But, while your wrapped up -- I mean, dressed up, nothing feels like it fits right, everything sticks to you, and your under-garments seem to creep and ride up until they disappear more-and-more, with every step that you take. Your under-wear - becomes your under-where? (as in where the h*ll did it go?) It is a constant tug-o'-war with your tightey-whitey's. I wore a brand-new pair of boxer briefs one night, and all night long, they were stuck in my butt and it felt so awkward that I really thought they were on backwards or something. Well since I can't pick a wedge while I am working, I had no choice but to handle this sticky situation a different way. So, I left the bar, went in the back room, and dropped my pants to the floor. I took a pair of scissors and cut off my underwear while they were still on, and tossed them out. I know it sounds ridiculous, but they were choking me -(and not in the good way); I just couldn't take it anymore. It would have been too much work, and it would have taken too-long to take everything off including my boots, just to save these skivvies.…I also didn't find it really appropriate to carry them back to the bar with me, either.

If we didn't have to constantly battle the temperature in order to complete our every day tasks, the high temperatures wouldn't feel so stifling. Suppose we; for the three months of the year (the three months that are so hot, they make everything stick to each other, including our own body parts), we were obliged to do only the things that were comfortable, effortless and purely recreational. Picture, for a moment, that we all lived in a a perfectly-temperate world and no-one ever had to go to work. What if our day consisted of waking up without an alarm - (when you were fully rested, and not a minute before). A balanced breakfast would consist of three or four freeze pops and a leftover slice of pizza. You leave your house, without a shower… (no need to shower in this world, especially if you are going swimming later, and whether it's in a pool or an ocean, the chlorine or salt will take care of everything that a shower would). You don't have to look for something to mummify yourself with -- I mean wear -- because you can just wear the bathing suit that you went to bed in, and that you just woke up in. Done! That was easy. You might throw on flip flops (although, please note, flip-flops, on men, should be forbidden from restaurants, bars and night clubs, flip flops are only appropriate for outdoor- activities and any other times - they should be left in your beach bag). After swimming, you decide on what to eat for lunch, it could be anything - a cat even - as long as you can throw it on the grill, it'll be good because everything tastes great cooked on a grill. You spend your day hopping in and out of the pool, and grubbing from the grill until its time for your afternoon nap. So you take your nap, in your bathing suit, since it has dried already from such a busy afternoon… so the bathing suit is suitable to sleep in. When you awake from your nap, once again, there is no need for a shower (skin is pretty taught still, and clean feeling from the abundance of chlorine in the pool earlier. A clean shirt, and off you go. Now if my days consisted of this, I don't think I would care what temperature it was.

But, since that is not the case, I seem to spend most of my summer, looking for the best air conditioning vents. And, quite often, it seems, that the air conditioning in that particular place; at that particular time; for reasons that are unbeknownst to anyone who works there; is not working. But "but they are working on it". You can witness everyone who works there, walking around and holding up their hands saying things like, "Oh - uh wait a minute….I think I feel it…Oh - uh wait…Oh yea I think its working now". And, we are sitting there thinking, "no it isn't, I can't feel anything"! AND I start to lose it when, one after one, people go over and fiddle around with the thermostat, as if they are thinking that they know something that no one else does, to suddenly make it work. The truth is, there would be no problem if everyone just left the thermostat alone…but...really - left it alone (...Because nobody ever - when asked, admits to touching the thermostat).

So before I go and restock on freeze pops, let me leave you some very important words of advice; and this is for anyone who is like myself - always looking to find the best air-flow and the coolest spot in a public place during the summer months. I was lucky enough to have received this wonderful advice some time ago, by a very beautiful and older black woman, who I had met at a friend's wedding. At the reception, I was looking around the room and saw her with her hand help up over her head, waving it around slowly, until finally she stops, and it seems that she has found just the right spot, and lowered her arm and smiled. Her friends and family who had been watching her, quickly joined her in the new spot - even going as far as moving the whole table and all of the chairs, to get closer to her. I waited a minute before I decided to walk over and politely ask them why they were moving everything. The older woman looked right into my eyes, giggled a little under her breath and said, "if you ever want to know where the coolest spot in the room is... look for an older black woman…she will be the one - sitting under the air-conditioning vent". I have since noticed over the years, that she was right. So when it is this hot outside, and you are looking for me and can't seem to find me, just look around and find the older black woman, -- I will be sitting right next to her - under the air-conditioning vent.

Frigidaire 5,000 BTU Window Mounted Mini Room Air Conditioner - FRA052XT7

Word to the Mothers.

2012-05-13T11:33:00.001-04:00

My Mother, the woman responsible for coining the phrase, "Nothing Good Happens After Midnight", is celebrating her 80th birthday today; and with it also being Mother's Day tomorrow, I just had to write a little something about Moms everywhere. Now... obviously, I couldn't possibly know what it feels like to be a Mother; but, I do believe that all Moms share something; and I believe that it is some thing that only they can share; which it would be impossible to understand, unless of course, you are actually a Mother yourself.

As Mother's Day quickly approaches, many of us hold either wonderful memories of a Mother who is no longer with us, or, if we are lucky enough to still have our Mothers still with us, we will try our best to honor them in some special way this Sunday. As a kid, I always remembered Mother's Day as being a little hectic and stressful. My Mother would never go to a restaurant for Mother's Day - she hated eating out on normal days, let alone a day in which she's forced to focus on the attention she'd rather not have. She is at her best when she is the only cook in the kitchen. She would complain periodically throughout the day (that it was Mother's Day and she still had to cook), but we just let her say 'whatever' because, deep down inside, she really didn't care, anyway. She wanted to do it. My family always ate dinner very early on Sundays, but on Mother's Day, like all holidays in my family, dinner was on the table even earlier - just around 1 o'clock (p.m., that is). When you work until dawn the night before, and wake up after only three hours of sleep... then proceed by pretending to be awake at the dinner table, with a chandelier (one that's bright enough to hang in an operating room), it's easy to understand why this would be a challenge for me. I would literally hit the dinner table before brushing my teeth (seriously). I was a teenager before I realized that escarole soup with the little meat balls wasn't a traditional breakfast food; I have since realized my "breakfast time" is similarly untraditional...

I recently discovered that the annual celebratory Mother's Day, as we have come to know it, is an observance that is more widespread than I had ever realized. This modern holiday was first celebrated in the United States in 1908. It was made possible by a woman named Anna Jarvis, who was born in West Virginia, and had long-wished to memorialize her own Mother. She made it her life mission to create a National day; a specific day; to celebrate all Mothers --everywhere-- and it wasn't until she sought out (and received) the help of a local South Philadelphian businessman, that Ms. Jarvis finally made this day a reality.

That helpful businessman was no other than the late John Wanamaker, a wealthy clothing merchant and philanthropist, who resided in Philadelphia. Wanamaker, along with his wealth and influence, helped Ms. Jarvis, convince President Woodrow Wilson to establish an American Mother's Day, which he did finally implement nationally in 1914. In the beginning, it was a true accomplishment (especially for Wanamaker and other retailers in the city), and was seen as a beautiful sentiment thanking Mothers everywhere for a job well done, so to speak, and the day was quickly adopted by all states, and later, by most other countries. Internationally, Mother's Day may occur on different days of the year, but is typically celebrated on a Sunday within the first two weeks of May (or at the onset of Spring).

Leigh Eric Schmidt, in his book, Consumer Rights: the Buying and Selling of American Holidays, tells us that Mother's Day ranks third, only to Christmas and Easter as the Sunday that generates the highest church attendance - worldwide. It is also, annually, the highest-grossing day of the year for floral and greeting card sales; more than any other holiday -- even Valentine's Day. But, in a matter of only a few years, people across the nation witnessed this once legitimate celebration evolve into a true Commercial Industry, causing much dismay from all who were invested in the intended meaning of the day. Unfortunately, the most disappointed of all was its founder, Anna Jarvis. In the mid 1920's, Jarvis was actually arrested for fighting during a protest against consumers who attempted to purchase gifts for an upcoming Mother's Day - ain't that irony? On Mother's Day, the very holiday that she fought to initiate, the 'Mother' of Mother's Day, so to speak, was arrested for stirring-up an altercation with the people whom were preparing to celebrate and support her day. Jarvis died in 1984 in West Chester, PA; still holding huge regrets and disgust regarding her own holiday's evolution.

* According to her New York Times obituary, Jarvis became embittered because too many people sent their Mothers a printed greeting card. As she said, "A printed card means nothing except that you are too lazy to write to the woman who has done more for you than anyone in the world. And candy! You take a box to Mother—and then eat most of it yourself. A pretty sentiment".

WOW, it's like... she's been to my house on Mother's Day! Is it me? Or does she seem to be against the whole traditional gift-giving custom that 'we all love so much'? At first, I tried to imagine what Jarvis' own children did for her on Mother's Day... but, as it turns out, Jarvis never married - nor did she have any children. If she did, those poor kids would really have had to whip up some-kind-of-wonderful to make her day. We had it easy; luckily for my brother and me, Mom never wanted us to buy her anything, and she didn't want to have to buy anything for us, either. Even on Christmas, our Mom never did the whole shop-buy-wrap thing for us. In fact, she hates shopping so much, that on Christmas my brother and I, each receive an envelope with a very generous (and of course identical) amount of cash. But, she does wrap said envelope in a big box, usually along with a sweatshirt, three pairs of tube socks, and a pair-or-two of new underwear. It wasn't very much fun as a kid, but only because we were both too young to know how to count... and we only had one gift to unwrap, which didn't seem nearly as much fun as the other kids' houses on Christmas, they had tons of presents. But, soon after that, and for as long as I can remember, I can't think of a better Christmas gift - after all, who doesn't like getting money? We can do whatever we want with the money, too, no questions asked. Isn't that the best kind of money?

I understand Jarvis' feelings, but in many cultures, especially our own, people are likely to express themselves by giving gifts, and/or money, as tokens of their affection; not to say that a hand-written poem isn't a beautiful gesture, but not so much, especially if Mom would rather have a carton of Salem Lights or a bottle of Wild Turkey.

If you have ever attempted to take Mom to dinner on Mother's Day, you already know what mayhem could be in store for you. Most restaurants try their best to accommodate an entire venue full of people, whom, for some reason (on this particular holiday), insist on eating at the same time: between two and five. That's about all that the staff can handle anyway...
Here is some seasoned advice: never show up for dinner at a restaurant... without a reservation... after 8:00pm on Mother's Day…you're just askin' for trouble. Those cats are ready to roll… Remember brunch with your own Mother earlier in the day?! Well, they had a room full of Mothers, before you even got there. I would always notice how stressed the whole family appeared at a restaurant on Mother's Day. I just think there is already too much going on, and to do something on a Sunday (to do anything) and having to do it - all dressed up? Count me out of that please. I am not being cynical but often times when two and three generations , who are forced (not literally) to eat together on a Sunday afternoon, it can really be - in my opinion, just too-much to ask of people.

When you look at the family: seated at the table; the youngest kids are always bored, they can't sit still, and eventually find the need to roam around the restrooms and pocket all of the mints from the hostess stand just as soon as she would turn to seat another table. (Remember?)
The next group, the older family members are either hung-over already... or nowhere near drunk enough to get through dinner with their kids AND their parents - all at the same table. And then -- finally, someone (or most) from the oldest generation at the table -- probably the generation that Mom fits into -- seem as if they would rather have eaten at home, they can't wait to take their shoes off, and they are pretty much ready for bed. As you can see, this is not the best scenario for a holiday dinner…"check please!"

Like Jarvis, I believe that spending a lot of money isn't what is important on Mother's Day. (I'm not just saying so because I hate to shop even more than my Mother does... And, since I can't ever be a Mother, I'll never actually be a recipient of any gifts on this particular holiday), I do have to admit, and Jarvis is rolling over in her grave, that I actually buy a Mother's Day card instead of writing one. But -- this year, I am going to write her a card myself. Or, at the very least, I am going to write her name on the front of the envelope, because I usually don't even do that; She usually makes sure to mention it, too. "Oh, is this for me? There is no name. It must be from Richard, it has nothing written on it." I would always argue that if she was the only one 'celebrating Mother's Day', then, why would there be a need to write anything on the envelope. The card has to be for you Mom...get it?!

So my take on all of this is: do something this Sunday... that Mom wants to do. Luckily, for our family, it's pretty easy. Mom just says to me, "You sleep too late to go out to dinner, and I don't wanna cook, so if you really wanna make me happy, just let me go to the casino". We really lucked out didn't we? No brunches, no flowers and no crowded restaurants for our Mom. Just a short road trip to AC; put her in front of a progressive slot machine, and leave her there. That is our Mom's idea of a perfect day. Look, after what we (and most kids) put our Mother(s) through all of their life, shouldn't they be aloud to do anything, that they want to do? No matter what it is, because, it is their day after all. For example, If we asked our Mom what she wanted to do this Sunday and she said, "I want to rob a convenient store", we would all say, "Go for it Mom, after all it is Mother's Day."

I know many people have issues with their Mothers. My Mom and I have gone a few rounds in the ring, but we now have found a way to get along without a blow-out. But, I think the trick to getting along with parents, Mothers in particular, is to learn how to treat your relationship with them the same way you would treat any other relationship in your life.

When your spouse or partner does things that drive you crazy, you seem to learn how to live with it. You know very well that whatever it is that they do, they will keep doing it, and it will always drive you crazy, but you somehow learn to overlook it (well, for now you overlook it) because you love them - and the same rules seem to apply to very good friends. Even those friends who always seem to drink too much... or always finish the night off with the police somehow involved; if you choose to deal with them, you do so because you love them - like family. Look at how hard we work just to acclimate at work, and with the people we work with. We constantly have to be careful about everything we say; everything we do; when we are around these co-workers, and that means even being careful about what you do in front of them, even when you are not actually at work. Because everything you do in front of them always makes its way back to the office -- even if it happened at the beach…. If you can overlook these annoying traits, and overlook them with people who aren't even related to you; then, learning to get along with Mom is not something that you can't handle (Seriously). I just let the things that bother me roll off my back and onto my brother, I mean the floor. It makes life a lot easier for everyone.

I think that, this year, everyone should let their Mothers know just what Mother's Day means, and why and when the holiday was created. Forget what it has evolved into, try and start fresh with new traditions and new ways to celebrate. And no matter what you do on Sunday, honor your Mother. Hopefully you are like myself and are lucky enough to do it in person. If not, honor your Mother's memory. I joke a lot about my Mother, and do it without meaning any disrespect. I am blessed that I still have a Mom around that loves me enough to argue with me. My Mom knows how much she means to me…but I am going to remind her anyway when I see her this Sunday. And, like I promised earlier, I am going to write her my own Mother's Day card. Or, at the very least, I am going to write, 'Mom' on the envelope if I end up buying one.

My bird is brown!

2012-04-16T00:00:00.000-04:00

Saturday Morning:

The day started off like any other day; Any other good day, that is. I woke up early, made a pot of coffee, and sat down at the computer. When I glanced down at the keyboard, I immediately noticed something very strange about my hands. My hands looked…brown?! Or really, really tan -- or some shade of brown, or maybe some kind of red -- but the bottom-line was: they were not the same color as they used to be. I couldn't even begin to imagine how something like this could have happened (during the night while I was asleep, I assumed), and the more I thought about it, the more I worried. It also concerned me that my right hand was so much darker than my left hand.

And why?

I ran into the bathroom, stood over the sink, and scrubbed my hands like a madman. (Picture Faye Dunaway in the opening of the movie, Mommie Dearest.) I first scrubbed my hands with regular hand soap, then I scrubbed them with dish soap… until finally, I scrubbed them with bleach and peroxide. But, after all of that scrubbing… it only made my hands look darker…I knew I went a little overboard with the bleach.

When none of that seemed to work, I sat back down at the computer and decided to google anything-and-everything possible about "waking up with brown hands", or whatever it was that I had woken up with. Not the best idea, by the way; googling a medical condition, or any sort of ailment, with little to no information and trying to come up with a self diagnosis.. And afterwards I was even more nervous than before. If I had read a list if symptoms, for whatever, I immediately had every one of them. I was convinced that whatever it was - it was going to kill me by morning.

But -- Now I was really late for work, and had no choice but to get in the shower. So I dart back into the bathroom, stripped, and turned on the water. While waiting for the water to get hot, I looked at myself naked in the mirror, and was immediately freaked out by what I saw. I looked down at my thing in the mirror and noticed that my bird was brown! Really, really brown - or some shade of brown, or maybe some kind of red - but the bottom line was, my penis was not the same color that it used to be. There were also some splotches of color around that whole general area. Glancing at the clock, I had no choice but to get in the shower and get ready for work and worry about my bird falling off later. (Just in case it did fall off, I decided that I would were tight underwear to work… just in case).

In the shower, I thought it would be best to scrub a little lighter around this sensitive area, since the vigorous technique didn't pan out too well with the hands. Within minutes, I was getting ready to bolt out the front door, and just as I was leaving, Yodis was just walking in. (He had left work early and met me at the door by chance). So, as late as I was, I had to stop and chat with my guy. In the first few seconds of our chat, Yodis looked down at my hands and asked, "babe - what's up with your hands?" "I dunno Yo - I am freaking out!" After only about a second or two, he had already seemed to have figured out what happened…he is smart like that. And he began to say something, but, like I rarely ever do, I cut him off and said, "babe, look at this"…and with one motion the pants and underwear were to the floor…"look at my bird…it's brown!" Yodis said, "babe, did you see that bag on the kitchen table last night? It had a bunch of stuff in it from Danielle, my friend from work. She was giving away a lot of stuff since she was moving in a few days". Well, I remembered seeing the bag…but that was it. I didn't even think I looked in the bag. Although I am sure that I did, but I really didn't remember one way or the other. But, I pretty much insisted that I knew nothing about the contents of that bag. So off to work I went.

Twelve hours earlier:

Something during the night woke me up and I couldn't seem to go back to sleep. After lying there for a bit, I decided that I was hungry, and wandered into the kitchen and ate a bowl of Captain Crunch. I love that cereal, but it hurts a little when you eat it, sort of like your teeth are crumbling in your mouth with every bite. So, maybe it was all of that sugar, but by now I was more awake than before. So, to help wind down and be able to fall back to sleep, I decided to lie on the couch and watch a movie or something. While I was lying there, I did what a lot of guys would do, to help them relax - or help them fall asleep. And, even though, I know what I did could have made me go blind, or even insane…and believe me I know what I did was a sin, I did it anyway. Because everyone does it -- and no one should ever be ashamed of it…right? Well even though everyone does it, and no one should ever be ashamed of it, I still hope my mother never, ever reads this.

So on came the "adult" (and by adult, I don't mean sophisticated or complex) movie, and I began taking matters into my own hands. And wait, it gets even better, when I was on the way from the kitchen to the living room, I passed that 'bag' that Yodis had asked me about earlier, the one that I claimed I had knew nothing about, the bag that was on the kitchen table. But in time, I finally recalled walking by it and practically falling out of the bag, in plain view, right on the very top , was a tube of lotion. It was also very dark in the kitchen, and since I can't see anyway, I never thought twice about what kind of lotion it was. Well the lotion, was a high-powered-sunless-tanning-lotion. There was a warning label on the bottle that warned never to leave on longer than thirty minutes. It was also recommended that you scrub your hands immediately after applying the lotion, and to avoid any sensitive areas. Now, as you can see, I did the complete opposite of what was recommended; I didn't wash it off my hands; I only applied it to a sensitive area; And, I left it on for about twelve hours. I was never very good at following directions.

So if you are not completely appalled by the subject matter in this story and you haven't stopped reading… You should all know, that I do realize that talking about teasing the weasel under any circumstances, is deemed highly inappropriate to say the least. But, like in the past, when I admitted to the world that I nearly poohed my pants on an airplane, I think it is pretty obvious that I can get over feeling embarrassed quite easily. When something happens and it makes for a great story, it must be told. Because just like all great stories, they are only great stories if they are told.

But, I have to admit, there is one more reason why I felt the need to share this story. The people at the bar already knew what had happened, and they had already began with the jokes and making fun of my very noticeable 'tan hands' and yes they heard the whole story -- brown bird and all. I was really an easy target that night. After being ripped apart by a pack of queens in a nightclub -- and about something like this…you can handle anything.

Plus, I truly hope, like I always do when I write something, that it just might lighten someone's mood and make someone laugh a little. Or maybe this experience could be a warning sign to someone who pretends that they never 'help themselves' in that way - from mistakenly using (self-tanning) lotion to do the-five-knuckle-shuffle - and get busted. Luckily for me, Yodis didn't mind. He said he would love me no matter what color my bird was.

Oooh... It's not my moon.

2012-04-03T00:00:00.000-04:00

I have never officially studied astrology, but I do have a lot of faith in the belief that everything is controlled by something else, something larger than us, somewhere in the Universe. I don't know for sure what that is; perhaps its just an energy; perhaps it is the moon; but I do believe that people's moods and behavior are controlled, or at least strongly influenced by this energy.

Some people may believe that this change in energy generated is from a celestial influence, or even an Extraterrestrial influence -- but whatever it is -- it is pulling the strings and calling the shots. Imagine that we are like little metal balls on a giant magnet, dancing and whirling around but only within certain parameters, and where we whirl is controlled by something greater, and I believe, it's the moon that is the puppet master in this puppet show.

The moon, throughout history, has always been thought of as being a major accomplice to any behavior that was considered abnormal, criminal, or just unexplainable. Centuries ago, Great minds such as, Pliny the Elder, and as far back as Aristotle believed, that the moon actually induced insanity -- or lunacy -- in individuals who were susceptible to it, believing that the brain, which is made up of mostly water, must be affected in some way by the moon. After all, if the moon controls the tides in all the world's bodies of water, than it must have some affect on our brains, since our brains are made up of mostly water. Although this theory has never been scientifically proven, I think these guys were definitely on-to-something.

I get most of my Astrological A-Z's, from an iPhone app... Or, from Yodis, who dabbles in astrology and shares what he learns with me. I also, on occasion, call my very good friend Kathy, and ask her to read my cards. She is a very gifted card-reader and she is incredibly accurate with her readings. So accurate, in fact, that I sometimes think twice before calling her, simply because there are some things I just don't want to know, or hear, what's next on my astrological agenda. Suppose I were to ask her something and she felt obligated to tell me the 'real deal'. Would hearing bad news about something before it even happened make me feel any better or worry about it less? I think I would just worry and stress me out, a few days earlier.

On the scientific side, I know even less about the moon as a "natural satellite", and its role in our solar system. I did take an Astronomy class at Villanova, and even with the completion of some very grueling extra-credit, I still only managed to walk away with a D+. This course ruined my GPA and prevented me from ranking on the Dean's List. It wasn't because I was stupid, or that the curriculum was too difficult for me to grasp. I just happened to have had the worst, unbelievably horrible, hideously boring professor who taught it. He flunked over fifty percent of his students. My own pop, who is one of the smartest men I know, barely passed this slob's class. I should probably avoid mentioning him by name, but I feel it is my duty to warn any potential students from suffering through his course, so I can give you a few hints. He has dark brown hair, a creepy-looking mustache, glasses, and drives (or drove) a late-model 7-Series BMW, black, with a huge D+ carved into the passenger's side door.

***

About twice a year, along comes a moon that, when it changes, seems to directly affect my aura. The feeling I get when the moon changes and the way my mood changes along with it are the only factors for the basis of my thinking. My moods seem to be so in-sync with it that it's sort of like having my own internal lunar calendar. I can tell you when the moon is full, almost full, or was just full, etc. You can even test me if you ever see me...I will know just how much waxing or waning you are in for.

I do know a few facts about the moon. I know that the moon is responsible for adding minutes to the day. I know the moon controls the tides rolling in and out; and how far in - and how far out - they roll. It is also the only terrestrial body in our solar system, that we have ever touched down on (well, the jury is still out on that 'landing').

(photo source)
http://iphoneappsclub.com/devil-on-the-moon/
But, the biggest fact I know about the moon (and it is not something that I learned anywhere), is that, certain moons just happen to make people crazy. Whether-or-not you know anything more than that about the moon, know that -- some moons make us crazy, very crazy. I don't need to even look at the moon on a regular basis, or keep track of when the moon was full last, to tell you when it is a -- waxing; waning; or whipping-our-butts kind of moon... I can just tell simply by the way people behave and by the way that I feel; People are significantly different. And it's not always necessarily that they act differently than they normally do. It is more like people's normal (and usually annoying) behavior, is just heightened. A lot. For example, the "loud and stupid guy" will undoubtably get louder and even more stupid. Every jack*ss that you dread running into - and that you do your best to avoid, normally - will always be around, and all their unappealing, unattractive behavior that they would exhibit normally, will usually be kicked up a notch around the full moon - and it gets all over you. Working in a bar attracts these moon-monsters, it seems; just the way people drink, and how much they drink, is affected by a full moon. The creepy guy, gets creepier. The big and sloppy drinkers, drink more and get even sloppier. The people who pick fights, pick even more fights than ever. The vibe is just noticeably different. The balance of things is way off-kilter. The tides are higher, and most of the people seem to be as well.

Other than the one that I am in now, the last moon funk I experienced that shook up my world was last October. And, it doesn't have anything to do with money, or lack there-of. It doesn't have anything to do with any trouble in my relationship (I couldn't be happier with the Yo); it's not work related (although, recently, developments at my job haven't helped matters much); it is not my health; or anything else that I can put my finger on. It really baffles me as to why this occurs, other than it is just one of those cycles that the moon controls.

When I am feeling like this, I sort of feel like Goldilocks (in a much-revised, and later interpretation), of Goldilocks And The Three Bears . Nothing feels right the first time. It is either too hot or too cold. Nothing seems to fit the way it should, or seems to go as planned. Every line in the store that I choose seems like the longest one. If I am driving, no one in front of me seems to know where they are going -- and they are on their phone! My clothes don't seem to fit right, my teeth aren't as white, and so on, and so on.

I am just in a funk. I am in a weird place; a crappy place; a place that everyone, at some point or another, ends up going to, whether they like it or not. It is just something that I am totally not used to. I think that is why it kicks my butt so badly. I feel like I am never going to get out of it. I don't know how to do the unhappy dance. I am anxious, lethargic, and extremely emotional. I have been this way for a little over four weeks - since the beginning of March (the date of the last full moon).

When I bring this up to people they usually try to sway me towards all of this craziness - just being a coincidence, and having nothing to do with the moon. But I disagree, since I have experienced this lunacy before, and I know what it feels like. And I know that it usually lasts the whole duration of the moon's cycle, and if this current moon, this mean moon follows suit, I have a little less than one week of this to endure. To be honest, I hope it is all the moon's fault, because after next week, if this space-ball rolls out and I am still feeling funky, I don't know what I am going to do, or who/what to blame it on. I absolutely hate this feeling: this unfamiliarity with everything that usually feels so familiar.

For the past month or so, every time I would go to write something, it seemed to turn into something else. It all seemed a little too edgy, going off in the wrong direction, if you know what I mean. Like, I will be writing something light and breezy, and like Tourette's (but on paper), my pen spews out words that aren't even remotely related to the topic I was writing about. So, I figured, even though it may color some people's opinion of me, I just decided to write what I am feeling; to write about what is really going on; discuss what I am going through, and take my chances that someone - or more than one - will relate to what I am feeling... and maybe, if I am lucky help me lift this veil of venom that I am wearing.

I have even tried following my own advice, to try and free myself from this funk. And I tried the same advice I offer freely to people when they express to me that they are feeling like they are in a funk. I recommend taking a look around themselves; To look at those people who are far-less fortunate than themselves. That seems like a sure-fire way to snap them out of their personal-pity-party, wouldn't you think? Well, I am thinking twice about ever offering that advice to anyone again, because I am trying it... and it doesn't seem to be working at all.

I have even actively sought out the less-fortunate. I have watched every seriously-sad-and-sappy-movie, that depicts the far-less-fortunate person, and all it has done is aggravate me even more. I immediately decided, that since I knew it was a movie, it wasn't really a fair test in shaking off my shade. I have driven past homeless people and thought, "How lucky am I that I have a home?", and that wasn't the case for these poor souls. That way of thinking lasted about a block or two, until some b*tch cut me off in traffic... and then, all that sympathy for those same unfortunate people... went right out the window (the car window that is).

I actually feel better, just having written this. I wasn't even planning on posting it, but, I think I am going to. Why not? I can't imagine that we all haven't experienced an "angry moon" at some point in time; perhaps, even right now. I don't think the moon has it out for me personally, (at least I don't think so), so I don't think I am totally alone here. Plus, I think it is only fair to post about something that I am going through and really feeling at the moment. So here it is, honest, and real, but not so funny. I promise my next post will be a riot. And I will post it as soon as the "Mak vs. The Moon" phase is over.

Golden Giggles

2012-02-28T02:39:00.001-05:00

They say that laughter is...the best medicine. I know this cliché is probably one of the most overused of all clichés, but it is, in my opinion, the most meaningful and novel of them all. Obviously laughter is not really medicine, but no one can dispute that bursting into uncontrollable laughter just feels -- good!

It is a known fact that the health benefits from laughing range from reducing stress, to lowering your risk of a heart-attack, and stroke (or a 'gay-stroke' as some call it in our circle - same thing really, but instead of smelling burnt toast, as the-tell-tale-sign, with a gay stroke, you smell perm solution).

When people laugh 'hysterically', the muscles in the body expand and contract. These movements, trigger the brain to release those "feel-good"chemicals that we like so much -- 'endorphins'. (or 'endolphins' as Annette Bening refers to them it while chatting with Meryl Streep in the motion picture, 'Postcards From the Edge'). (Columbia Pictures 1990)

In a recent NYT article, a group of researchers concluded that laughing-so-hard-that-your-face-hurts can actually add up to fifteen minutes to your life. And just say, for a minute, that this is true? Shouldn't we all, as much as possible, try and laugh a little more? And make others we care about laugh a little more? Think of all the things that 'take' away our time here, or have been proven to shorten our lives. Perhaps this is the 'answer" we have all been looking for. I think if we added a little more laughter to our lives, we would no doubt live longer and longer.

For example, they say that swallowing a piece of gum takes approximately one minute off of your life . No worries, as long as you laugh like hell about it when you are swallowing it, you still bought yourself a cool fourteen minutes, you can afford not spitting out the gum on the street--oh now see that, we just solved two problems.

I feel that since the article was printed in the NYT, then it must be true. And, if you are like myself, you might forget to laugh as often as you should. Perhaps work is stressing you out, or you are in a troubled relationship. Even a health issue may keep you from even getting the giggles. But, I have proof, that no matter how bad you are feeling physically, or emotionally, a good laugh, can work magic...if you just let go and laugh.

Yesterday, my brother Billy, his wife Susan, and my guy Yodis and I, threw a surprise Fiftieth Wedding Anniversary party for my mom and pop.

At the end of this post, I have attached a very brief, one-minute clip from the party. It is when we convinced my mom and pop to reenact the events of their wedding day,

To help set the mood, my sister-in-law, Susan, made mom wear a diamond-studded tiara (which was much dressier than her every-day tiara she already had on), a white veil like the one she wore on that windy day back in '62, and a pair of vintage diamond-studded-cat-eye glasses -- mom's signature specs back in the day.

For my pop --a jet-black wig, to cover his now-silver locks. He was a bit reluctant, but wore it anyway. And lucky for us he did, because my mom's reaction, when she sees my dad, with black hair again, laughs so hard, it is almost as if she forgets all about her arthritis that has been haunting her for years. If in fact we did succeed in adding fifteen minutes to her life, than that is probably the greatest gift we could have given to our parents on their Golden Anniversary, wouldn't you say?

So please watch this quick video (approximately a minute long). But keep your volume set on low. When my mom and her sisters laugh, they really hit the high notes, and they can even hit a certain decibel that only dogs can hear. But I promise it will bring a smile to your face. And if that article is true (and again, since it was the NYT it has to be true), I think we could all benefit from a good laugh right now. Remember to laugh as much as you can...it can add years to your life! At least the NYT says so.

the "Baksheesh Boys"...

2012-02-22T22:30:00.000-05:00

No one really knows when, exactly, or where the practice of tipping began, or why it started in the first place. Some speculate that people were forced to rely on gratuities from the patrons because the owner of the establishment found this to be a way of getting around paying their staff a suitable wage.

For centuries, in most of the Middle- and Near-East - even today - tips or "baksheesh" as they call it, were often given to lower-class individuals on the streets; to those, of course, who would be willing to do almost anything for someone in an attempt to survive in a highly stratified society. Children on the streets have been known to cry out to tourists, (who are in need of assistance in some way like directions or transportation) "baksheesh! baksheesh!"... They are sometimes referred to as the baksheesh boys.

photo courtesy of dreamstime.com

Many believe tipping began as a way of expressing one's financial well-being. Another way to signify where they stood on the socio-economical ladder.

Some believe that tipping was a behavior adapted by those who wanted to 'get around' the actual price of a product or a service provided. Or to skip to the front of the line (no matter what it is they are in line for...); it sounds a little like, one of the earliest form of bribery. But really nothing's changed, has it?

I believe there is some truth to every-one of the previous suggestions. Nowadays however, I do not believe that employers would choose a group of people, who they do not wish to pay a full wage to, and leave them to rely on tips in order to make a living. After all, why wouldn't the owner(s) choose to not pay all of their employees if they could (back-of-the-house staff included)?

Who really knows?! Were you aware, that there are a number of bars in the US (but more, often night clubs), where the owner(s) charge bartenders who work there a fee. It's true - bartenders rent their 'space' and they work in that space, for that night only. Interesting concept isn't it? Actually, I'm lying...I think the whole concept stinks! (I really hope I am not putting any ideas in anyone's head)

As a bartender, I make a very good living, and I make it by relying of the kindness of others. Literally. People who come to my bar pay my salary by giving me money (above the cost of drinks that I am selling.) When you consider this, it's a wonder why there are several other jobs that require similar (or more) effort to serve a drink, yet do not get tipped. Is it because we are serving alcoholic beverages? ...and the training and responsibility surrounding alcohol, along with its potential hazards to the customer, that changes the rules? Perhaps that's part of it. Either way, I'm not complaining.

Let's say, for a moment, that people were no longer supposed to, or expected, to tip. What would we, as bartenders, get paid? What would (or could) the owner(s) pay a bartender that would be comparable
to what we make currently, which again, is based on the kindness of others. What would the customers do with all of their extra money? Well, there probably wouldn't be any 'extra' money because if we were to all-of-a-sudden be paid a salary, I am pretty sure the drink prices would get even higher.

Along with the fact that serving alcohol must be done responsibly, there are other reasons as to why I think bartenders are tipped in the first place... And, as a part of the tip they pay, customers have a certain expectation from the bartender to deliver something more. However, the mere fact that customers pay an additional 'fee' (tacked-on to what their drink actually costs) sometimes complicates the tipping procedure even more.

There are some people who should always tip. And when these people do tip, they should tip well. These people are the ones who can't wait to bark at us that, "the next one is on you," or, "you got this right!?". Even if they have the money, It never seems to be anywhere that they can find it. So everyone waits, and waits, and waits.

Between all of the above, we, as bartenders wanna scream. Can I walk into their job -- say they work at Macy's -- and I bring five shirts to the counter, then add socks and pants right at the end of the transaction, and say, to the salesperson, "...Pants and socks are on you right?" (and actually mean it!)?! No f*ck*in' way would this ever happen... So why do people do this everyday when they come into the bar. I think it's because they do pay extra than the actual 'price' of something, and therefore, feel like they deserve something-in return.

Besides working in a high-volume bar, the real bulk of a bartender's income is from good/great tippers. Over-tippers you could say. You know who they are, and they know who they are, and if you are wondering who they are--just look around the room-- they are the people who have their drink handed to them in a middle of a rush, without even ordering.

With that being said, it is really unnecessary for people to feel 'cheap' if they cannot, or choose not, to tip a bartender, for whatever reason. There is no 'rule' that says you have to do anything at all, beyond the price of the drink. But, even with people knowing this, It is rare that people will ever order a drink in a bar and not leave 'something' on the bar for the bartender, even if it doesn't fit into their budget. Tipping a bartender, ( though not everywhere) is an 'understood' custom.

I would be lying if I said that people who throw twenties like they are throwing rice at a wedding aren't going to be waited on, almost before they approach the bar, but, realistically, that's just good business.

But, I don't want you to think that this happens all-too-often at my bar...and, for a couple of reasons. Mostly, it's because I really am not in this for the money...I'm really not...
I'm in it for the liquor... no, really... that's not true...

...And you know what else is true? times have changed over the years; there isn't a whole lot of rice being thrown at the wedding nowadays. A few recessions weeded out the majority of the 'twenty-dollar club'... but that was a crazy-ridiculous practice anyway. Money started losing its value. I would say to customers, "Come on! ...now, you already tipped me! I don't want all of your money! Then I would go to the register, make change and give them half back, look at them and say,"Let's just split it!". Because they would insist anyway, at the very least I tried to give some back. It just got crazy.

Just last night, I was saying goodnight to one of our many loyal and generous Tuesday-Industry-Regulars, and is also a fellow bartender from another bar in 'the' hood -- he is a nice man, a great bartender, and has wicked-cool eyes. -- He mentioned for whatever reason, that he was trying to save some money, and because of this, I would probably see less of him; just for a few weeks, or so. I looked right at him, and I swear on my bird, I meant it when I said this:

"Hey man, you know I have to charge you for your drinks, it's my job. But why don't you still come in but just don't tip me for awhile". Because he is what is known as an over-tipper (and this is OK), but he has most likely factored in the amount he 'usually' tips, when he calculated how much it costs him to come out. And that would be a shame if that were to keep him in, I would rather him come out. Plus if someone is concerned about finances, the last thing they should do is stop drinking.

He could 'not tip' me for a long time (not forever), and I still wouldn't mind. I would rather see him; chat with him and know that he is still having fun... without his 'temporary' financial situation overriding everything else.

You can ask anyone at my bar who has witnessed (or experienced) first hand a time when I have refused, to the point of a near-fist-fight, to take any amount of money from them as a tip. Especially when a customer is experiencing any type of financial hardship. As long as everyone is prepared - and willing - to pay (you'd be surprised how many aren't) for their drink, I am fine with not always getting a tip.

Do you think I want these people to avoid me? ...simply because they think that, by even walking past my bar, it will cost them ten-dollars? I would hate to feel that way when I went out.

So, I can't speak for all the other Baksheesh Boys, but I can say that I, personally, am very fortunate to work at a popular and busy bar. And maybe because it's a gay bar, the tips I receive are always more-than-generous. I have never complained about the money I make -- or don't make -- at work. My only complaint is when people are rude, and/or treat me as if I am beneath them... Or expect me to compromise my job - my livelihood - for them, because they have tipped.

These people are the people who should be tipping like they are throwing rice at a wedding...Because we have to put up with them... put up with them while they are drinking.... drinking and acting up like they are lit-er-al-y;at a wedding.

But for everyone else:
I don't expect much, just that you pay for your drinks...

...and tip enough to cover all of my bills on top of it.

"Houston...We have a problem."

2012-02-14T00:26:00.000-05:00

Whitney Houston dead at 48.

What?! No fu**king way! Whitney can't be dead!? I was just starting my shift at the bar and broadcasting on one of the large screen TVs, was a breaking story on CNN. Now, anyone who knows me, knows that I don't watch regular programming, let alone the news. At home, Yo and I ended our tumultuous relationship with Comcast, earlier this year. Yo finds me everything on-line; leaving a breaking news story that would interrupt a scheduled program, for us, a thing of the past.

So now, unless it pops up on our homepage, we only learn of earthquakes and blizzards via the Newsfeed section of Facebook™. But because I was at work, I watched it, and kept watching it and the entire time just thought to myself...how sad. Poor Whitney, she was always going through it.

I was a fan of the troubled songstress ever since she released "How Will I know" (over twenty years ago), but, after all, what (closeted) gay kid, wasn't? She nailed it! She made you hum along and bop your head (even after the one-millionth time it was played). She was new and perky and beautiful. But forget all that... She had a set of pipes that sent chills down your spine and shook the rafters! Say what you want about her, but she could sing her ass off!

If we could make a list, what female vocalists of our generation had a set of pipes that even compare? (now keep in mind this list could include a dozen people, but let's just name the top few) Let's see:

Judy? Even if you aren't gay...yes.

Barbara? Ugh; like her or not...yes.

Celine? All eighty pounds of her...yes.

I know people may disagree with the women on this short list, and I am not even saying that I am a big fan of the ladies on the list; but, it is what it is....they all could sing their ass off!

Whitney defined my youth. Her music played a huge part in my first gay relationship. In fact, my first boyfriend, Rodney, was the first to call me, only moments after the story broke. She was also a big part of my first job (back then in the bar, Madonna and Whitney were the Lady Gaga's to us over-forty fags). She was a significant part of that never-ending post-pubescent shit-show, otherwise known as my twenties.

I probably had a problem with substance-abuse during that decade, along with almost every person I knew (now remember I had just exploded onto the gay scene in '90). So, the rumors at the time that Whit partied? Didn't phase us in the least. We were probably high when we were joking about her being high... the only difference was...she was Whitney Houston.

But, what I have learned over the last twenty years! (And twenty years of living in a world where substance abuse is as prevalent as the 'common cold'.) It saddens me to say, that I have personally seen a dozen or more people lose their battle, and end up in recovery (and that is if they are very lucky), or dead. Having to go to the funeral of your bar-partner, and friend, who was only twenty-seven years old, changes the way you look at the world, forever. Everything about it goes against normalcy or sense - like the universe is outta control and everything that was right, is now wrong.

I personally do not believe you can help someone; unless he/she is willing to help his/her self. You can try, you can try. You can-try-and-try-and-try... But I truly believe it's a futile battle, and can most likely cause adverse consequences. Because, who the hell wants to be called out on being "too high". Take it from me; it is not something, that, if you ever hear, you will ever forget.

It is people's own decision whenever (or quite often if ever) they make the decision at all, that they, in fact, have a problem in the first place. I can't imagine that people who are hooked on pills really believe that it is normal to swallow six percocets a day... I really can't. But, how do you make them say it out loud?

So, what I try to do is keep myself in check; I think it is all we can do... Especially for those of us who love that "escape" that alcohol or whatever gives us. I believe we all have to take that time to look at ourselves. And see what needs to be fixed.. And then, we need to fix what's broken in our own damn heads.

It's not easy; in fact, it is probably one of the most difficult things to do; to check yourself... To not succumb to denial; To be honest with yourself. It's not completely fixable either. It is an ongoing process, which, is why it isn't more popular, or have a higher success rate. But you can't look at it like that. Don't look at it like it's something you do only one time in order to "fix" it. It is like making the bed; if you want it nice, you have to do it every day. More importantly, you can't make someone else's bed, especially if they won't even make it on their own. So if we all make our own bed - and make it everyday - maybe we wouldn't have to say goodbye, to so many, so soon.

RIP Whitney. No matter what the circumstances were surrounding your death. I think the real tragedy here is that you couldn't fix what was broken in your head. To have loved yourself enough to be your best. . . You were after all, despite your troubles and turmoil, one of the greatest voices of our time. I feel fortunate to have had the listening pleasure. I only wish that you could have made your bed. And made it- every day.

1963 ~ 2012

A Crappy Landing:

2012-02-08T18:31:00.000-05:00

It is something that people don't really talk about, and, of course, that is why I love to talk about it:
We all have been there; Whether we admit it or not. This story is about all of us... and about that time (or times) when we all have had a crappy landing.

If you have yet to see the movie, Bridesmaids (2011 Universal), you need to. It is, in my opinion, one of the funniest comedies to hit the theaters, in a decade or more. Of course I love Kristen Wiig! How could you not? But Melissa McCarthy, who plays Megan, fu*king kills me!
(Bridesmaids on imdb.com)

[ I am usually not a big fan of "toilet humor" or "poop" jokes. But, the dress-fitting scene when they all have food poisoning, after eating at an 'authentic' Brazilian restaurant, is priceless, check it out below. Megan is the maroon-clad zoftic gal who opts for the sink! ]

*Note: If you are eating, STOP.

via redcirclesquare13 (YouTube)

The scene is hysterical, of course... unless you are one of the girls getting fitted. It is inevitable that at least once in our lifetime we will experience such a catastrophe. Though most people choose not to discuss it. But my story was one that changed my life, and the lives of others, forever. Perhaps some of you will relate. And, if you can't, lucky you. It is the story of a crappy landing.

I used to work with a guy named Brian. He was a barback at the Two Four Club (currently Voyeur), who had also worked during the day as a gate agent for US Airways, and he would sell us his buddy passes (comped tickets) at the bar for $100. So, it was not uncommon for us to decide - sometimes during our shift - to buy one of these passes and jet off somewhere ridiculous... and all for a hundred bucks. This particular time we all decided on joining some people whom we all knew, who had already rented a condo in Key West, Florida. So I, along with a group of bartenders, flew down immediately following our New Year's Day shift at the club. The week after New Year's was always the slowest time in the business, and after working New Year's Eve and New Year's Day...one hundred dollars was not a lot of money to us (sounds nuts, don't it?)

So off we went...right from the bar. For a week in Key West. Now this particular excursion took place in 1999, which was also the year anniversary of me (now don't choke) not drinking; I am not making it up. I know it sounds impossible - even to me it does - but it's true. I didn't drink for one full year. I was a bitch, too. I don't know how I did it. But I did, and on my anniversary, (which was our last night in Key West) I decided to go off the wagon -- or airplane -- as it turned out.

So the morning after I decided to "let loose" and drink like a Kennedy, I had to board a US Airways mini-jetliner (not a puddle-jumper, but an actual jet, just smaller) and meet the others in Tampa where we were all going to meet and board another plane back to Philadelphia. (The flight everyone else was on was booked, so I had to choose another one, earlier that same day) After not drinking for a whole year, needless to say, I was hung over; hung over like I have never been hung over before.

My friend Bob rushed me to the airport but wouldn't stop and let me use a bathroom -- he never did get it... -- because we couldn't have been later, and he was afraid I would miss my flight. So he convinced me to just board the plane, and use the facilities on the aircraft. Well, you will see why in a minute why Bob and I are no longer friends.

So I boarded the plane, and all the while, knowing that things weren't right inside. I wasn't sure exactly what was not right, just something was a-brewin'. I had never felt this way before, My stomach was making noises I had never heard before, and frankly, I was terrified! I immediately sat in the only available seat left on the plane, which, happened to be the first seat to the right of the door as you enter the plane. The flight attendant who greeted me at the door of the plane - and when I say greeted, I mean he smirked and made a bitchy comment about me almost missing the flight - and slammed the door behind me as the plane's engines started-up for take off. Huh? No flight attendant on the plane?! How odd... but not as odd as what else they didn't have on the plane.

At this point, my GI tract had already given me several warnings, and I was now in stage-two high-alert, complete with profuse perspiration and visibly in full panic mode. I needed to get to a restroom.. and get to one fast. Because there was no flight attendant, I figured that there was no one to tell me that I couldn't "get up out of (my) seat before the captain turned off the 'fasten-your-seatbelt sign'". So I sprang up, turned around, and headed towards the back of the plane while the plane was still ascending at what seemed like at a 90º angle. So I began that awkward trek... to the back of the plane... without trying to pick up too much momentum due to the slope downward. Looking back, I can't even imagine what expression I was sporting on my face. When I finally reached the back of the plane, my heart felt like it had stopped beating; there were no bathrooms. That's right, there were no bathrooms. I was standing in front of the back wall of the plane. Now, I assume I was the only one on the plane who didn't know this, because every passenger on the plane was now turned around to see where this crazy, sweaty, tall kid was going to, and why?! But yet, I still had a small glimmer of hope that, perhaps the restrooms - or even, a restroom - was in the front of the aircraft. So I squeezed even harder -- I could have made a diamond! -- and I began my journey, this time uphill, to the front of the plane.

When I finally made it to the front of the plane, all that I could see was the door of the plane, a closet, and the cockpit, but no bathroom! My life passed before my eyes. Like witnessing an accident, everyone's eyes were on me... all of them wondering what the hell I was doing. I spun around and went for the cockpit door. Oh yes I did.

Knock-knock-knock

....the cockpit door slid open, and two pilots, heads turned to see what I had wanted, saw me, standing there, soaking wet, shaking and now crying. The expressions on the pilots' faces were a sight I will never forget. I believe, in the beginning, they seemed frightened that I was, in fact, a terrorist. The one pilot actually raised his hands in the air! Did I really look as if I was a threat to them? Oh! yeah I did, and then when I told them why I was standing in the doorway... of the cockpit... during take-off... and talking to them in the first place...they were really frightened, and wishing I was a terrorist.

After a quick rundown of my "inevitable emergency", you would think they would have gotten the message, though one pilot thought he was putting my mind at ease, told me not to worry, and that "we will be landing in fifty minutes," so I should take my seat and relax. Relax!? No, not gonna happen. I immediately snapped back, "Fifty minutes? Like five-O fifty? There's no way I'm gonna make it even five minutes!... I have to get off of this plane!

After looking at each other, and back at me, and then back at each other, they both knew I meant business. Within seconds, they were announcing over the loud speaker and informing the passengers that they should prepare for a very abrupt, emergency landing, due to a medical emergency. So the plane immediately began its descent for an emergency landing on an Airforce Base somewhere outside of Naples, Florida. I shuffled back to my seat, praying-and-squeezing, praying-and-squeezing. I even went as far as emptying my shaving kit, just in-case (...TMI?), thinking, 'maybe it might come into play'...but there was just one problem I just knew it wouldn't be big enough. Eww! ... I know, I know.

The plane fell from the sky as if we blew both engines... We were descending so quickly, that the gravitational force was, in itself, enough to make you poo your pants. And then there's me, sitting awkwardly with my legs stretched out, cheeks clenched together, eyes closed, hands under my legs... Rocking back-and-forth, like a shaken up champagne bottle, praying-and-squeezing, praying-and-squeezing.

How I squeezed hard enough to make it to the ground I will never know, but all that squeezing wasn't nearly as hard as I squeezed when the plane touched down and I looked out the window... Traveling at top speed (to keep up with our jet taxi-ing down the runway - that was obviously shorter than a normal airport runway...) was an ambulance, a firetruck, and a group of paramedics running towards the plane. But wait, who were they all there for?....
"OH GOD, they're here for me!" I figured at that point, the pilots didn't convey to the people on the ground just what type of medical emergency it was. At that point, I swear, I had wished the plane crashed... then it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because we all would have crapped our pants.

So, when the plane came to screeching stop, the co-pilot leaped from the cockpit and flung open the front door of the plane. Two paramedics boarded the plane, scooped me up slid me down the slide and onto a stretcher. And, of course, all-the-while, I am praying-and-squeezing, praying-and-squeezing. They immediately strapped me down, put an oxygen mask over my face, and rushed me into a hangar of the the base. I was begging them to just "let me get off of the stretcher and let me use a bathroom!" And they finally did, but not until everyone involved joined me... in the bathroom stall. But, at this point, I really didn't care. I swear, all that I cared about was that I was off that friggin plane! I wish I had a picture of all of their faces in that bathroom stall with me.

photo source: news.monstersandcritics.com

So, I made it! But... it was far from over. Seeing as I had single-handedly forced a commercial aircraft to make an unscheduled emergency landing, and because we had invaded unscheduled airspace, AND because I had to evacuate... it was now a matter to be handled by the FBI. I soon learned that the FBI believed I was a possible drug smuggler; obviously not a very good one. I was detained and held in a room for hours, grilled by agents as to why I was traveling from Key West to Philadelphia and suddenly suffered a life-or-death intestinal crisis that caused me to have to land the plane. I responded by going through the details of the story. As it turns out, a gay hangover is not reason enough to break FAA regulations...so the plane was grounded; meaning myself, and everyone else were not permitted to fly for a full twenty-four hours; until the FBI's investigation was completed.

After their grueling investigation was completed, I was now deemed a "flight risk" and was banned from flying with US Airways for a period of ten years. I also received specific notes following my name (in any reservation that I booked during that time) to alert other airlines that I was a potential liability in the air. I could see it in the faces of every agent that checked me in at the airport after that point. I can't even begin to imagine what the special notes said next to my name. Luckily for me, my friend with the buddy passes, changed jobs (unrelated to my incident), and went to Continental.

After finding lodging for the other passengers (I was kept on the base in fear that I would be harmed by the other disgruntled passengers for causing their delay), the FBI concluded that I was not a terrorist, and I walked away with a fine; as did the pilot; both of us having learned a huge lesson. And, if I am not mistaken, the airline learned a huge lesson as well. Since that date, they don't even manufacture aircrafts that are not equipped with at least one bathroom.

So... it was a small price to pay for changing the way planes are designed and built. You are all welcome. But, let's face it people, this didn't have to happen, even buses have bathrooms!

Children will Listen...Yeah right:

2012-02-02T16:49:00.001-05:00

When I was younger, I never could understand why my parents used to pace the floors at night, until both my brother and I stumbled in the back door.

I don't think I could understand why they worried so much. I thought it was because they just liked being a pain in the ass!

Parents worry because kids are - well to put it mildly - FU*KUPS! They don't listen. They think their parents have no idea what the hell they are talking about. And my brother and I were no exception. But I think this lack of understanding is inevitable, until that is, you experience it for yourself on some level. What I mean is, until you get to a point in your life when you obtain something so precious that you want to put it in a box and protect it from everyone and everything; You can't possibly 'get' it. If my mother had it her way, we would have never left the house. Till this day, she would rather not know what I am really doing. Cell phones really threw a wrench in her worrying. When cell phones came along, I could have been anywhere when I answered my cell-changing the way I lied to my parents forever. For instance, when mom would call me and ask, 'where are you?" I could have told her anything. I no longer had to be home - to answer, that, "I am home". Or I have in the past told her I was at the mall. When in reality, I was in the Holland Tunnel, on the way home from a circuit party.

When I met my boyfriend, I began to understand that 'protector' mentality. Like so many young people I see at the bars (who I worry about), he has that 'nothing can happen to me' mentality. When he rides his bike home from the bar at 3am, I am not relaxed until he steps foot in the house. For the first time In my life, I began to understand why my parents were up my ass all the time.

I don't think it's just an age thing, but some of it is. But I don't do much else in my life that would be considered 'adult' or 'mature'. I am pretty unconventional compared to most guys my age.

Most people my age are discussing mortgages and stocks, when I am discussing new music and what I think I might drink that night. But because I now have someone in my life, that is so precious, and so irreplaceable, I finally understand the parental-eternal-sitting-on-pins-and-needles-way-of-thinking.

But whether or not I want to be or not. I am a grown up. I have to lead by example and I have to assume some responsibility for my actions. Don't I? If my boyfriend were to do half the sh*t I did when I was his age, I would probably beat him. I find myself now saying things like, "why the hell would you stop and talk to that guy?" or "Do you know what time it is?" or "Why the hell can't you answer your phone?" You get the picture.

So not that I could ever erase all of the late-night-pacing-back-and-forth-until-the-carpets-were-worn-out-years of my youth. I can now, understand that my parents weren't just acting that way because they liked being a pain in the ass. They were just after all, worried about their most-cherished possessions.

I will never be a parent. My two dogs are about all I can handle. If my dogs, were kids, and had to be woken up for school everyday, it wouldn't happen. And more Illiterate kids isn't really what the world needs. It's just not in the cards for me. But loving someone so much, and loving someone who is a little younger than me (shut up!), I can relate to the worry-wart mentality.

I catch myself nagging and lecturing Yodis (my boyfriend), until I have flashbacks of my mother, standing in her housecoat and rollers, when I was trying to sneak past her on my way out, after midnight I might add. I guess all I can do is pray that he executes good judgement and makes it home every day. I am just lucky my guy is smarter than I was. I couldn't take it if he was like myself at his age. There isn't enough 'Just For Men' to cover all that grey if he was.

Oops... I gotta run, my mom is calling. I think I will tell her I am at church.

(photo via: anglican-mainstream.net)

You wanted them longer:

2012-02-01T05:26:00.001-05:00

After reading my own blog I realized I just didn't have the time. Oh my God, I really need to take a breath!

Anyway. I promise shorter blogs if you give me another shot. I just have so much to say. And for a minute there. I thought I had to say it all...at once.

(photo via: sscnet.ucla.edu)

G'night

A Dirty Bar Tale

2012-01-29T18:46:00.001-05:00

As a veteran bartender in the hood, or what I like to be referred to as: "Gay Royalty" I believe that every time I step foot behind the bar, I do my best to put on a great show. I have also been fortunate enough to have worked for the same company for over a decade; before that I worked for the same bar, but under different ownership. Both owners past and present speak volumes of my upbeat personality and high energy. I believe I put on a show like few can do. And best of all. I love doing it more than anything in the world.

I have been working behind the bar for more than half my life. But in the beginning I would arrive at the bar after my other job, waiting tables. And at the end of the night I would be asked to collect and count money. My friend who did lights (and volunteered to do it), would clean up for me and I would give him all my quarters; Which amounted to at least fifty dollars. I would leave my restaurant job and head to the club. Before I got there, the bar backs would set up my bar and because of this, I used to tip them way over the normal amount. In fact, they used to count my money for me and tip themselves out, seriously. So you see, everyone involved was happy. But, because of this set-up. I unfortunately stayed unfamiliar with the whole set-up and clean-up aspect of the business. This arrangement was one that would later bite me on the gay ass. It is also the reason for today's blog. This tale of a dirty bar.

photo source: thehungryhousewife.com

Last week I left the bar (a newly renovated bar I might add), less than adequate. It was clean on the surface, but I admit their were splash marks on the inside walls; napkins and some other debris under the sinks; and certain areas that were just not wiped down properly. Like I said, it was clean for the most part. But honestly, was not up to the standard it should be.

So the morning after leaving a dirty bar, one of the owners who like his brother, has always been fair with me and gave me any shift that I wanted. I am after all the one that has been with the company the longest, and anyone who knows this biz - knows that in itself is an achievement. So with that in mind, imagine his dismay when he arrives at work and finds his 'new' bar being neglected, and neglected by me. So he suspended me for a week.

At first I was more embarrassed than angry. My coworkers were surprised and at first, were feeling like I was unjustly treated. I on the other hand, understood why he chose to suspend me, because I for one know better.

When people found out, they would walk up to me and give me that look. You know that look, Like when you hear someone is diagnosed with cancer. I didn't complain. After all, how could I complain? However anyone who knows me knows that I would never intentionally disrespect these guys. But the truth is the bar was dirty. It was unacceptable for the amount of money I make. I asked myself, if I owned this bar and I found it in the condition, what would I do? Well you don't even want to know.

I realize now that I can no longer act like some diva who rolls on the movie set and feels like he is above the other work involved in the whole show. For now on, I will not only set up. I will clean up. And- I will put on the gayest show every time I step foot behind the bar.

...Nothing Good Happens After Midnight...."

2012-01-27T05:45:00.001-05:00

(photo via: clipart.com)

The year was 1990. I was still living at my mom and pop's house. It was around 12:30 or so in the morning, when out of nowhere, my mother appeared in the darkness, dressed in her shift, and hair in rollers. Now, keep in mind, I was tip-toeing towards the back door, when I encountered after-midnight mom. Her voice, was the voice, of mom when she was really asleep, which was different than her voice she used when she would say she was asleep, but really she was just saying-that-to-make-you-feel-bad-asleep".

Where in the hell do you think you are going?..Do you have any idea what time it is? it's 12:30 at night! I dunno where the hell you're gone; or what the hell you are doin' at this hour, but Richard, it can't be good, cause nothin'  good-happens after midnight."

As I got older, I began to understand why my mother felt this way. Because, the truth is, most of the bad sh*t that I was involved in, over the past twenty five years, has always-always, been after midnight. But, keep in mind, that when you wake up at two o'clock in the afternoon, the chances of anything at all happening to you, will happen near, at, or after, midnight.

But, let's take a look at all of the wonderful things that have happened to me, which most likely happened, after midnight. Including meeting the true love-of-my-life. And anyone who has met Yodis (his first name is Richard like my own, so I nick-named him Yo, or Yodis which is his last name), will confirm, this guy is one-of-a-kind-how-did-I-get-so-lucky-kind-of-a-guy. I have also built many wonderful relationships with friends, whom are now, "family to me", and still are, after more than two decades.

I have been tending bar for more than twenty years. And when you are in the bar or nightclub business, you really have no other choice but to go to bed at dawn, or close to it, and sleep a greater part of the day away. If you don't sleep that late, most likely you run the risk of becoming hooked on amphetamines, or having that Sunday night flu, the one that only hits you after a good weekend, and your bosses and co-workers know about all to well. So to maintain, you go to bed at dawn, and you wake up no earlier than when the Ellen show airs. But it's really not so bad.

So to break it down, when 97% of the population is settling down for a long winter's nap, we, the other 3% or the can't-shut-their-brain-off-percentage of the population are wide awake. It is usually this 3% that end up being the more artistic, and creative of the two groups, and their talent seems to thrive as the clock ticks on. I believe it's because during the night there are less distractions, for these great minds to work.

It is during the night, when I get the most done. It's easier for me simply because there are less people out and about, who could potentially screw everything up, or get in my way. Because it looks like to me, that 'day' people shuffle around like zombies in a video game. They seem very confused and look like they have missed every rehearsal but they are 'going on'--anyway. Like even the simplest of tasks, like paying for coffee (with a debit card of course), or picking the correct floor on an elevator, appears as if they have never done it before. First day on earth is it?!

To me, it's this lack of rhythm during the day, that scares me more than anything, or certainly scares me more than anything that goes bump in the night. For example, if a creepy guy followed me out of the Wawa on Walnut street at two o'clock in the morning, he is still, far less threatening to me; than say a Chinese woman driving next to me in the middle of the afternoon. I'm just sayin...just sayin.

I used to argue with my mother about her statement till I was blue in the face! But now, I just laugh about just how funny it is. My mother, like the majority of the population, believe that all the crimes, murders and anything else that's bad, (even being out in a gay bar), happens after midnight. But, I think it would be more accurate to say, if you had to say anything at all, it would be that nothing ever good happens after...say, ummmmmm.. four o'clock in the morning. However, I have had some really special late nights/early mornings over the years...and I don't necessarily mean sexual "special", but even with that statement having some validity, I still believe that bad sh*t happens at any given time of the day.

Just think for a moment, not many people open fire in the middle of a high school in the middle of the night. Timothy McVeigh didn't blow up the Federal building at three o'clock in the morning.  It seems that most day-time dramas and global disasters, happen during morning rush-hour, or at least before lunch. Look at September 11th. I guess even terrorists target the day-timer's. And, if this is true, than this would mean that it's safe to say that terrorists are 'day' people as well, so that means they are less of a threat to me.

My mom really believes that I wouldn't even be gay, if I hadn't associated with other gays, that rolled after midnight. But, what she didn't understand, is that the time had nothing to do with it. Or did it? I was always gay though. I remember being gay when I woke up. I remember being gay in the afternoon. And I remember being gay at night.  The later it got, didn't mean the gayer I got. Well I think it might have a little. But there was a reason for that, you see like a lot of gay people, I didn't like being gay, so when you aren't comfortable being a certain way...and you feel alone, you congregate with others like yourself...and for most young gay men, that usually meant, at a bar, after midnight.

I couldn't just go to the bars and feel comfortable, so I almost-imediately got a job at the busiest club in the city, but had to lie to my parents, in order to justify leaving the house five nights a week. I told my parents that I got a job at the post office; the main post office at 30th street, and I worked the overnight shift.

The hardest part of my fake job was all of the extra favors my mom would ask me for. Postal favors, you know what I mean. Like, she would ask me to mail packages to my aunt in Montana. Or she would say things like, "Richard, bring me home a book of stamps." So after working all night at the bar, I would have to stop at the post office on the way home from the bar (a little boozed up), pull over in a loading zone, and run in and buy a book of stamps. Or attempt to box-up-and-ship a sweater to Great Falls Montana.

I do admit that the people who would be prone to exhibit less than stellar behavior, and are more likely to do so, after midnight, as opposed to noon.   For example, I think most guys would be more likely to call a hooker at two o'clock in the morning, than they would be at two o'clock in the afternoon. Or thinking that driving down the art museum steps in a pick-up truck, naked from the waist down, and bombed, is a good idea.

I basically live on a completely opposite schedule than most of the people in mainstream society. So opposite, that if I were to fly to Asia, I would experience absolutely no jet-lag whatsoever. But I cannot function any other way. At least not right now. When I used to have to get up earlier, I did. But, now that I don't have to, I don't.

Even as a kid, I would lie in bed and I couldn't wait to be the only one awake in the house, or on the street, or in the whole town for that matter. I felt like I could really be myself when no one was awake to judge my actions...or ridicule me. I also got more things accomplished. I became a more creative thinker. And even now, as an adult, (I have never used 'adult' to describe myself-ever), I really get a second wind as soon as the clock strikes twelve . It's like my mind seems to shift into the right gear. And before that time, I am sort of just idling in neutral, not being able to shift, with a bad clutch. (and I don't mean a small purse that doesn't go with your outfit).

So with that being said, what I will be sharing will be real moments that I experience during my day. Or night I should say. Of course there will also be stories about things that occur during the daylight hours, yet there will be far less of them, and you get why...I am asleep dammit! But it is my life, and it just so happens to be the night life. But, it's not such a bad life. I hope that my stories will make you stop and think, but more importantly, I hope they will make you stop and laugh. Because isn't that what really matters in the first place?