An Extreme Year

Whew!  2011 was a year of extremes, mostly good and mostly a reminder of what an exciting life I live. 

The year started out quietly enough; we were in bed before the ball even dropped to toll in the New Year.  January 1st dawned bright and chilly, but warm enough to continue to melt the remnants of the snowstorm which had fallen the day after Christmas in 2010.  Fourteen inches of snow fell in Norfolk, an exciting amount for this city.

London came to visit for a few days that first week of the year, and we had a nice time before she had to go back home to Lexington, KY.  As I recall, she spent a few days with me and then a few days with her mother.  Too short a time, especially as we did not get together again this year. In fact, she arrives next week, almost a year to the day since she landed at the Richmond airport in 2011.  We have bigger plans with her in 2012, namely her graduation and wedding, so hopefully this year-long absence from one another was just one of those extremes I mentioned.

                                                      London and Leo at Crackers

The next few months were quiet.  Leo and I worked, payed bills and played.  My time at Shula's 347 was relatively uneventful.  At one point I waited on Pepa, one-half of the 80's band Salt-n-Pepa...and on another exciting evening I had the pleasure of serving Spike Lee.  I like to believe that I worked hard while I was there, but I also used the time before my shift to practice climbing the stairs.  I don't quite remember why it was so important, but I know I was elated when I finally climbed to the top of the 24 story building, almost 400 steps.  So happy that I did it several times.  Woohoo!  (Someone explain that one to me.)

I left Shula's at the end of April for several reasons, which I will keep to myself.  But this was when my year got really crazy... because Leo and I were off to Spain!  Two weeks of excitement in Madrid, Avila, Segovia, Toledo and Barcelona.  I would experience many VLEs while in Spain.  What is a VLE, you might ask?  Why it is a Virgin Life-Experience, as coined by my friend Laurie.  Here is an example of one:

                                                              The Stance
No, I did not pull this picture off the internet!  Leo and I were at this bullfight, and Leo took this picture.  We saw a bullfight in the world's oldest and most famous arena, Las Ventas.  Earlier in the day we had cached in some amazing areas in the historic area, and then stumbled upon a rally for the Socialist Party (another VLE). With all the stress I was unable to calm down for the spectacle/slaughter,  so we left after only two bulls had been killed.   For me it was enough, but I am sad I pulled Leo away, especially as the next day we spoke to a couple from Australia who told us just how intense the action became. I think Leo would have liked to have seen the whole thing.  I won't post here a picture of the dying bulls, but I will tell you that we watched a bullfighter almost get trampled!  It was close.  Leo used his camera to show just how close:

                                                           A Horn in Your Butt? 

Later in Segovia, we would enter our first real castle, Alcazar! (VLE)

                                                 

And then just a few days later, Leo and I would stand in awe in the beautifully preserved city of Toledo, our favorite place in Spain (so far).   One interesting sidenote about Toledo is that it is also the first time Leo and I would just get on a train and go to a city without any hotel reservations.  It was interesting climbing the hill with our luggage, having no idea where we might stay that night.  After we left here, we went back to Madrid, and stayed the night in a hostel, the first time we had done that, but definitely not to be our last.  It was cheap and convenient, and a hostel in Spain is usually much nicer than a hostal in the rest of Europe.

The last leg of our journey was Barcelona, which held many surprises, including getting pick-pocketed on the Metro.  We got the wallet back, nothing stolen, but it was definitely a wake-up call for us not to go tooling around on the subway after a few bottles of wine!

I cried in the Sagrada Familia. I had never been in a cathedral so beautiful. St. Peter's in Rome may be opulent, but this church echoed of Heaven:

The day before we left Barcelona, Leo talked me into riding the teleferic over the bay.  I am afraid of heights and cable cars, but I am glad I did it.

Of course we did so much more than I am able to relate here.  I can only hit a few of the highlights.  I look forward to the day we can return, especially to see areas south, such as Sevilla.  The day we flew away from Spain, the southern portions of the country experienced a mild earthquake.  Two weeks later and much of the northern portion of the country was paralyzed by strikes and civil unrest.  Many of the sites we had visited were closed to foreigners, including the Sagrada Familia.  Our timing was amazing!

When we arrived home, the summer festival season was beginning, and Leo and I love the festivals!  I remember watching the Commodores during Harborfest when a friend pointed out the approaching thunderstorm.  We packed our belongings and went into Waterside while we watched the approach on both our smartphones and in the sky.  I was having a libation when the clouds burst on the tens of thousands of spectators on the field.  I watch as a mother pushed a stroller and as an older couple hurried, arm in arm, while the wind holwed around them.  I remember being so angry that Festevents didn't bother to stop the show when the radar showed no other outcome.  Luckily there were no deaths, which did happen at the Indiana State Fair later in the year.

During these summer months, I should have been looking for a job, but I was just goofing around and enjoying the breeze. I wanted to fly out to see London in Kentucky, but I felt guilty for not working, so I just bummed my way through until July...when I went to Ecuador!  YAY!  The year was only half-over, but I was just beginning to rev-up my VLEs!

Thanksgiving

I am rewriting my blog post from last night. A friend has asked me to leave the original, which I can do. But I want the reader to know that particular post was written under the influence of beer and vodka, heavy on the vodka. What follows now is what I intended to write when I sat down, but my brain couldn't organize the thoughts.

After our summer trips, Leo and I were sitting around talking about how exciting our year had been thus far. And what types of things we wanted to do in the future. We realized that with careful planning, we might actually do something very few are able to do:  put our feet on all seven continents.  Somewhere in that conversation, I began to list all the amazing places and things I have already done. At the time I said to Leo, "I can't believe I've done these things. It wasn't planned. Who would have guessed things would turn out like this? I am truly blessed."

I had been thinking about some way to put these ideas into a blog post, and then Leo got run over by the car. When Leo told me the doctor stated he "would do everything possible to save this leg", we both realized our lives and plans might change drastically. Although I was brave at the hospital, when I got home I called my sister and I cried. For about ten minutes.

Then I started thinking about Leo still being alive. I started thinking about prosthetics. I started thinking about how wonderful our lives had been and how we could still do so many things, and if not, we still had each other.

When I returned to the hospital, I discovered Leo was already thinking about prosthetics, too. And he was laughing. And I was laughing too. And that is the biggest blessing of all, to have a good attitude and grasp of what is important. I didn't always have that.

You see, I suffered from depression since my teenage years. It wasn't constant, but when it would hit, it would bring me down for hours, days and sometimes months. I attempted suicide twice in my late teens. However, I learned I could work. I could function. Just at times the darkness would settle over me. Leo would wait patiently for me to snap out of it. He would always say, "I don't know how to help you, and it makes me sad." I of course, never sought medical treatment, because I figured it was something lacking within myself and I should just buck-up and get over it.

And then the weirdest thing happened. One morning in 2005, I got out of bed and opened the curtains in my bedroom. As the sun warmed my skin I suddenly had a revelation, an epiphany. I immediately called Leo to tell him I just realized the crushing weight was gone. In fact, it had been gone for weeks! I don't know why it left, maybe it was hormonal all along and I outgrew it. No idea. But its gone, and it hasn't come back. Every single day I thank God for my home, my family, my friends, my dog...for everything. And I mean it because it is true. The depression always told me true contentedness or happiness would never happen for me. That I threw away my chances. That I was a bad father. That I was loser who waited tables for a living (what Man does that?) That I was a loser hanging unto Leo's coat tails. But I finally realized the depression lied.

So as we sat together in the hospital, staring down the possibility of an amputation, I should have gone into the hole, down the alley. But it didn't even occur to me...we were telling jokes instead. And that is when I knew what my blog post should be about. That my life really is amazing. And I am thankful for every single day. And whatever happens from this point forward, I will always be thankful for what I've already been given.

See? Isn't this a way happier post than the alcohol infused blabber from last night? I'll leave the other post if you want to compare. Besides, the thanks at the end of it are sincere and I want to shout them to the world. It's a good learning curve for me. Don't hit Publish Post until the hangover has passed. HAHA.

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Last night's post:

This is not the post I wanted to write, but it is the post I am writing. I want to give thanks for my life.

The long review: I am thankful:

I have fished in a canoe on the Han River in Korea.

I have danced with thousands during Mexican Independence Day, September 16th, in the streets of Mexico City.

I have watched the sun rise at the Coliseum in Rome.

I have kissed the man I love in a gondola in Venice.

I have watched a bullfight in Madrid.

I have visited with an indigenous tribe in the Andes Mountains.

I have gambled in Vegas, stood at the Continental Divide, climbed the Arch in St. Louis, teetered at the Hoover Dam, seen the Grand Canyon in snow, cried at the Vietnam Memorial and contemplated the Lincoln Memorial.

I have been to Disney with everyone I have ever loved, except my daughter. She was conceived during a Disney trip, but we haven't been to Disney together. There is no reason she should be sane after her childhood, but she continues to succeed at school and with her fiancee. I don't know if its correct to say Thanks to your child for being so wonderful. But I am thankful!



My family teaches me too.

And my husband. After sixteen years, I still have no idea what he will say. He makes me laugh. He makes me think. And when we don't see eye-to-eye, he gives me space. He encourages me to learn, and he encourages me to be a better person. I am thankful for that.

I tried to commit suicide twice. Once I swallowed an entire bottle of Tylenol along with a gallon bottle of wine. Once I tried to cut my wrists. I still have the scars on my arms. Later I might learn about the scars on my liver. But I failed both times, and for this I am thankful.

Here I am. And I am talkative. I have been handed a unique life. The depression that followed me for years suddenly disappeared in 2005. I don't know if it was a hormone change or age or maturity, but suddenly I am ready for anything. The depression is gone. Oh sure, sometimes I worry that I don't live in the biggest house or the cleanest house. Yeah, I stress too much. Still. But the depression is gone.

And I am so thankful to be here today. I live one of the most blessed lives EVER. I do not deserve my life, my child, my husband or family, my travels or happiness.

(There is so much more with Leo's leg, I am just not ready to address it. This isn't the post I wanted. I just needed to write.)

Sweet 16

All of the stories on my blog are true. But the story I am about to relate may be the most difficult to believe. This story, word for word, is indeed true. I have been waiting sixteen years to tell it, and you shall understand why in just a few moments.

Bonnie Biggs and I met in the fall of 1979 as freshmen in high school. I had been moved around the country so many times at that point, and I was so physically small, I was terrified of entering the cafeteria. So I took my brown bag lunch and found an empty classroom to hide and to eat. Bonnie was there, too.

Our friendship blossomed immediately. Over the years we would laugh and cry and love each other and hate each other. I lost my virginity with Bonnie, and she is still the only woman I have ever been with in a sexual way. Ironically, Bonnie took me to my first gay bar, witnessed my first gay kiss and set me up with my first boyfriend.

Bonnie was a member of the Baha'i Faith and struggled with her own relationship issues and sexuality. It was almost unbelievable that the two of us would find God at an Assembly of God church and subsequently marry. A few months later, after an exorcism and a very significant prayer session, Bonnie was pregnant with our wonderful daughter, London.

Many people ask how I could possibly have been married and had sex with a woman if I knew already that I was gay. Yeah, good question, but that is a completely different blog posting. Complicated and weird, it happens more than you think, and I am sure everyone has a different story. For me, I just figured ALL men, straight or gay, had to make a decision to be faithful. So I put on my horse blinders and went forward with my life. I loved (love?) Bonnie with all my heart.

Disappointing then when our relationship soured.

People can argue in my face all they want, but it wasn't a sex thing. We divorced over the same thing almost every couple divorces over... money. Plain and simple. It was bitter and hateful and angry and horrible, and it continued to get worse after we separated.

A year and a half later and it was summer of 1995. I rented a room and bathroom in Williamsburg. No living room, no kitchen...just a bedroom and bathroom in a house of strangers. I had no car. I lived three blocks from Bonnie and London and I was at their house almost every day. Sometimes people would ask me if I was straight or gay, and I would just tell them, "I am nothing. I am just a father trying to make things work for my daughter. I can't date, I want to be alone."

One night after work, my friend Jim asked if I wanted to ride with him to Norfolk to hang out at the Garage, a gay bar in downtown. We had not quite finished our sidework, and I agreed to go. As we pulled onto Route 60, I mentioned to Jim that I was tired and should just go home. He didn't want to go to Norfolk by himself, so he tried to talk me into going. I kept refusing, even telling him to pull over so I could walk home. Just then Jim pulled onto Route 199, and there was no way in hell he was going to turn around and let me out of the car.

Jim said, "What is wrong with you? Let's go have a beer and have fun."

I replied, "It doesn't matter, Jim. I have known Bonnie for 16 years now. If I go out tonight and meet someone tonight, it will be 16 years before I know someone like I know her. It's too hard, I don't want to do it again."

Do you see where this is going? Do you understand why tomorrow is so important to me? A self-fullfilling prophecy. A glimmer of hope for all my single friends who are looking desperately for the love of their lives.

Jim and I arrived at the Garage about an hour later. I was fairly pissed at being forced to go, and of course I immediately started complaining about wanting to go home. I even checked my wallet to see if I had enough cab money to get back to Williamsburg. Jim was chatting with a group of guys that I didn't like. I just sat on a bench, sipping my beer and stewing about how awful my life had become. Eventually I had to go to the bathroom, so I stood up and got in line.

Some dude behind me asked if I wanted to play pool. I didn't even look at him! I just said NO. I peed and went back to pout on my bench. Jim, being the asshole that he was, ordered another beer and continued to talk with his snotty friends. I continued to mope. Somehow, (THANK YOU GOD), I realized we weren't going anywhere fast, so I might as well play pool with that guy...um, who was it again? And then I saw him.

"Hi. Were you the guy who asked me to play pool? I'm sorry, I'm just in a bad mood, but if the game is still open, I would like to play. My name is Kirk."

"Hi. My name is Leo."

The heavens opened, the angels sang. You could hear the puzzle piece snap into place. Have you ever put together a puzzle? Do you work on the outer rim first? This was like the last piece of the outer rim, a joy that says, "You are on your way now." All the other pieces have been filling in my life, the perimeter was set at that moment. Nowadays we are adding clouds, and parts of the house, and flowers in the lower left corner. There are some unknown parts in the middle, I guess I could look at the box. Or maybe not. Its going to be beautiful when its done.

16 years ago I met someone on my darkest day. It has been incredible.

A Strange Story

For years I worked for Anheuser-Busch at Kingsmill Resort in Williamsburg, Virginia. If you are not familiar with this property, it is a gated community on the James River with a conference center, boating facility, tennis club, sports club and a golf clubhouse with three full golf courses, as well as a nine-hole par-three course. For many years the celebrated River Course was part of the PGA tour, occurring yearly, one week before the British Open.

Golf lovers will know the British Open occurs each year in the middle of July, which put the tour in Kingsmill sometime around the 4th of July...a miserable, hot, humid time to be in Williamsburg. So much so, that many of the golf stars would skip this competition altogether and just fly away to cool, breezy Scotland. But we would get enough second stringers to justify a generous amount of hoopla.

Most of the staff hated this week at Kingsmill, but I loved the excitement!

On Monday, the parking lot nearest to the Conference Center would be cleared out. The overnight guests had plenty of parking at their condos which served as hotel rooms all year round. So the large lot near the Conference Center was used for conference attendees, of which there were none during this week, and also as an employee parking area. The empty lot was then filled with dozens of rental cars used by the celebrities and press. The employees were forced to park about three-quarters of a mile away in a dirt field. Not too bad, because a shuttle would run all day to bring us to our work stations.

Monday night we would have a reception for the press and the celebrities.

Tuesday morning at the crack of dawn we held a breakfast for the press outside of the golf clubhouse, starting at six AM...which meant we had to be at work around four. The wives then had a luncheon at noon , and finally Tuesday night there was the big welcoming reception out on the golf course, which included fireworks. This event was over about ten, but there was still a few more hours left of clean up for the staff.

We were back to work early on Wednesday to set up and serve breakfast before the Pro/Am challenge.

Three days into the tournament, and most of the staff had worked more than 40 hours, most of it outside in July in Williamsburg, and most of it lugging equipment: dishes, chafers, food. But our week had only just begun. Thursday through Sunday we had to staff the bars on the golf course, in the locker room, in the press room, and especially on top of the bleachers erected at the 18th hole, accessible only by the very uppermost tier of VIPs. We also provided all the liquor and food for the hospitality suites in the condos along the golf course. Day after day of deli trays, keg beer, liquor, margarita machines, desserts, trash liners, disposable plates and silverware and of course, Solo cups.

On Sunday evening, sometime around five or six o'clock, the last golfing foursome would arrive among the cheering masses to aim for the 18th hole. Shortly afterward a winner would be announced, a check would be presented, and the crowd would disperse. I mean flee. I mean DISAPPEAR! How in the world all those people got off property so fast, I will never know. But everything, I mean everything, had to be cleaned before Monday morning.

The staff was divided into teams of four, each armed with a van and numerous trash bags, and we were sent forth to empty those hospitality suites of all food, alcohol and trash. It was a daunting task, especially if you take into account all the empty, half empty, and sometimes full kegs that had to be pulled from the rooms. On the flip side, after working like hell for a week, and being completely unsupervised...did I mention that along with the guests all the managers abandoned the property too?..after that we "may have" enjoyed a few of those beverages left behind. After one or two condos of cllearing the liquor, the rest became quite enjoyable.

One of my favorite memories of the PGA tournament was working the VIP bleacher-bar on the 18th hole. The stress was intense. As the bartender, I had to try to balance the demands of these horrible VIP rich people who wanted everything "right now" against the need to NOT MAKE A SOUND when the player was putting. This meant no dips for ice until the signs were lowered. Do you understand how people can be if they have to wait an extra moment to have their drink poured?

On one particular Saturday afternoon, a severe thunderstorm approached Williamsburg during the tournament. Play was called off and the field was emptied. I was instructed to ask all the guests on my VIP bleacher to exit and enter the clubhouse about 400 feet away. Everyone complied so beautifully.

I secured the bar and came down the stairs to look for shelter for myself when a woman came scurrying toward me. Does a rich woman scurry? Maybe there is another verb for the rich which doesn't make them sound like a cockroach looking for shelter, but she was scurrying and looking for shelter. She demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. (If you are having a hard time envisioning this, let me remind you the bleachers were for VIPs. Of course they were large with a large covered roof.) I told her it was closed.

I don't remember the exact conversation that followed, but I remember she demanded to be allowed onto the bleachers. She told me she had paid too much money for the privilege and she wanted to have a drink while the thunderstorm passed. And she had a point. She was wealthy and powerful and I was just a kid blocking her from her choice of scotch or bourbon. I felt very alone in a dangerous situation.

I would again feel this way years later, when I worked at the Marriott in downtown Norfolk. For many years I worked on the 24th floor as concierge. This floor was not available to all Marriott customers, only the privileged and Marriott elite members.
At times, the fire alarm would sound (always false alarms), but I would have daydreams worthy of Walter Mitty: knocking on the hotel doors, providing the inept with wet towels and then leading them down the twenty-four floors to sunlight and life.

Always in my dream I would be interviewed by the local media, and possibly nominated for some type of national award which would put my picture and name into Time Magazine's 10 Most Heroic People of the Year. Indeed, Mitty and I could have been close friends!

Before I took that job on the 24th floor, I worked both front desk and the phone. Yes,the phone! A tiny cubicle tucked away deep in the hotel from which all telephone connections were made. A boring job, but as operator, you had many responsibilities, including advising guests during a fire. As I have suggested, fire drills come often in a hotel, usually caused by teenagers pulling a handle, but our hotel had a system in place.

As operator, once the alarm was sounded, I was to tell all guests there was no need to evacuate yet, as security would investigate the problem. If this was an actual emergency, a new siren would alert all guests to leave the building. This was an actual emergency. Everyone needed to leave the building. I continued to answer the phone as the front desk continued to ask people to leave the lobby.

While fighting the fire, other firemen came to clear the lobby both of stationary guests and also the employees. As everyone was leaving, including me, a strong arm came down on my shoulder and a voice said, "You need to stay. Keep answering those phones. Tell everyone to get out of the building." And then he was gone. And I was alone.

Eventually the phone stopped ringing. Eventually the noise in the lobby stopped. Eventually I was sitting in a quiet hotel, in a quiet cubicle, watching smoke seep through the ceiling. It was a little scary and I had no hope of a Walter Mitty's Rescue of the Innocent, just a thought of leaping the front desk and racing outside for my survival.

Sorry. I digress.

So this wealthy socialite and I were arguing about survival and liqupor costs at the bottom of a steel structure during a thunderstorm. She wanted beyond the chain I had just secured. She asked me again why she could not take shelter atop the bleachers where her bar tab was previously paid. I meekly replied the bleachers were made of steel and metal and were the highest point on a very low golf course and that anything standing on top would be absolutely fried if lightening struck.

Again, I am not making this up, but God in all His wisdom decided to let out a lightening bolt and thunder boom just as I finished my sentence. I have no recollection of that woman's face because I was at least ten feet in front of her as we ran for the clubhouse.

She may have died out there. But there was never a complaint filed against me.

Another favorite memory involves my good friend, Venus. Yes, that is her real name! She gets so much grief for that name. I know this because everyone who I tell about Venus asks about her name.

Venus and I worked late one Friday night during the PGA tournament at Kingsmill. We left the conference center, but the shuttle had stopped for the evening, so we were forced to walk the three-quarter mile to the dirt parking lot with our cars. It was fairly dark out there, but we helped each other through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.

Not surprisingly, considering the long hours of work required, we had to be back at work the next morning at ten AM. We both arrived in the parking lot at the same time. We also both watched the shuttle pull away from the lot as we parked our cars. After the initial greeting and small talk about how tired we both were, we decided it would be quicker to retrace our steps form the night before than to wait for the shuttle bus. So off we went through the woods, over the logs and over the wires.

Over the wires? You mean the ones that keep people from walking on the FAIRWAY? Yes, Venus and I walked arm and arm onto the fairway during a PGA tournament which was broadcast on ESPN. The only reason we knew we had failed was due to the THOUSANDS of people who were screaming at us to move out of the way.

Beautiful. Boo-ed off TV in uniform. I would love to have the tape of Jim Nantz ranting about that one!

(P.S. I love you Venus!)

Ricky Raccoon or How My Name Got on the Sexual Predators List

My house is a haven for animals. Mice, raccoons, squirrels, birds, stray cats, loose dogs and even a two-foot lizard have all made it into my home. My neighbor insists this particular house has always been a draw for God's creatures, but I don't believe him for a minute. It's me. And it's Miss Pine's fault.

Miss Pine was my babysitter when I was four years old. A lovely and kind woman, she was also a Jehovah's Witness, and that is where the trouble started. No, no, no... her religion didn't factor into the equation per se, after all at the age of four I wasn't really included in the discussion of the differences between Methodists and Jehovah's Witnesses. All I knew was that she didn't celebrate birthdays or Christmas, and as a matter of fact, that is all I really know about that faith today. That fact and the one about the missionaries knocking on the door at the most inopportune times, but hey! worse could be said about others.

Miss Pine always carried around a small book, which since I couldn't read I instead obsessed with the pictures. One picture in particular showed an idyllic drawing of the Chosen Saved entering into Heaven surrounded by a bunch of very tame, happy animals. You know, the lion nuzzling the lamb type of thing. The people in the picture did not have fluffy white robes or wings, they were all dressed in poodle skirts and suits and I think this is why I have always identified the 50s as the most angelic time in Earth's history.

Anyway, back to those animals: Doctor Doolittle and the Beastmaster can talk with animals, pure virgin spirits can attract unicorns and the people in Miss Pine's Watchtower can pet lions and tigers...of course I would dream about achieving the perfect point of meditation wherein all the wild animals would lay by my side and live in peace. Even when I sun in my backyard today I still drift away into this fantasy, so I have no doubt God gets a giggle by sending a few whiskery friends my way from time to time.

Is it ironic I try to think of new and tasty ways to eat the animals? No, it is not. Those animals come from farms, and we all know the animals on farms are not real. Only the wild ones are invited to my love fest. (As if a bear is going to wander into Norfolk and stop by my backyard to say Hi. Or a Bengal tiger. Ah, a boy can dream...)

The raccoons in my attic have certainly said Hi a few times. At least I think that was what the hissing was about. But for now those raccoons have been removed and their nest cleaned out. This story is about another raccoon, my friend Ricky.

Leo and I rented a second-story apartment in which the kitchen window faced a parking lot, dumpster and thin strip of woodland. At some point while washing dishes, one of us noticed a raccoon making a dive from a nearby tree into the dumpster, and emerging with dinner in hand. As you can tell, I am an animal lover (not always as food) and I was taken aback by this very cute, silly bandit.

Standing by the window for an hour watching him eat was a lot of fun, but taking eggs and nuts and berries was even more fun. After a time, I nicknamed him Ricky Raccoon, and other than Zeus, he was my furriest friend. Again, with all the hissing and baring of teeth, the love may have been one-sided, but my heart beat fast and true every time I saw his darkened eyes over the top of a half-eaten corn cob.

One evening, arriving home late and tired from work, I pulled the car into the parking lot. The passing headlights revealed Ricky to be sitting in the window of the left side of the dumpster, eating something delicious. I parked the car, gathered my belongings and stepped out quietly. This was the closest I had ever been to Ricky. He eyed me, distrusting me...I guess he didn't really realize I was the one who was leaving all the snacks.

"Hi there, " I said, hoping to calm his nerves. "Hi there, you cute little thing. Don't you know I won't hurt you? Don't you know I think you are adorable? If you would let me come closer, I would kiss your little ears. YES! I would kiss your nose, I would kiss those sweet lips of yours. YES I WOULD! If I could just touch you, we would be friends..."

Ricky stopped staring at me and suddenly looked to his right, through the dumpster and out to the other side. My eyes followed to see what had caught his attention, and there stood a lovely teenage girl, trash in hand, who unable to see Ricky Raccoon thought all my devotions were intended for her. About that time she dropped her trash bag and ran. So did Ricky. And I was left with a lot of explaining for her parents, which I don't think they bought for a moment.

You see, these animals are always getting me in trouble. When I get to Heaven in my Fifties style suit and can finally talk to the animals, I am going to have so much to say.

The Queen!

It has to be scary when a gay man begins a blog posting with the title The Queen! You expect the story to be about a seven-foot tall black man with a blond wig and a tight little dress, but alas, that is another (and yet very true) story. But that rather fun tidbit happened years before the story I am about to relate to you.

This queen is not a male (as far as I know) and is not gay...well... as far as I know. She is just a fair young maiden with the annoying habit-from-the-North of saying "Eh?" She of tall stature and blond hair, from the land of black bears, bison and caribou.

Of course you have guessed by now that I am writing about the daughter of hockey great Wayne Gretzky, her royal majesty Paulina Gretzky. No? You didn't make that leap? Let me explain things in more detail.

The city of Norfolk, Virginia has hosted a special event since the early 1950s titled The Azalea Festival. It is a big hoop-de-doo involving military ambassadors from all of the NATO member countries, which includes a fantastic Tattoo presentation, a Parade of Nations and of course, pretty girls from all the countries. Each year one of those pretty girls is named The Azalea Queen, and all the runners-up are delegated to be her court. Not that there is any process of voting. That would be too trendy-petty-biased-DANGEROUS for the delicate balances within the NATO alliance. Naw, they just rotate the honor so that each country gets to have a queen every 20 years. Except for the United States. We get to have a queen more often. We host the festival. So there.

The queen and her court are usually selected from the gene pool of major players in a country's history. Usually the young ladies have a military father or actual ties to the royal family of whatever country she represents. When it came time for Canada to produce an Azalea Queen, that country had really very little of either to choose from, so they picked a daughter from the GREATEST OF ALL CANADIAN HEROES: WAYNE GRETZKY. And thus in 2006, Paulina Gretzky was named the Azalea Queen.

This story is not really about her.

Early one morning in late April, as is the time for the Azalea Festival to begin, I took a stroll through the lobby of the Marriott, which happened to be the host hotel for the NATO delegates and of course the queen and her court. The young Marriott employees, each one more delicate and sweet than the international beauties before them, were in a total frenzy of excitement.

I approached and asked why they were so nervous and giggly...

To which one of the girls burst forth in both pride and joy, "I just checked in The Queen of Canada! (gasp) And she touched me! (gasp)"

?

And to my own credit, I smiled and told her how amazing that must feel. I honestly hope she is able to carry that memory for quite awhile before the truth makes its way into her life. I hope she can remain innocent for many years to come. And whoever explains to her that Paulina may be the daughter of a famous man, but certainly not the monarch of Canada, well I hope he or she does it nicely. A little quote from "Tea and Sympathy" comes to mind: "Years from now, when you speak of this, be kind...be kind".

As a sidenote, which has no humor at all and certainly shouldn't be added as the finale of a humorous story, within a few weeks or possibly months, Queen Noor checked into the Marriott without any fanfare at all. I thought that was a little sad and if I had ever been tempted to go down and tell the girls how wrong-they-were, it would have been then.

But we will save the world another day, right?

Why I Don't Tip at Starbucks

I love a caramel macchiato as much as the next guy, but I wonder why the receipt of a macchiatto results in an exasperating demand for a tip in the form of a tip jar. I don't tip at McDonald's and I don't tip at Target. I always wonder why the crew at Starbucks believes handing something to me over the counter should result in a tip. Then again, I may be insanely jealous they receive tips with so little effort.

This is the story of my effort.



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I saw her standing by the hostess stand. All of four foot eight inches, her sweater draped over her shoulders and a scarf tight around her head, despite the warm temperatures of late April. The hostess moved to seat her at a small table for two, but she nodded her head and pointed her finger, and just like that, she was seated at a table set for four in my section.

I gathered a glass of water with lemon, a straw... and my strength... and I approached the table. A quick hello sufficed as a greeting, as she was busy removing her scarf and otherwise situating herself for a long and leisurely lunch. From my vantage point in the server’s station, I watched as she dipped her napkin into her water and then proceeded to polish the silverware before her.

When she finished, I approached the table again, introduced myself and began the litany of daily specials. Her head cocked, barely noticeably, at the mention of a Chicken Salad sandwich served with a choice of beverage for the steal of $5.95. But she did not order, instead she pushed her water glass accusingly toward me and asked for another glass and another napkin.

I removed the offending items and returned moments later to see if she was ready to order lunch. Instead she asked me to go into detail about the other daily special : a nice Grilled Salmon with a side of béarnaise and mixed vegetables. Once we decided the salmon was indeed fresh, that the béarnaise would be served on the side, not touching the salmon, that the vegetables consisted of zucchini and squash and onions, lightly buttered and sautéed -- al dente—once we established all this information, she ordered the Chicken Salad sandwich on white bread with a side of cole slaw.
Total trips to the table: 3

Her lunch order submitted to the kitchen, I retreat once again to the server’s station, when suddenly her waving hand beckoned me back to her side.
“Did you say a beverage came with my lunch?” she asked. I smiled and told her yes.
“Is the coffee fresh?” she asked.
I assured her it had just been brewed. She nodded her head but didn’t say anything more. I asked if she wanted a cup of fresh coffee.
“Not now”, she answered.
I made a slight bow, turned and went into the kitchen to check the status of her order. And there it waited: a full portion of chicken salad on white bread with a side of cole slaw. I picked up the dish and practically sashayed back to the table with her lunch. I placed the dish before her. She picked up her fork and pushed at the bread.
“Is that a tomato I see,” she asked.
Yes.
“I don’t like tomatoes. Take it off my sandwich.”
Do you have an allergy? Should I have the sandwich remade?
“No. I just don’t like tomatoes."
For a moment I wanted to ask her why she didn’t just remove the tomato herself, but years of hospitality training kicked into overdrive, and I smiled and removed her plate. In and out of the kitchen, sans tomatoes, and the plate was before her again.
“Is this bread toasted? I like mine toasted, I told you that."
Well no, you didn’t exactly tell me that, my brain replied, but I smiled and removed the plate. In and out of the kitchen again, this time the warm smell of toast accompanied me to the table. The plate settled before her again, and suddenly the small dish of cole slaw caught her attention.
She stuck her fork into it and tried a bite.
“Young man, this cole slaw has too much mayonnaise. Will you take it to the kitchen and rinse it and then pat it dry?”
My eyes slowly moved from the small dish to the sandwich, the chicken salad sandwich, the sandwich made delicious by the addition of copious amounts of mayonnaise to small pieces of chicken. For the first time that day I began to think of my good friend Jack Daniels and made a mental note to call him when my shift was over.
In and out of the kitchen again, this time sans mayonnaise, and I went back to the table again—when Holy Mother Mary of God! -I’ve left her fork in the kitchen. I swung by the server’s station and grabbed the cleanest fork I could see and approached the table again. I set the combination in front of her and held my breath. No, she did not clean the new fork! She jabbed it into her cole slaw and stirred it around.
“That’s better.”
I let out a sigh and retreated.
Total trips to the table: 8

Checked on her status and refilled her water.
Total trips to the table: 10

When she appeared to finish, dabbing her napkin against her lips, folding it and placing it onto the table, I approached again and asked if she was ready for that cup of fresh coffee. I also reached for the plate.
“I am not finished yet, “ she barked.
I stepped back and watched as she pushed the small side dish away and revealed the smallest remnant of pickle. She daintily popped that gem into her mouth and then smiled, “OK, you can take it now. And I will take a cup of coffee. Black. Make sure it is fresh or I will send it back.”

My friend Jack kept appearing in my mind, but I squashed the sudden urge to contact him right then and there, and I took her plate to the kitchen, retrieved her black coffee and returned yet again to my lovely diner.
“It’s not hot enough,” was her fresh complaint.
Back to the kitchen again to have a discussion with the microwave, (well, I was talking to the microwave while the coffee heated, the microwave did not say much). I placed the cup back on the table, inquired about dessert, recited the litany of that day’s available desserts, assured her that indeed, we did not carry ice cream, spoke in detail about our cheesecake- no, it was not made on site – and she decided to have what I already knew she would, which was nothing.
Total trips to the table: 13

I won’t go into the moments that followed: the presentation of the check, the explanation of the seven percent sales tax, or the search in the abyss of her purse for loose change. Let it only be said that $5.95 plus sales tax plus 15% gratuity of ninety-five cents (gleaned from a “tip-chart” also hidden in the bottom of her purse) add up to the imposing total of $7.32. I saw the angelic look of satisfaction of “a-good-deed-done” as she passed me $7.40 and told me to keep the change. After all, this was eight cents more than the requisite 15%! I smiled at her charity. And of course, I got her another cup of fresh, hot coffee. In the spirit of her generosity I even helped her adjust her sweater and scarf before she left the building.
Total trips to the table: 17

All The President's Men

Early in the days of the Clinton administration, the Democrats in Congress used to have a yearly meeting at Kingsmill Resort in Williamsburg, Virginia. At some point during their retreat the President and Vice-President would attend a dinner function and then address the group in a closed-door setting.

It was always an exciting time as the sharpshooters would take their positions on the rooftops, the bomb-squad dogs would canvas the building and the Secret Service would station themselves throughout the resort, especially the Conference Center where one could be located about every 50 feet or so. I remember setting up the banquet hall and the staff being asked to leave for twenty minutes while the dogs checked the room. I also remember that we were scanned one time only for weapons.

I was tending bar when the politicians arrived, so many TV-familiar faces that it gave me goosebumps: George Mitchell, Carol Moseley Brown and even Ted Kennedy. In fact, while most of the VIPs were ordering single drinks, Senator Kennedy actually asked me for an entire bottle of wine which he took to the veranda and enjoyed in a close-knit conference with a beautiful young aide. NO KIDDING!

Soon enough the crowd moved into the banquet hall and just then my manager approached to tell me I would be the server for President Clinton and Vice-President Gore. Oh the excitement! It was a buffet, so there was not much more to do than clear plates and offer wine, but I relished every minute of it. After dinner, the President took to a small dais to give his speech and all the servers left the room.

A Secret Service man approached me and told me that as the President's server, I needed to place a bottle of Perrier next to the podium. As I prepared to go into the room, he also said, "There will be rifles pointed in your direction. Don't try anything. And I recommend you don't trip." REALLY? WAS HE JUST MESSING WITH ME OR WHAT? I was terrified as I approached the dais, but it got worse a few minutes later when the same man told me the President now wanted coffee.

At Kingsmill Resort, we didn't just bring you a cup of coffee. We brought you a dainty cup on a dainty saucer that was not filled until after everything was placed on the table. As I made my way across the room a second time, everyone in that room could hear the empty cup shaking against the saucer as my hand trembled. After this experience, all I wanted to do was smoke, so I went out back to the loading dock and told a cigarette all about my big day. Then I decided I couldn't smell like smoke if called back to the President's side, so I went to my locker and brushed my teeth and washed my face. It always amazed me I was able to go outside, go to my locker and reenter the room without being scanned a second time for weapons.

Jump forward a year to the second visit and the events get out of control. This time the bomb-sniffing dogs took over the banquet hall for almost 90 minutes, which almost threw the event behind schedule. We were really scrambling. My new friend Jim was selected to take care of the Clinton's table this year, but when the President walked into the room, Jim completely freaked out, and I was asked to step in and take over. (It's important for me to mention that Jim was gay...very, very unapologetically gay.)

We also were scanned each and every time we entered into the banquet hall, and during Clinton's address, no one was allowed in the room, even to deliver coffee. With all this extra time during the speech, Jim and I decided to wander the Conference Center. What did we talk about? We talked about how HOT all those Secret Service guys were. We also got into a bizarre early edition of the game "Who would you have sex with...?", which included the hilarious question: Clinton or Gore? We were as bad as two New York contruction guys whistling at a girl in a bikini, just much quieter.

Please let it be known that the Secret Service guys were really, really nice. They smiled as we walked by. In fact, some of them may have been laughing. There must have been a private joke that day.

Eventually it was time for me to hit the back dock to share all my adventures with my cigarette. As I stood there smoking, my eyes came to rest on a strange group of wires coming out of the Conference Center where no wires had ever been located before. My curiosity compelled me to follow them out of the dock area and up the hill...where I found a white van filled with people listening to headphones. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD, THE ENTIRE FIRST FLOOR WAS BUGGED. This is the reason we had to leave the banquet hall for 90 minutes! Even worse, the Secret Service guys had heard our entire raunch-filled chatter.

No wonder they were laughing.

I sincerely believe the Pentagon has a dossier with my name on it. It is probably passed around and laughed at from time to time. In fact, when Al Gore visited Norfolk a few years ago, he passed through the lobby of the Marriott and shook hands with the employees. I am positive that when he shook my hand, he did a very subtle double-take and then stepped back quickly.