Nothing Of Consequence

The weekend is here, but today will be the last in the nice stretch of weather we've been enjoying. Tonight another cold front moves in bringing what will probably be the last arctic blast and appreciable snow for the season. Not sure what today will bring at work, last Saturday was mad busy. And last night was pretty good, not crazy but very steady. The night went fast. Haven't been to the gym in a few days, I may run down there quickly after writing this entry just to get a quick workout in. I don't want to go back down the path of being a lazy bitch.  

I'm listening to Madam Butterfly by Malcolm McLaren as I write this and it's bringing up memories of a past lifetime. It was always one of my most favourite numbers to perform. Sadly, I lost the beautiful costume Patti had made me. Drag seems to have come into a resurgence here in South Jersey, there are drag shows and events and brunches all over the place. Good for them, I'm happy in my retirement. 

Short entry, time to get my ass in gear. 

Boring, But That's February For You

Writing a little later than I wanted but I already forgot that I was supposed to devote a bit of my early morning routine to this little endeavor so... you get this now. 

Woke up after a rather good night's sleep. Recently I've been having some sleep issues, waking up after a few hours ready to start my day and then taking forever to get back to sleep. Or I'm overheated during the night and wake up in the middle of nightmares. Having a full night of slumber uninterrupted was a small blessing. 
My usual morning routine has become a little 'Groundhog's Day' in it's repetition, which is a little boring but it does strangely appeal to my German side. Having a routine is comforting in it's way. I suppose it's also an off-shoot on my OCD, doing things in a particular order over and over again means all is right with the world. And Oliver seems to like it, we have our little dance worked out, feeding him, then he sits in the window for about an hour, then it's petting time, then it's play time, then it's back to the window. Maybe I was a cat in a past life. 

I got to the gym early and it was already full of people I didn't recognize but they were obviously from the A.E.W. pro wrestling show that was being filmed later tonight in Atlantic City. Lots of tattoos, dyed hair, very well build bodies, it was a little intimidating trying to work out around them, I have to admit. And, truth be told, some of them were really nice to look at! I did manage to get a really good workout in, maybe having so many fit people around me made me push myself a little more. 

I was going to walk home on the Boardwalk but the winds had picked up from earlier and the breeze was coming right off the ocean making it seem much colder than it actually was so, I ducked back into the Tropicana to get back to Pacific Avenue and the Jitney stop, passing even more pro-wrestlers wandering all over the casino and hotel area. 

I have plans to attend the BeVisible function at Wingcraft tonight with Charity. BeVisible seems to have taken the torch from the former Greater Atlantic City GLBT Alliance, hosting monthly mixers and events. I haven't been to Wingcraft in a long time so I'm interested to return and see if it got any better. One of our many Food & Beverage directors at the Claridge had left the hotel to manage over there. I'm hoping to see him if he's still the manager. 

My mother and step-father played cards with some friends two days ago and were told yesterday that the other couple tested positive for Covid-19. I'm hoping they didn't contract the virus, and if they did, the booster shots will do their job and mitigate the symptoms. Most people who've had the booster report milder symptoms, more like a nuisance cold. On the other side of the family, my step-mother had hip replacement surgery last Friday and was in hospital for a few days with minor complications. She got home yesterday so I'm going to pop over to see her and make sure she's okay. 

Hoping to work back at Lucy the Elephant sooner rather than later, the gift shop should be opening longer hours soon and maybe I can get a few shifts. I love working there even if the pay is not really all that much. 

Promises Kept, Day One

 I said I was going to try to write a little each day, and here's my first entry. 

The cheeky part of me wanted to leave that last sentence there and go on about my day but my better nature won out. To continue...

It's an early February morning, the outside air warming up above the usual chilly averages. That's welcome news, my 1950's summer home isn't very well insulated and once it goes below 30 degrees outside, my baseboard heating can't keep up. It's not unusual for my roommate and I to be bundled up in hoodies and sweaters during the day indoors. I don't have much planned for today, poverty keeps your idle and humble. Aside from the gym, I might attempt to run a few errands in the city (bank, drug store, Lucy) and then see to getting these closets sorted out. Helene's clothing filling up all the usable space in the living room and hall closets are weighing on me like the overburdened racks her clothing is hanging on at the moment. A lot of my frustration is Joe's fickle moods, he'll talk a lot about what he wants to do but getting him motivated in that direction is the hard part. And right now, I need him to sort through all of Helene's bins of clothes that are stacked in his room so I can use them to thin out the closets. 
I seriously just want to bag it all up in a bin liner and leave it out for the garbage truck. Although I'd probably have to pay them to haul away everything, there's just so much of it! 

My gym progress has been hit-or-miss. I can't do a lot of exercises that I used to be able to do, even with those long-term pains from injuries long ago. Those nagging and painful reminders have become much more pronounced as I get older and there are some things I can't do anymore. It's frustrating, obviously, but I make do with what I can do and ignore all the things I find fault with. But I have to say, I'm surprised I look as good as I do, I didn't think I could bang myself into this sort of shape ever again. Hopefully, by summer, I'll be closer to where I see myself. 

Financially, things have been a little stressful. Losing my Lucy the Elephant tour guide job until probably June has put a burden on my checkbook. I have my usual savings that I count on during the leaner winter months but paying for the dryer repairs was not budgeted and I'm feeling a little panicky about how far I can stretch things. And I have to buy a 5G capable mobile before next month, another large expense I didn't plan for. I've been scouting around for another part-time job but I haven't found anything yet. Well, anything of my station, lol. I may be back to scrubbing toilets if things don't change soon. I did have a spectacular weekend at the Distillery, hopefully that trend will continue. 

Planning on attending the BeVisible LGBTQ soiree tomorrow night at Wingcraft, a local chain restaurant at The Walk in Atlantic City. It's one of those all-the-same-faces events but I feel like I've become too much of a hermit, socially, so I'm trying to get out more and cultivate new friends. And I did go on a 'date' a few weeks ago, although I'm not sure about that, I may be barking up the wrong tree. It's strange how I spent most of my life on stage performing and behind the bar performing, craving that attention from everyone and now all I want to do is grab my cat and watch the telly. It's crazy how one's priorities can change so radically. The very fact that I'm usually in bed by nine o'clock every night still shocks me. 

Let's see where the day takes me, I think this is a fair amount of writing for my first (official) day back to writing again. 

Fingers Crossed

 I'm going to attempt to revive this dusty old blog of mine, who knows if I'll keep up but I've had the urge to write again and I need to stretch this long dormant muscle. The daily posts will be dreadful to read but bear with me, I have some ideas (novel, short stories, essays) that I've wanted to finally get to now that I'm entering these 'silver' years. The gods know I've had stranger career changes in the past, who knows where this might lead. 
I do realize that no one will be reading this entry, and probably won't be reading those I post in the future, but for that hopeful stalwart that might be out there, this could be fun. 
Goals: 
1. Do a 'Tales of the City' style series about AC. 
2. Chronicle local events. 
3. Finally write that 'tell all' about the Studio Six. 

And other ideas that are knocking around this addled brain of mine. 

But first, I need to get back in the habit of writing. Maybe I'll do an hour each morning, just to start. A little mental exercise before hitting the gym. Let's see where this takes me...

Reopening Musings

It's only ten days in. Ten. I feel like a convoy of trucks have repeatedly hit me on a Texas highway. Reopening day was nearly total chaos, thankfully I have a great crew and we were able to persevere through all the madness. And as each successive day came by, we got a little better at handling the chaos as it got more and more chaotic. Although I continued to stress the new coronavirus protocols, we service industry people are finding it harder and harder to force our guests to follow them. It's a mix of the indestructibility of youth, the politicisation of mask wearing, and alcohol that makes our jobs that much more difficult. And now we are approaching another expansion of the social distancing rules, I can't see this getting any easier. 
And I fear another shut down, since the virus numbers are beginning to rise throughout the country again. That 'second wave' might be happening long before the fall sets in. We have a long way to go. Hopefully a vaccine will be found sooner rather than later.
Jumping right into the summer season did not help at all! 
And it's been hard for me to get back into the swing of things. With all the added problems/conditions at the bar, the coronavirus protocols, the dinner and breakfast service, having to fill in on all the missing shifts I can't seem to staff, we are getting back to our weekly meetings and routines. The workload has been tremendous and I've been working twelve hour days all this time. 
And then there's the problem of finding help. Thankfully all of my staff came back but with the new dinner service, we need a lot more help. I've been interviewing but finding people that can pass a drug test, have adequate experience, are willing to stop collecting their unemployment, and actually show up for interviews has been seriously difficult. And I'm uneasy about hiring people I know, that almost always turns into an issue.
Time to suit up and get back into the fray.  

Countdown

The week is nearly done and re-opening day is coming up fast. It's been a lot of work, organising, cleaning, ordering, scheduling, changing protocols, there's so much to do to get the bar open again after three months of a stay-at-home pandemic shutdown. And the coronavirus protocols haven't made it any easier, they are needed and we are confident to reopen safely but the extra steps will take some getting used to. And there's the problem with other humans, we are an unpredictable lot and making sure our guests follow the new rules will be a test of our service industry skills, especially with the country so divided over what's safe. In our social media world, going viral during a pandemic for the wrong reasons is an insidious irony and I want to make sure we get this right. Not to mention the local and state agencies breathing down our necks with inspections and visits. I'm confident. But I've worked here long enough to know that we plan, the Claridge laughs. She's a beautiful building but she has a mind of her own. Ninety years of standing tall gives her that privilege and the unpredictable happens there on nearly a daily basis. 
I'm confident. 
Looking ahead, though, I doubt I'll be getting a day off or much sleep for at least the next week. It's so important to make this a success, I'll have to be there around the clock to make sure everything is done right. 
On a personal note, two of my friends have had serious health scares within a week of each other and I feel so terrible that I can't drop everything and help them through it. They have significant others in their lives so I know they are being well cared for but I feel like I'm a rotten friend because my life is so consumed with work. 
Although I want to write more, I have so many things to do before work I have to end this here. Changing out my seasonal wardrobes, getting some exercise in, getting ready, and then it's off to work all day. 

Back In Business (Soon)

I had my third manager's meeting at the Claridge on Wednesday. After weeks of speculation and waiting, we finally got the go ahead to reopen the VÜE Rooftop Lounge, albeit in a slightly altered state. Since the governor's executive order prohibits us for now from allowing guests in the bar itself, or in the Twenties Bistro down on the sixth floor, we are going to combine them and have dining on the rooftop decks, weather permitting. It will be a challenge, since our bar kitchen is rather small so we'll have to utilise the kitchen in the Twenties for the dinners, and there are issues of staffing and logistics to overcome but I'm confident with the help of our executive chef Craig Johnson, and my friend Lance LaBarre, who's also our banquet manager, we'll be able to get it all sorted out before reopening day. We have a good week to get it all together, which is no time at all but plenty of time for service industry folk, I've personally created magical events with far less time and little preparation. I have confidence that with a lot of espresso and a few nips of vodka here and there, we'll pull it all together by the fifteenth of June. 
It's not going to be easy, though. The pandemic is still raging, the George Floyd protests are still raging, now globally, the rioting and looting hasn't totally stopped, people are still out of work, people are still scared of getting sick, no one is traveling, the health protocols are going to be a necessary issue, we are now in June, losing three months of momentum going into the summer season, none of this is going to work in our favour. My strategy is to going to be to try to walk that fine line between shameless promotion and just under the radar, if there is such a place. Although I am very politically motivated, when it comes to the livelihood of my staff and the experience of my guests, I don't want to turn the reopening into a political statement to be used by various factions, it seems everything nowadays gets polarised and divisive. Here's hoping for the best possible outcome. 
I'll say this, it will be nice to have purpose again. I've felt unmoored these last few months, as all of us have, and I'm itching to replace the tedium of these seemingly endless repetitive days with the tedium of putting out little service industry fires every five minutes, throwing in a Karen here and there for shits and giggles.
Looks like I won't have a day off for a few weeks, I better enjoy these last days of 'freedom'. 

The First Day Of June

I had slept hard and deep. The emotions of the day before had exhausted me to my core and at the moment I fell asleep, I slipped in to a deep unconscious state. When I awoke, I was quickly reminded of the events from the day before, everything came flooding back and my sense of defeat was palpable. It didn't help that before turning in, I watched the mayor of Atlantic City on a Facebook live feed berating the residents of the city for the looting that happened. Not directly, but he wanted to know why they didn't stop it. It was a speech born of our collective frustration but I had wanted to hear something more concrete, more hopeful, more leadership. Instead, my only thought was, Mommy, why is daddy hollering at us? 
He did mention that he was holding a press conference at the Walk in the morning and after which the clean-up effort would begin. I readied myself and coordinated with some friends to meet there at eleven o'clock to see how we could help. 
My friend Jerry came to collect me and we drove into the city. We ended up having to do a few turns around the Walk area, since the police had the entire district blocked off to all traffic, in order to find a place to park and get to the press conference. When we arrived, Mayor Marty Small was already speaking, the local press were there with cameras and reporters taking up most of the area directly in front of the mayor. The crowd was several hundred strong, mostly business owners, workers, managers, and community activists from a cross-section of Atlantic City. All races and genders and social standings were represented, and that felt good. I chatted with my former Claridge coworker, Timmy Algarin for a bit, said Hi to familiar faces here and there in the crowd, and eventually found my friend Nathan Bryson (curator of the Boardwalk Hall Organ Restoration Project, native of North Carolina with the adorable accent to prove it) at the opposite end of the intersection and we hung together listening to the mayor finish up his speech. It was hard to catch any of the particulars, I'm sure the words 'resilient', 'rebuild', 'unacceptable', 'stronger' and others were used. Personally, I could care less. The time for talk was long over, it was time for action. But a politician will flutter around a microphone like a moth to a flame so we waited until he exhausted the usual platitudes and he directed us to the middle of Michigan Avenue to get our assignments for cleaning up after the riot and looting. I did notice that much of the heavy work had been done, either the city had been there earlier to board up the broken windows or the shop managers themselves had people there to get everything secured. I did notice the Brooks Brothers window was still shattered, but I could tell the shop hadn't been looted. That made me giggle, the kids don't wear Brooks. 

Although it was good to see that some progress had already been made. 
I half-jokingly whispered to Nathan that they probably don't have a well thought out action plan. I quickly figured out that they didn't. 
Side note: There was an agitator circling around us on his bicycle, very loudly interrupting everything the mayor and the city coordinator were saying about the clean-up effort, I'm not sure what exactly his message was but he was adamant that he wasn't going to do no cleaning and that black people needed justice and were oppressed. I found it all slightly amusing, since he was yelling this at the black mayor and a lot of the black leaders of Atlantic City. And to the crowd of mixed races all working together for a common goal, to heal our city. But I often find the dark humor in things, it's my coping mechanism. 
Back to the clean-up details. The mayor was on the phone with the head of the Special Improvement District getting information and once he was done, we were given very general directions and very general instructions about what needed to be done. Basically this: Grab some brooms/bin liners/trash grabbers/shovels and go find stuff to clean. Which is exactly what we did. Since I had watched the video the day before of where they looters marched and caused havoc, we decided to follow their route and see what we could find. We met up with our fellow do-gooders here and there, we had all spread through the city and were combing the streets and parking lots, filling up the trash bags with anything we could find, looting related or not. Nathan and I made our way down Atlantic Avenue, picking up whatever we saw. Liquor bottles and beer cans being the predominate refuse. Many of the shops along there had their windows boarded up, either proactively or afterwards, I'm not sure but there wasn't too much damage along there. We turned up Pennsylvania Avenue where the TD Bank is, which is also the branch I regularly use. I had watched it live as the looters smashed the window on the side of the building, shattering it but that was all they did, moving on through the city. Because it's my branch, I knew what office was there and felt bad for the person who regularly uses it. She helped me set up my credit cards for my European trip. The window was already boarded up although the shattered glass was still there, but we didn't have the right tools to clean it up so we moved along to Arctic Avenue, following the route from the day before. We talked as we attacked different piles of garbage, putting everything in our new liner, we had grabbed a fresh one from another crew on the avenue. The locals along the way asked what we were doing, and once we told them, one of the little corner store owners offered us some water. We declined but that was really nice. At one point, the mayor drove by, stopping to thank us for our efforts. He and I have only ever met at large galas so he didn't recognise me, especially with the mask on. It was very nice of him, I'm sure two lily-white boys with a trash bag and gloves stood out in that neighborhood (editor's note: I grew up a few blocks away on Virginia Avenue). As we passed the Superior Courthouse, where Nelson Johnson was a judge before retiring (he authored 'Boardwalk Empire', the book that inspired the HBO show), the windows were boarded up along the back. I had watched them getting shattered live as well, it was good to see them secured. We made our way by City Hall, then back along Arctic Avenue until finally returned to where we started, the middle of the Walk Outlets. 
We decided we had done our part, we filled four large trash bags, and figured we should head home. There wasn't much more to do, there were a lot of volunteers spread throughout the city doing the exact same thing. We did bump into Nick Pittman, local weatherman, and his husband Brandon. They asked where they should go and we directed them to Gardner's Basin, the mayor said there was some clean up needed at the sea wall and we didn't think a lot of the volunteers had been over there yet. 
Nathan gave me a lift home and talked about the renovation progress on his new house, and then we said our goodbyes when I got to my house. 
I hopped on the social medias, there were rumors of busloads of looters on their way to the city! Antifa is mobilizing to protest in Atlantic City! Another big protest is being planned! I did what I could to quell all the fears and dispel the false rumors and then rested. 
I didn't do all that much, I freely admit, but it was something I had to do. 
I HAD TO.

The Last Day Of May

Sunday morning. 
I was mulling over the day before, which wasn't much to mull over from a personal triumph perspective, since we've been on a coronavirus lockdown for months. I was still nursing the loss of Larry Kramer, a man I never met but someone who's life and rage informed mine in ways that changed me, gave me my voice, and made me the man I am today. His no-holds-barred activism during the AIDS Crisis led me to join the Act-UP movement and cause some mayhem and civil disobedience during that pandemic. We, collectively, changed the world back then. And now the entire country has been in the grips of peaceful protest over the tragic death of George Floyd at the knee of a Minneapolis cop and the sinister and unfortunate side effect of such mass protest, the rampant looting and damage that always seems to follow. As I was commenting on Facebook in the early morning about the situation, my good friend Miss Ten'e told me of a protest planned for the early afternoon at the Atlantic City Police Station, she sent me the sparsely detailed flyer to read. I mulled it over briefly and considered attending, I guess the nostalgia of my Act-UP days was still lurking in the back of my mind, but I decided against going. Those days of my youth were better served in my youth. I wasn't sure if I should reignite those dormant passions, I freely admit, I've become complacent and comfortable in my little world.
The morning moved along, I half-heartedly tried writing a blog post but I wasn't really inspired so I changed tack and decided to plan my day, such as it was. When your choices are whether you should watch the news or continue your binge-watching of some silly show for the rest of the day, there's not much to get excited about, considering that's been the majority of your life for the last two months. Lance contacted me wanting to know if I wanted to do our daily walk that day, he had had enough of his shelter-in-place family and needed to get out to clear his head. I wasn't keen on going, it was a beautiful day, it was Sunday, and the protest was going to happen in the city. I didn't want to deal with the weekend shoobies during this pandemic and whatever might happen should the protest turn like it did so many times in so many cities before. Considering my options ahead of me, though, it didn't take long for me to change my mind about taking a walk. I wanted to get out and enjoy the day. And, truth be told, maybe we'd see a little of the protest and I'd enjoy it vicariously from a distance. We decided to go a bit earlier than normal so I got ready and was out the door in short order.
We met at our usual spot on the Boardwalk at the border of Atlantic City and Ventnor and off we went into the city. As expected, it was pretty busy with tourists, bicyclists careening through the crowds, kids playing, all the usual suspects you'd expect on a late in May day. Mostly everyone was masked, although I don't wear mine when I'm not in a group. Lance and I talked through our individual (not really coping) issues and we laughed and made light of each other's problems. It helps. I told him about the protest, said Ten'e was going to be there but we kind of dropped the subject until we got further into the city and closer to where it was being held. As we approached the Tropicana from the Boardwalk side, Lance asked if I wanted to go check out what was going on, since the police station is directly up the street from there. We agreed to take the little side track and see what we could see.
As we walked up Iowa Avenue, I was a little surprised to not see throngs of people heading that way, it all seemed a little quieter than I expected, especially since it was pretty close to the time it was supposed to start. We got to the corner at Atlantic Avenue and looked across the street and saw a small gathering of people in front of the station, and some more gathered on our side of the street. Some of the shop owners were boarding up their businesses as a protective measure, since, as I stated above, these things seem to get out of control when they've been held in other cities. It's easier to put up some plywood than replace a pane of plate glass. It wasn't before long that I spotted Ten'e across the street, saying hello to everyone there and immediately holding court, as she always does wherever she goes. Lance and I held back, thinking that we'd be leaving soon and not wanting to have to do the whole Hello and Goodbye stuff back-to-back. But those plans went right out the window since Ten'e spotted us and called us over. In the few short minutes we had been standing there, more and more people began to arrive, some carrying signs and nearly all wearing masks, and I could see the police lining the front of the station, chatting with the gathering crowd. We met up with her and caught up, and honestly, I think it was at the point that I decided I was staying. The energy of the growing event was palpable and I was getting that familiar rush of do-gooding that I get at these things. Be they a fundraiser like the AIDS Walk or a charity event, I enjoy the camaradie and the brotherhood these things bring and I knew I'd be there for the duration. I purposely stayed on the fringes, I didn't know the organiser or anyone in charge so I just hung back and followed the crowd as events unfolded.
There didn't seem to be much pre-planned, I could tell that right away. There were no bullhorns, no amplifiers, no one guiding the crowd one way or another, we all just seemed to ebb and flow naturally. Not the way I normally run a function, but as I said, this wasn't my gig so I simply followed along. Once the leaders of this little gathering walked into the middle of Atlantic Avenue, and we all followed, the police pulled into the intersections on either side blocking traffic so we could hold the rally without any serious interruption. When I saw that, I was pretty impressed. Instead of letting things get out of hand unnecessarily and having the traffic disrupted by the protesters, the cops were handling the event professionally and set up instant detours around us. It was hard to hear a lot of what was being said, I assumed it was the usual rhetoric. I began a Facebook live feed so people could see how peaceful this protest was. The organiser called for us to lie down on our stomachs and chant 'I can't breathe' and we all did, it was a very powerful and moving statement. We did the usual 'No justice! No peace' call-backs and there was a lot more being said that no one could really hear. I took the time to survey the crowd and was impressed with the turnout, a very nice cross section of society, black, white, gay, straight, tattooed skateboarders, girls with pink hair, professionals, Muslims in thawbs, downbeach teens, Spanish girls, many of them with homemade signs hastily written in black Sharpie on cardboard. It was really cool to see the community coming together over an injustice, everyone moved to be seen and heard and to show solidarity. I did also note the cops on the roof of the station, keeping watch from above. But, as I said, with how these events always seem to end in other cities, I guess you can't be too careful. Evidently, there was a call to march onward down Atlantic Avenue and the crowd melted around the cop cars that had been blocking the traffic. Lance and I took this as an opportunity to melt away ourselves, we ducked back down Iowa Avenue to the Boardwalk and continued our constitutional. The Boardwalk was busy but no where near as busy as it should have been for the end of May and it being such a beautiful Sunday. We walked all the way to the Ocean Casino and decided to turn around and leisurely wandered back, laughing and talking all along the way. When we got closer to Boardwalk Hall, I noticed there were a lot of people in JFK Plaza. It didn't take long to figure out they were the protest group from earlier, evidently this was the destination after leaving the police station. Here the speakers were on stage and it seemed like the crowd was pretty much the same, although the makeup had changed a little. And the rhetoric was a bit darker, as we passed through I could hear the chant 'Fuck the police!' being said. But the cops interspersed through the area seemed to be taking it in stride and we continued on, finally splitting up at the city border and went to our respective homes.
I got in feeling a little rush of accomplishment, it was nice to be a part of such a peaceful event and I was damned proud that nothing had happened. I hopped on social media and saw praise coming in from all quarters about how nice it was, that Atlantic City showed them how protesting was done, the accolades felt good, even though I had played a very small part. But sometimes, just being there is what is needed. I have always said, it's not the level of participation, it's showing up that means the most. Crowds create awareness. And every cause needs people if they are going to get their message out there. I made myself a celebratory Bloody Mary and sat back watching the protests all across the country. 
Suddenly, everything changed.
I started hearing there was some trouble in Atlantic City, people started texting me and messaging me on social media. Reports of kids coming in from the mainland. Reports of some damage going on. Reports of the police trying to stop the vandalism. I saw that my friend Patrick was live streaming so I jumped on his feed and shared it to my Facebook. I was heartsick at what I was witnessing. Mostly young folk were all over the streets, I didn't recognize anyone in the feed from the protest events earlier. Patrick followed them as they marched through Atlantic City, the mischief escalating as they went along. (editor's note: Patrick was not a part of the destruction and mayhem and theft, he was only there recording what was happening). Once they got to Pennsylvania Avenue, someone from the crowd broke a plate glass window at the TD Bank (my bank!) and the crowd moved on as the glass shattered, covering the hedgerows underneath with glass. They rounded up to Arctic Avenue and made their way back into the center of Atlantic City and as they passed the Superior Courthouse someone threw rocks through the windows along the back side, shattering them and spraying glass all over the sidewalks below. Before long, they were at City Hall and there was an intense standoff with riot-gear clad police and the large group of protestors, each in a line facing each other, chants and arguments being made on one side, a wall of silence  and riot shields on the other. I sat at home in horror, screaming at them to stop this, as if they could hear me from my bedroom here in Ventnor. Thankfully, they moved on without any violence but only to venture over to the Walk, the shopping outlets in the middle of Atlantic City. Windows shattered here and there, some looting in the shops that had been closed for months because of the coronavirus, the police forming lines to try and herd the protesters and looters away from the area, you could see that control was lost and things were getting chaotic throughout the Walk (I was praying it wouldn't turn violent, I know way too many cops in the city and I was fearing for their safety). It wasn't before long that Patrick's mobile was losing power and he eventually stopped recording events, thrusting all of us in the dark as to what was happening in the city. I was able to find some more video feed from others on the scene, but it was generally more of the same and I was heartsick as I watched from the safety of my home, what was going on in the city I grew up in. 
I think the image that will remain indelibly on my mind will be the shot of Patrick in a car on Pacific Avenue with a line of Atlantic City police with riot shields in a line stretching from sidewalk to sidewalk herding people along. I grew up on those streets, the very streets they were on, and have never seen anything like that in all the years I have been here.
I eventually lost all the live feeds but it seemed to have calmed down a bit. Just watching things unfold throughout the city was exhausting, and by then I was drained from all the emotions of the day.
From what I learned after, it seems that the later agitators and looters came to take advantage of the rally from earlier that day. And I have heard rumors that some of the organizers of the original protest may have had that intention all along. I don't know, as I stated above, I was very much on the edges of the event. I showed my support and went about my day. But I will say that the tone in front of the police station was markedly different from the tone on the Boardwalk. It was palpable as Lance and I passed through.
I went to bed with a defeated sense of self. I participated in a peaceful event and it morphed into bedlam right here in my city, in my hometown. I felt like now I was part of something ugly and wrong and that wasn't my intention going in. 
I slept fitfully and got no rest until the next day. 
There is more than one way to protest, sometimes the simplest act can make the biggest difference. 
 

  

However, The Day After! Or Memorial Day II

It had been a fitful evening with the sunburn on my knees acting like mini-heat lamps during the night. I woke up several times, overheated under the covers and uncomfortable with the sting. Marmalade was happy, he thought it was playtime whenever he saw me awake and I had a very persistent cat to deal with on top of my discomfort. I had Alexa play some soothing classical music to lull myself back to sleep but I only managed to drift in and out for most of the night, the music making my dreams drift in Disney-accented colors. I gave up trying once I saw the light creeping in behind the window blinds, and decided to start my usual morning routine. 
Having this new laptop has been a blessing, even though it hasn't even been a full week, I feel reborn being able to utilise a proper keyboard once again. It's a welcome new morning companion, along with the morning news shows, and my usual oatmeal and coffee for breakfast. 
My top priority was to get my bicycle fixed, though, and I was waiting for a more amenable time to call my local bike shop to see if they were open for repairs. With the pandemic and all the executive orders from our governor, I wasn't sure how much of their business was available. I caught up online, did some light chores, blogged here, and started planning my day. Of course the shop was open and doing repairs, I was told when I called, so I got ready and walked my wounded bicycle the few blocks over. 
Every time I deal with the good people at AAAA Bike Shop, I'm always taken a little aback by their brusqueness, very no-nonsense and direct. Which is actually refreshing, I never feel like I'm getting pressured into more than I need or want (would you like a sparkle banana seat and handle streamers?). I told the repair guy in the back of the shop what I needed, the front tire, which was noticeably bald and flat, a bike rack to carry small items from the stores, and I wanted my kickstand moved. It's on the back tire and not in the middle, and the bike falls over constantly, it won't balance from the back end and drives me mad. 
Okay, he said to the first request. You gotta go up front and pick out a rack, he said to the second. A firm NO, to the third. Well, fuck me then, I thought, but he explained that I had an expensive bike, and it couldn't be moved with the design. 
Now here's where I paused in thought because, although I really like my bike and think I got a pretty good deal when I bought it, it's performs great, nice and solid, very little maintenance, quiet and fast, I knew for a fact that it was not expensive. I had gotten it at Wal*Mart a few years before and with the little damage that was on it from being in the store (people riding it through the aisles), I was able to talk the cashier into knocking the price down to a hundred and thirty bucks. So his declaration that I had an expensive bike made me laugh a little. I went to the front of the shop and the owner helped me right away, I told him I wanted a no-frills rack and the new tire, he said to come back in an hour, and off I went. 
I puttered around at home for a bit, Helene returned from her weekend job and I caught her up on the neighborhood gossip, and I made plans to walk later with my friend Lance. By now, my sunburn had reduced to a minor discomfort, looking far worse than it actually felt and I was up for another day of exercise. 
I returned to the shop to retrieve my bike, forgetting to bring  the claim check that was still on my kitchen table, but they knew which one was mine and I settled up, hopped on, and rode home. I gave it the once over when I got back, it was well worth the money for the new tire and the rack although they did tell me I had to lose the adjustable seat option, the clamp got in the way of the new rack supports. I never used it anyway so it was a small loss. 
But by now my curiosity was getting the better of me. What did he mean about having an 'expensive bike'? I decided to look up my model, gleaning the information from the decals that cover the frame, It was an older model but I found it with very little effort. Evidently it retailed brand new at five hundred dollars. Although it wasn't what I would classify as expensive, it was far more than I originally paid and far more than I would have paid for any bicycle, especially at the financially-strapped time I bought it. 
I'll say this, I'm glad I NEVER locked it up outside overnight from the moment I bought it! 
The rest of the day went smoothly, I hadn't seen Lance since before the weekend and I was eager to catch up, and we had a nice power walk up and down the boards. 
By nine o'clock at night, though, my exhaustion was getting the better of me. I was able to catch the first hour of the second episode of 'Grant', the new docudrama on the History Channel about the famous general and president before I passed out and slept straight through the night. 

The Memorial Day (More Holiday/Less Patriotism Version)

Because of the pandemic, I have been hibernating on the weekends to avoid the crowds of shoobies flooding down to the area like our own little Biblical plague. Especially this past weekend, since the Memorial Day holiday is usually the unofficial opening of the summer season. The weekend was a bit of a washout, weather-wise, and most people stayed away. The fact that there was parking in my neighborhood all through the weekend was a shocking sight to see! So when it came to Memorial Day Monday, I readily accepted the offer to go bike riding with my friend Charity. The skies were overcast, the winds were negligible, I thought it would be advantageous to get a quick eight miles in and then go home to do... well... nothing. I was supposed to meet her on the Boardwalk about halfway so I got ready and ventured out, quickly making my way to the Atlantic City border to hop on the Boardwalk there, since the Ventnor boardwalk is still prohibiting bicycles until next weekend (editor's note: The Boardwalk in Atlantic City is considered an official thoroughfare so it gets capitalized like a street name). To my surprise, it was far busier than I had anticipated. I had expected most of the tourists to go home by Monday and I was wrong. There were people everywhere, families, groups, bicycles, strollers, skateboarders (more on that later), and those just enjoying the benches watching everyone stroll or ride by. 

I wound my way through the crowds, slowing here and there to let people pass, and then picking up the pace whenever I found a break. I'm a bit of a speed demon on my bike, as I've discussed before in this blog, and being hampered by all the shoobies was annoying me. Especially since I wasn't expecting so many of them to hang on through the holiday. But once I hit Albany Avenue, where the AC Boardwalk doubles in width, I was able to weave through the throngs of people with relative ease. As I was going along, I kept a lookout for Charity's distinctive blue bike color but, as it always happens, you realize how popular her bike color actually is when you're looking for that particular hue and I was staring down everyone that came towards me thinking it might be her. Before I knew it, I was already at the other end of the Island of Love and I hopped off the boards at the Ocean Casino and down the two blocks to her complex, texting her the usual Where are you? messages. I rested outside waiting for her to get ready, doing the usual content uploads to my social media pages, the obligatory photos of me and my bike with hashtags and shares. She eventually arrived and off we went, without any coherent idea where the day would take us.
We decided to go straight up to the end of the island to the Boardwalk above New Hampshire Ave, and hop on from there. This end of the boards is usually less populated, the housing density in that area and the lack of boardwalk-centric businesses are the biggest reasons. It's a great place to fish from, though, with the jetties all along the Inlet and the fact that the water comes right under the Boardwalk in a lot of places along there. We made our way past the sparse crowds and took the bend around, where the Boardwalk meets the first set of casinos and that's where the crowds really picked up. For the most part, we were able to ride side-by-side and keep up conversation, it was really rather lovely out despite the overcast skies and the extra tourists.
Once we got to Stockton's campus, we turned around and started our way back, the narrower part of the boards beyond that point was a little too crowded. Now that did a circuit, I figured I'd go back for one more and the return trip was much like the first and we chatted and rode in leisure all the way back to the Showboat, turning around once again. Of course, we noticed that a few of the 'watering holes' had opened along the world famous boards and, since we are who we are, we decided to take a break at the Steel Pier bar and get an adult canned beverage, since that's all they were selling under the new pandemic guidelines. We found some empty benches along the ocean and sat there enjoying our surprisingly refreshing beverages, safely six feet away from anyone else. We people-watched, since that's what you do, and mulled over where our next stop would be. Hopping on our bikes, we moseyed along and before we knew it, we were all the way down by the Ocean Club condos (Hi, Roland and Cathy!). We saw that the Celebrity Bar was open and, since we are celebrities, we decided to get another libation, claiming one of the nearby benches again as our base of operations. I watched with great curiosity as to how they were preparing cocktails, with the new rules and the laws against open containers (I kept saying 'open carry' and Charity had to constantly remind me that was about guns), mixed drinks had to be served in sealed containers. It absolved the bar of serving an open container, and it solved the issue of making money by selling the very thing they make money from. Win/Win in my book. But I was also gathering intelligence, so to speak, since we're probably going to be opening my bar, the VÜE, sooner rather than later. This end of the boards seem to have an unlimited supply of people to watch and we set up camp and talked massive shit on everyone that came into view! After a few rounds, we decided we were hungry and ordered some overpriced boardwalk food and I noticed that the sun had come out and I knew in the back of my reasonable mind that I would be regretting my decision to stay outside instead of pedaling home to safety from the lethal rays of the sun.
The alcohol helped. We had a brilliant time there and the hours flew by but we were getting restless and decided to see what our friend Michelle Tomko was up to, since she's always out and about doing something in the city. We found out she was on Tennessee Ave. hosting an outdoor car-concert, yet another of the 'new normal' situations that have been invented during these pandemic times. Back on our bikes, we (more) carefully made our way back uptown. Of course, we quickly found that Rhythm & Spirits was open for business (serving sealed cocktails to go) so we ordered two and made our way back to chat with Michelle. Selfies, gossip, pandemic talk ensued and then Charity and I found yet our third spot on the boards to sit and enjoy the late afternoon. We commenced the people watching/judging immediately.
But by now, the full sunshine and the beverages had gotten the better of me and I was itching to go home. We bid our farewells and each pedaled off in opposite directions, although now I was regretting coming this far back uptown, it meant a much longer ride home, and not a full-capacity.
Although I had my misgivings, the ride home was really rather nice, the crowds had thinned out considerable, it was by now dinnertime after all, so I was able to pick up some good speed here and there, as my exercise app kept reminding me, 'Your current speed is 17.4 mph. Your average speed is 9.8 mph. You have reached 14 miles in distance. You have reached your original goal.' I remember this because this is where my excellent day took bit of a bad turn.
The app was telling me this as I was speeding down past the shuttered Atlantic Club building and quickly entering that area of the Boardwalk I previously alluded to above, where it goes down to two 'lanes' so to speak. Directly in front of me, on the wrong side, was a skateboarder who, for some unknown reason (stupidity? brain damage? shoobie?) wasn't veering out of my way and I was going way too fast to stop in enough time. He jumped off his skateboard which proceeded to slam into my front tire and I skidded to a stop. The young man (20's I guess) asked if I was okay, I said 'Yes' and added an 'Asshole' for good measure and then continued on my way home. I got two blocks before I realized he had popped my front tire with his skateboard and I now was forced to walk the remaining ten blocks home to Ventnor, all of my day-long good feelings quickly evaporated during my humble stroll with a wounded bicycle. 
Truth be told, I was planning to replace that tire anyway, constant use had worn away the tread. That's  why I knew I was in for an accident at that moment on the boards, there was no way I could have stopped in time. And that's why I didn't pound the crap out of that kid.
Once home, I cleaned up, got changed and assessed the damage, both to my bike and my skin. It didn't take long to determine I had gotten quite a bit of sunburn and was going to have to get my bike fixed in the morning. After a quick dinner of leftovers, I attended to my burns and turned in early.
Even though it wasn't how I preferred the day to end, was still an rather excellent holiday! 

Unexpected Windfall

There is one thing that has been blessedly saved and simultaneously damaged by this novel coronavirus, and that thing is my bank account. Which is one of the stranger 'symptoms' of this pandemic. I'm not making more than my former salary, it's roughly the same, and that twelve hundred dollar stimulus check helped but it's been long spent on rent and bills. The curious thing about this pandemic is that I am out of work and still making money and my roommate is working. Which is a great relief, since I've been singularly supporting our little household for quite a long time. I was happy to do so for the first few months but it started to get harder and harder to work sixty hours a week and not have a single thing to show for it aside from a roof over our heads and the usual amenities of heat and electric. But now I'm in the unusual paradox of having a regular income, discretionary spending money, and no where to go and spend it! Being the social creature that I am, along with the fact that as a bar/restaurant manager who enjoys supporting my fellow bars and restaurants, I liked going out several times a week to spread the love which is now impossible with the stay-at-home executive orders.
But it hasn't stopped me from shopping online like many, many other Americans, which is where the damage comes in. The laptop I'm writing this entry on is an example of that. I finally had enough to buy a new one, something I had only wished for ever since my old one started acting up a year ago (broken internal fan, longer and longer load times, mysterious crashing incidents). And then there's my Amazon wishlist, which is no longer there. I emptied that out in one fell swoop. I've been on a spending spree like no other, probably making up for the lost time but I will pat myself on the back for finding good deals and curbing my impulse buys as much as humanly possible. Although when you come over and hear the surround sound of my linked Bluetooth speakers, you might have a convincing counter argument to that last statement. I am glad that I'll be able to get some much needed upgrades done to my bicycle, that was a 'need' and not a 'want' that I've been avoiding for a while.
I'm lucky, I know. The system worked for me. I planned out my coronavirus post-work financials and it worked to my advantage. Here's hoping that those who haven't will get their stimulus checks and finally get their unemployment money soon. 

Stuff And Pandemic Stuff

A novel coronavirus has gripped the world, changing the lives of Apple factory workers in China to lifeguards in Australia, drag performers in Brooklyn to schoolteachers in Brazil. It's the global scale of this outbreak that I have to keep reminding myself of whenever I get the woe-is-me blues. Although the death rates have a way of keeping you humbled and focused, especially here in the US, I am thankful we have such dedicated healthcare workers and damn good medical care in this country. It was the only bulwark we had to stop the tsunami of death that could have washed over us and kept the numbers in the tens of thousands (over 95,000 at the time of this writing) instead of the projected millions we might have had to bury. I'm not in a mood to rage over the politics of our government's response right now, I'll save that for another post.
I wanted to add my story to the chorus of voices who's lives and futures have changed considerably because of this virus, and remember what could have been. Yes, this is the woe-is-me part.
Working at the Claridge has been an amazing experience, I love working in an old hotel. The history and beauty, the quirks and problems, made it a job like no other. I had come from opening casinos, brand spanking new buildings, state of the art design for the guests as well as the staff, unlimited resources for my department, I had always been pampered by the regiment and routine of working under so much scrutiny and procedure, every day was like the last and change came gradually and without the usual bugs and problems that comes along with it. It had already been done somewhere else, we just applied it seamlessly to our daily routines. Even when I began my performing career, I adopted a lot of what I learned from my regimented routines at the casinos and adapted them to being a drag queen. I kept a journal of what songs I performed, my guests, how much I made in tips, what I wore, the weather, my outfits were always carefully coordinated and streamlined, the song list adjusted to account for the costume changes. Even the rare hiccup, like a no-show guest performer was hardly a problem, I would just ask one of the dozens of drag queens sitting at the bar to fill in for the night. About the only thing that wasn't scripted and planned was my monologue, and you never knew where I was going to go with that. Hell, I never knew what was going to come out of my mouth most of the time. And bartending at the Studio was also pretty routine, for all the madness that swirled around that place. I got to work, had a few drinks, made a lot of money, had a lot of fun, went home. Repeat.
And then along came the Claridge. It's a well-worn story about how I thought I was just working that one New Year's Eve and ended up staying there for what is now over five years later. But in the beginning, it started out as just another bartending gig. Worked in the little gay club we had going, settled in, and tried to build the business. All the usual stuff. It wasn't long, though, before I realised the Claridge was going to be a different animal from what I was used to. 
You have to remember, the hotel hadn't been in private hands for decades. Even though it was still open and running all this time, it was only being used as a hotel tower for Bally's, all the public areas were closed off and not in use. Once it was sold to the current owners, and some extensive renovations were made, did it begin life again as a boutique hotel. And as with all 'new' properties, there were the usual growing pains. The first few years saw so many management changes, I quickly lost count of all the direct managers I had, not to mention those among the executive level. It seriously go to the point where I just called them by their number and not their name, that's how quickly we were going through them. Now, this amount of change has a lot of issues that come with it. Every manager and general manager had their own stamp they wanted to put down and everything had to change with the new regime. When one GM decided to close down my little bar, I was cast adrift into the banquet system, and for the first time in a very long time, I was unmoored. My manager at the time was... quirky... in his management style. He basically would tell all of us to come in at some specified time and then he would dole out assignments. One day I'd be working outside in the park for Reggae Night, the next I'd be working a wedding, the next I would be bartending a hip-hop party in the ballroom. Many days, we'd come in at that specified time and have to wait all day before our event began, it was an odd way to work but it taught me a lot about adaptability. The VÜE was under construction and somehow I was passed over to bartend up there once it opened but I slogged on in the trenches throughout the building and in banquets until, eventually, I was noticed by our newest (and best) manager and she put me behind the bar with Jerry and the rest was history. Well, kind of. We had a lot of work to do to get our name out there and we didn't have the best suited upper-level management at the time. The realities of a rooftop bar in summer-touristy Atlantic City clashed with the expectations of New York-style management who didn't understand the local market. Or the weather. Or the clientele. Or the city. Or the staff. And another succession of bar managers came and went until, finally, reality set in and some big changes were made at the upper level. By then, I had been asked to become the bar manager a few times but I had always turned them down. I had expected to take the position at some point but I wasn't ready yet. Once they cleared house, though, I was kind of trapped into it. In a good way, though, it was my own (positive) undoing and I take full responsibility for all of it. And I was excited and terrified at the same time. A combination of emotions that convinced me I was making the right decision. Thankfully, I was promoted in the fall, it was a good time to take the reigns, learn the job, figure out what I was supposed to do. That was another curve ball, I often laughed when the other hotel managers would ask me to do something, office worker wise, and I'd give them a blank stare. They were so used to me being around for years, and managing in-between actual managers, that they forgot I didn't really know spreadsheets from share drives. So going into the slow holiday winter season was perfect timing, I was able to focus on learning the office-end of managing so I could be better prepared for my first summer at the helm. Things were going well, after the usual lull of December and January, the temperate winter weather was working to our advantage. I noticed that, as each weekend went by, we were a little busier and busier. More so than the years before, and not only at the VÜE, but throughout the hotel. Our sales team was booking a lot of events and weddings and there were some weekends where banquets would be cleaning an event space from one party and setting up for a wedding in the same space. It was good trouble, as we say, and all the signs were pointing to a good season to come. I had events lined up, and some in the pipeline for the bar. We were getting new deck furniture, building an outdoor bar for the guests, everything was looking up! That's when we began to hear about this viral outbreak in China. Although it wasn't reported on alarmingly in the beginning, I remember thinking that if this spreads, the fear of it would be problematic. Stupid me had the high-hopes that we'd (medical science) figure it all out and it would be contained just like the Ebola outbreak of four years ago. Tragic, but localized. In short order, though, it was turning into something else. The staff kept asking me what I thought, and I was honest. I said that if it becomes a pandemic, even if it's not that deadly, the fear of getting sick will drive business away more than the probability of it. Again, here I was trying to look on the bright side and minimizing how dangerous this particular virus eventually became. But I was very worried for my staff and the business losing money. Through February and the beginning of March, though, we were still doing really well, every weekend was a little better than the last and the staff and I were getting really optimistic about the summer to come. And that's where all ended. Telling the staff we were closing was a really hard thing to do but to their amazing credit, they all took it in stride. It's not like they didn't see the writing on the wall. But, because I was the manager, I had to stay on and get the bar closed down for the duration and that ended up being a lot harder than I expected. Every day would be beautiful, the sun shining, the temperatures warming, and here I was throwing out all the perishables and securing the liquor and packing away all the furniture for an undetermined amount of time. I kept thinking of what was supposed to be happening but every day I was doing the exact opposite. It was surreal, especially for someone who's entire working life in the service industry has been based around the tourist season. I freely admit, I cried a little on my last day up there. I went from the pie-eyed goal of increasing our revenues by a third for the year to losing all the momentum we were building to put the VÜE on the map in this city. It was devastating. Now here is where I remind myself that at least my staff, our guests, and I am alive and healthy to start all over again. The entire world was brought to its knees and far too many didn't have the opportunity to survive and complain. But it still hurts to ponder the what ifs. The could of beens. The lost time. The rotten timing. As it stands today, we are looking to reopen once we get consensus from our local and state governments which might be sooner rather than later. I'm hoping against hope we will, eventually, regain the momentum we had and get this rolling again. I have the best staff in the business. If we can only go up from here, I'm damn glad we have a 23 story head start!

We Love Lucy, the Elephant!

Lucy the Elephant. So many people know what that is and yet so many people have no clue. As someone who give tours of Lucy, I know this first hand, because I hear it every time I work from the tourists who come visit her. Many of them bring their grandchildren, and tell me stories of their first visit 30, 40 , 50 years ago and then I get those who stumbled upon her, either through a Google search of what to do in the area or simply driving by and seeing a big elephant butt standing along the roadside. I grew up on the island, in Atlantic City, so Lucy has been a part of my life long before I worked for her. Truth be told, although I used to party in the neighborhood around Lucy, home to iconic bars as Maloney's and Reds, and would wave hello to her whenever I was there, but I hadn't ever gone in her until a few years ago. I hear all the stories, people who knew the Gertzen family, who owned Lucy until the 60's, those who helped raise money to move and restore the big elephant in the 70's, I even get to hear the whispered stories of those who broke into her when she was shut down, slightly embarrassed about their naughty past. But everyone who knows of Lucy really, really loves her. She's iconic, obviously, as any 6 story elephant would be. Margate wouldn't be Margate without her, both literally and figuratively. Literally, because she's the reason the city exists. At the time, that area was still considered South Atlantic City so her presence created the town around her. Figuratively, because recent news reports have stated the city that she created is considering moving her out, to Atlantic City. And that news has created quite the firestorm both here on the island and the surrounding area. To those of us here, Lucy is to Margate like the Eiffel Tower is to Paris, and the Statue of Liberty is to New York. And before you say I'm conflating Lucy's stature, remember that she was here before both of those other tourist attractions. Actually, she's the oldest roadside attraction in the United States. Moving Lucy would be a mistake, for both Margate and Atlantic City. The sleepy-town nature of Margate, all hustle bustle during the summer months but slow and steady during the off-season are a perfect fit for a structure that has been standing there for 137 years. To move to the big city, so to speak, would make for a strange fit. For a building from the Victorian age and zoomorphic, standing in the midst of the glitzy lights of the casinos and Boardwalk shops would be both out of place and out of time, since Atlantic City has a penchant for tearing down its past to find its future. Lucy is more than just a building to those of us who know her. She's our mascot, our touchstone, our love. We all have Lucy stories to tell, and that says a lot for an elephant that never says a word. As a matter of fact, when we go to open Lucy for the day, we always say "I'm going to wake Lucy up.'' To those of us who work there, she's more than a job. And to those who love Lucy, she's more than a plot of land to build another block of condos.
Keep Lucy in Margate. It's where she belongs.

A Letter From Atlantic City

For two weeks before the crowning night, young women from all over the nation, all fifty states, the District of Colombia, and Puerto Rico, converge on Absecon Island, more specifically Atlantic City, to vie for the title of Miss America. This annual tradition only recently returned to these shores after a brief stint out in the desert in that other casino city for a few years, and it was a welcome return of the prodigal daughters to the businesses and residents of the island. Their presence, along with all the pageant attendants, the support staff, the ABC television crew, the contestant’s families, the state delegations, and many of the past Miss America winners fill the city for and extra week, extending the summer season past what is, for the locals, known as the traditional end of the summer but known to the rest of the world as Labor Day. The hotels are booked, Boardwalk Hall, the pageant’s home since 1940, gets camera ready, parties and events are planned, the entire week is parsed down to the minute for everyone involved, including when you sleep, eat, speak, and are shuttled from one event to the next. It’s a well run machine of organization, a testament to the devotion of all the volunteer committees attached to the Miss America Pageant. They are as tireless as the contestants, keeping them on schedule and delivering them from one party to the next event. For the locals, the perks range from the extra week of work to spotting a Miss America hopeful in a hotel lobby or walking into a restaurant or filming a promo reel for the network. You hear them trading sightings like baseball cards, who was seen where, how nice they were, how pretty they looked, it’s all part of the local tradition. Even the families of the contestants are treated like stars, you’ll hear the locals talk about meeting Miss Delaware’s mother and how nice she was, or Miss Michigan’s little sister who was very pretty, too. But, while sighting a contestant has a certain thrill, many of the locals learn who they are and take great pride in choosing who will win, place, and show on the big night, the real star power belongs to those who have won the crown before. Those women who have already walked the runway to the sound of Bert Parks singing the pageant’s anthem, There She Is Miss America, waving to the throngs of pageant worshippers in the Hall hoping not to lose the wobbling tiara only just bobby-pinned to their teased and coiffed hair. They are the stars of the week, that is, until the newest is crowned on Sunday night. Much has changed over ninety-four years, for both the country and the Miss America Pageant, and many of the former winners who return each year are from many of those different eras of our country, each representing the women of their age, from the 1950’s debutante era, to the 1960’s and 70’s where social mores changed and the pageant resisted, to the glamorous 1980’s and the pageant’s first real scandal, and then the updates and upheavals over the following decades where rules were relaxed, formats changed, revolving hosts, and virulent backlash for it’s antiquated ideas of womanhood and beauty. Yet somehow, the pageant has soldiered on, it’s sorority of winners increasing by one more each September, and it’s still filling the boardwalk for the parade and the Hall for the show. It’s a tradition steeped in another time, that’s still trying to find it’s footing in the here and now, but it is fanatically maintained by a cadre of devotees from around the country, keeping it alive, if not all that relevant. The historic Claridge Hotel, one of the last remaining “skyscrapers by the sea” as it was known in the Boardwalk Empire-era of Atlantic City, played host to many of the former Miss Americas for the week. One of it’s dark panelled meeting rooms served as a home base for the state delegations to throw small receptions, where the state representatives could meet and greet the former winners and sit for the obligatory photo-ops and selfies, with free food and drinks available to all the invited guests. And it is exclusive, the volunteers ensure that no one gets into that room unless their name was on the list, always just enough people to make it a nice gathering, never too many to make it uncomfortable or stuffy. The state delegates are always so enamored of the Miss Americas, and they, to their credit, are gracious and delightful, even though you know they’ve heard the same fawning speeches and accolades year after year, their smiles are genuine and their enthusiasm, if a bit forced, is still pure. For them to come back each year, many of them for decades, shows a certain love for the pageant, a devotion to what the pageant means for all of it’s delegates and fans, a fealty to what made them compete for the crown the year they won. Whatever your opinion of the pageant, to be Miss America is entry to an exclusive club, and they take that title very seriously. And it is serious. There’s a lot of money at stake. It is, after all, a scholarship pageant that doles out millions every year in all the local and state contestants. During the week, the preliminary contests are run at the Hall, with minor, usually local, celebrities and pageant professionals judging the girls over three days. The show you see on crowning night is the same one they do for the preliminaries, with different hosts, and it’s where they narrow down the field of fifty-two to a more prime time slot friendly top fifteen. There is a break during all this hoopla, but it’s not for resting, because that’s when they put on the Show Us Your Shoes Parade, where each contestant is showcased in a fancy convertible car from yesteryear, and local high school bands march by wearing their tall hats with feathers and woollen jackets, drumming and piping and tuba-ing all along the way. The baton twirlers, flag wavers, and synchronized dancers all delight the packed crowds along the boards as they do their thing, to cheers and chants and appreciative applause. Unlike many parades, though, this one is interactive, where you can approach the contestants and get a quick selfie, or boo them if they don’t show their shoes, although now the girls make sure to have tricked out footwear just for the parade, usually highlighting something relevant to their individual states. Kentucky’s might have a Derby theme, Florida might showcase the orange, Nevada usually has cards and dice, all heavy on the sequins, naturally. The floats and bands are all judged but no one really cares, it’s a lovely night out on the boardwalk celebrating Americana in all it’s kitschy splendor. The energy in the Hall is amazing on crowning night, state delegations are packed all over the arena and loudly cheer and wave signs whenever their state contestant’s name is mentioned. You’ll hear chants, call backs, noisemakers, it’s almost as if it’s a sporting event. The top fifteen are quickly whittled down to the top twelve after swimsuit, which are then pared down to the top ten after evening gowns, when we get to see the talent portion. Although two of them have no idea they are not in the top ten until the moment their name isn’t called to perform. The losing contestants all put on a brave face, say the usual platitudes of how lucky they are to be there, lauding the newly formed sisterhood they found simply by being there together, and then the cameras focus shifts and they are quickly forgotten. The dreaded pop-quiz question and answer portion is last, where they each get a question from one of the judges and have to come up with something on the spot. The questions are usually hot button issues or politically tinged, and never something answerable in twenty seconds of time. Many of them are adept at the non-answer, circuitous, non-committal, saying a lot without really saying anything. A future Miss America needs to be everything to everyone and choosing sides, especially in the social media age, is a definite no-no! Finally, a winner is crowned and she makes her way down the runway, clutching a bouquet of roses, wiping away tears, and basking in the gushing adoration of all the pageant aficionados and fans in the audience. The television cameras are off and the show is done. Boardwalk Hall empties it’s patrons into the balmy Atlantic City night as everyone goes their way, to after parties, maybe a nightcap, or most likely home to bed. It is Sunday night and the kids have school in the morning. At the former Miss Americas party, going on until late into the night, all the talk is about their newest member. Knowing glances trade back and forth around the room as each of them knows the year ahead coming to their new sister, and that furtive smile of knowing they all survived it in their own way. The mood is laid back, the gowns have been shed for more comfortable clothing, shoes are tucked under chairs, daughters and granddaughters are running around, pizza is ordered, final photos are taken, and they all promise to keep in touch until they see each other next year. Miss America week has come and gone and the city is experiencing it’s first few days free of tourists (shoobies, as they are called by the locals), pageant queens, and little girls in tiaras. Parking is once again plentiful all up and down the island, the stores and restaurants are no longer bustling with excess patrons so the locals can shop and eat in blessed peace. The balmy air still holds the summer heat but for all intents and purposes, the season is over here. After three months of hustle bustle, everyone is breathing a welcome sigh of relief. Many of the hotels and casinos are now preparing themselves for the long winter ahead, booking small conventions, trade shows, and the other events and functions that will bring some business to the city over the months to come. Life, as the locals know it, has returned to normal.

A Tale Of Two Meals (Part I)

Atlantic City Restaurant Week has finally arrived and as someone who knows this island inside and out, I look forward to this week (and the ‘surprise’ extended week) with a hearty anticipation. No matter what the newspapers and magazine articles and television shows can say about my troubled city, I know that there are some amazing eateries to be found all over it, from the hidden gems down side streets to the major casino tourist destinations, there is a lot of delicious food to be had and this is the best time to enjoy it all.
Rita and I quickly made a few reservations for some choice destinations and the first on our list was Gordon Ramsay’s Pub & Grill at Caesars, although she had been there before, this was my first time. As an anglophile, I have passed by Ramsay’s place many times looking longingly at the Disney-esque, Brit-themed restaurant that took over the former Mia’s in the main lobby of Caesars Hotel. The cute tartan outfits and mod-punk look of the wait staff was charming from a distance. But I never seemed to find myself going there for lunch or dinner, I had heard the menu was rather pricey, undoubtedly to pay the rent for that choice location, and as I said above, I know far too many places in the city where I can get great food without having to empty my wallet. But now I had the chance to give it a go and see what all the fuss was about. Our reservation was for 2:15p and we had arrived in plenty of time to check in with the hostess, who searched her computer to find our name and told us there would be a little wait time and for us to stand along the railing. By the looks of the restaurant, they were very busy, it was Sunday afternoon and the weather had been beautiful so the casino and the city was bustling with tourists. so we weren’t troubled by having to wait a few minutes.
And then a few minutes longer.
And then many more minutes longer.
By now, people were walking up and getting seated and my grumbling stomach was getting annoyed that we were still standing there.
Finally, the hostess seemed to look in our direction and realize that, oh, we were waiting to be seated and she asked our name, again, and looked over her computer screen, then she finally gave the seating hostess some menus and directions to wherever they had decided to finally put us. Finally.
By now, it’s nearly a half hour after our reservation but we were getting closer to getting fed. And getting a cocktail, if you know us, you know we’re going to drink.
Another five or so minutes went by, the two of us had already decided on our courses and were engaged in that pass-the-pepper conversation you inevitably have as you wait for your waiter to come over. By now we were getting a bit annoyed, this had become tedious and we were thirsty and hungry. Our waitress arrived, all bubbly and exuberant, took our order but had to tell Rita that the dessert she was looking forward to, namely the chocolate fondant, was sold out and everyone was getting the toffee pudding. We accepted our dessert fate and told her to hurry up with our drinks (Guinness for her, a dirty martini for me). Of course, we waited another interminable time to get even that bit of solace, and I was getting less and less enamored with our friend from across the pond and his Pub.
Now here’s where I have to note that the staff, and there was a lot of them, all seemed to be working very, very hard. They bustled to and fro, moving plates, cleaning tables, setting out tableware, punching the POS, rushing by our table, it was controlled chaos but I kept thinking, Bloody hell, all this action and yet we are STILL sitting here waiting and waiting for our courses to arrive. What could they all possibly be doing that’s more important than serving the paying customers? Especially paying customers who drink!
Our first course arrived, I had chosen the English Pea and Ham Soup and Rita chose the Scotch Egg, the presentation was impeccable and my soup was tasty but by the time our main course arrived, I had wished for a much larger portion to tide me over. Yes, once again we had to wait far too long in between courses. When it finally arrived, I was very happy I chose the hearty Chicken Pot Pie as my second and Rita’s Bangers and Mash looked really good, with three individual sausages made of chicken, beef, and pork over a bed of mashed potatoes and topped with a giant onion ring. I tried to cut into my Pot Pie but the dough topping was a bit tough/gooey, it was extremely hard to cut with a knife and I simply folded it over and pushed aside in the bowl to soak up the creamy chicken broth that contained the freshly cut and cooked vegetables. It was a bit bland, even with the fresh veggies, but it was filling and I was very hungry at this point. I did manage to break up the dough crust topping and eat that as well, but as before, it wasn’t anything special, especially with soaking up a bit of the aforementioned bland broth. Another wait and we got our dessert course, and as I said, we both had to have the only choice available, the Sticky Toffee Pudding. Surprisingly, it was really, really good! The toffee poured over the pudding (which I suspected was previously hot at some point before it got to our table) and the tasty bit of vanilla ice cream was a great finish to a rather ho-hum meal. After another long wait to get our check, we finally paid and hurriedly left to get an after-lunch cocktail elsewhere. We had no intention of staying there for another round, Prince William would be crowned king before we got it.
After watching Kitchen Nightmares (on BBC America most mornings), and seeing how hard Ramsay is on American restaurateurs, I have to say this foray across the pond is not his finest hour. I’m not sure if it was poor planning, over-booking the reservations, or incompetent staffing that contributed to the dreadful service we received, but I can guarantee you that if we had been paying the usual listed prices for our meal, I would have started a revolution all over again!
Thankfully, the happy hour at the Continental on the Pier/Playground (whatever Blatstein is calling it nowadays) helped us forget our regrettable and forgettable lunch, and ensured the day wasn’t a total waste.
Cheers!


Next up: Girasole, a bit of heaven, draped in Versace!

Hello Brooklyn (Part II)

It seemed to be warmer out on the streets, even with the waning light. Although, that could have been the beer flowing though my veins. The streets were still full of people walking everywhere, in that brisk and determined pace you only see in a large city, and Rita and I linked arms as we walked up 3rd Street to the Duane Read. Finding a bottle of contact lens solution, we made our way back her car and I managed to give my lens a cleaning and it felt marginally better. We decided to get more food, to try something different, and Bedford Avenue seemed to be the place to find a meal as it was lined with all manner of shops and restaurants. We took our time, laughing and talking about this and that, window shopping and people watching, it was a Saturday night and there were people everywhere. Although, this being NYC, I think it would have been busy no matter what day it was. Knowing that there are at least eight million people within a few miles of us (that’s the population of Kansas, Oregon, New Mexico, and Montana combined), it’s nearly incomprehensible that so many people can be concentrated in such a way. Groups of young kids wandered by, more couples here and there, girls out on the town, mothers with young babies making their way to the corner stores, all of them passed us by as we casually walked down the street, arm in arm, deeply engrossed in our conversations, laughing at the stupid things only old friends laugh at. We decided we needed a drink, of course, before we found food, and our focus was now on finding a little bar somewhere. As luck would have it, we found Rosemary’s Greenpoint Tavern. Walking in, we were immediately struck by the riot of red that covered every inch of the place. Valentine’s Day had exploded in Rosemary’s and there wasn’t an inch of the place not covered by a heart or Cupid or red ribbons and red garland. Combined with the red lights, I felt like I was in a rather irritated vagina. There were two seats at the bar, but a young woman sitting there told us one of them was taken, and Rita and I shared the single stool left. The bartender had to be Rosemary, she looked as if she’s been bartending there since the place opened, many decades ago, tough as nails and still rocking the double teased, over processed hair. Informed that it was Happy Hour (four dollar cocktails!), we ordered our usual drinks. Rita had to use the ladies room so I sat minding our drinks when a rather hairy gentleman came in, promptly sat next to me without so much as a how-do-you-do, and ordered a beer, pulling crumpled ones out of his pocket and paying with that. I wondered if that’s who the young girl was waiting for but, when she pain him no attention, I was glad to see that she wasn’t that desperate. Rita returned and we decided to move to the little tables in the corner and we sat there, talking about how tacky/adorable Rosemary’s place was. Hairy guy left as soon as he finished his beer, leaving our girl sitting there alone and Rita and I mused that maybe she’d been stood up, and we decided we felt sorry for her. Rosemary poured a strong voddy and tonic, and I sipped it slowly as Rita and I gossiped over the patrons there, as if we knew their lives. Lonely girl’s friends came in a short time later, and that made Rita and I happy that she wasn’t stood up , and we decided we were hungry again and finished up our drinks and I took them back over to the bar, finally having to squeeze in between some patrons to put our empty glasses on the bar. It’s an industry/courtesy thing, anything to make the bartender’s job easier, that way Rosemary didn’t have to leave the bar to clean up after us. Back on Bedford, we passed restaurant after restaurant but couldn’t decide on a place. We ended up turning down one street and then making our way down Grand Street where Rita saw a dim sum place and we settled on eating there, even though I’ve never really had dim sum before. As with most places here, the restaurant was long and narrow, clean, with a modern look. The menus were hung on the brick wall at the tables and, before I could even begin to figure out what I wanted, Rita had pencil in hand and began furiously ordering our dinner. I deferred to her knowledge of Asian cuisine and her Asian heritage, and let her take charge. The waitress came over to explain things but when she saw Rita had already begun without her, she smiled, poured our water, and then took our order after a few questions from Rita about some of the items, all of which went right over my head. Actually, I was glad she took charge because my contact lens began acting up again and I was having a hard time concentrating on anything, let alone focusing on a menu. I decided to take care of this once and for all, and excused myself to use the loo in the restaurant to properly clean my lens. I had slipped the bottle of cleaning solution into my pocket when we were in the car, thinking ahead, something I’m usually not known for. The restroom was big and bright, with a nice big mirror, perfect for me to get this job done, and I cleaned my hands and took out my lens, scrubbing it in my palm, taking great care to get it clean and free of debris. I go to put the lens back in my eye, leaning over the sink and looking in the mirror when it fell off my finger. Ugh, now I’m half blind and I have to look all over the sink to find it. And I can’t. It’s not on the sink. Where did it go? In a panic now, I frantically look on my hands, my jacket, the sink again and again, when I face the realization that it must have hit the floor. Great. Here I am taking great pains to get this lens properly clean and now it’s on the floor of a bathroom in a restaurant in the middle of Brooklyn. Just great. On to my hands and knees I go, looking all over for this damn lens, and I can’t see it. There are water droplets everywhere, all looking like a contact lens, so I’m reduced to swiping my hands along the tiles, hoping against hope that I don’t rip the lens. Yes, the ironic grossness of the situation was not lost on me. Finding it, I place it on the sink. scrub my hands again, clean the lens again, and pop it into my eye, finally able to see clearly and cleanly, it was heavenly to not feel it in my eye anymore. Back out with Rita, I started laughing at the whole situation in the bathroom, but our close quarters with the other patrons in the restaurant held my tongue and I couldn’t tell her why I was giggling. The food began to arrive as it was ready, and everything was really tasty. My favorite had to be the soft-as-marshmallow dough balls filled with some sort of meat, it was so good I could have had ten of them. The spareribs were good but, with chopped pieces of bone attached to the meat, it was a little hard to eat without spitting out bits of bone every few minutes, especially with chopsticks. The dessert was delicious, warm balls of poppy seed pastries with a fruit center. I noticed my mobile had some messages, they were from Robert. another of my acting buddies from Boardwalk Empire, saying he was in Brooklyn looking for us. After a little back and forth, I finally determined he was at Radegast Hall so, Rita and I finished up our meal, paid the check, and made our way back. I was eager to see him, our days on the set were fond memories and we all bonded over that experience. Back in the Hall, it was still packed and still noisy and still fun, we walked around looking for Bob finding him right at the bar, where else. It was so great to see him, we hugged and I introduced him to Rita, and we ordered a round. Bob and I caught up, he was disappointed he missed Matt, who had gone on to some unknown place by then, we told him how great his band, the Sunnyside Social Club was and talked of Matt’s upcoming gig on the cruise ship. Bob and I talked about the other guys from the Boardwalk crew, what they were up to and what was going on, who we saw and how they were, what they were working on. We agreed that there was something about that time together that forged our friendships, even though we are such a diverse group, we will always have that shared experience to bond us. I told him I was jealous of all the work he’s been getting on Gotham but I’m truly happy he’s been working so much. By now, though, Rita and I decided it was time to go home, we had a long drive ahead of us and Bob was ready to go, too, we all finished our drinks and walked out together, said our goodbyes to Bob and walked down to our car. We still couldn’t believe we lucked out getting such a great parking spot. The navigation took us on a different route out of the city, one that took a half hour off our time, and Rita and I talked about this and that before my car-quiet took over and, with apologies to her, I passed out for a bit. Well, along with that last beer, I was feeling rather sleepy and couldn’t keep my eyes open. But, once I heard ‘Teenage Dream’ from the Glee soundtrack, I woke right up and we both sung it at the top of our lungs in our own version of Car Pool Karaoke. Perfect ending to a great day.

Hello Brooklyn (Part I)

Radegast Hall was heard long before it was seen, the music was pouring from it’s walls and windows as Rita and I walked down 3rd Street, where we lucked out getting a parking space a short block away. We crossed over Berry Street, dodging the busy traffic and weaving through the young couples and groups of friends all bustling about on this unseasonably temperate day. Entering the Hall, we were both carded, the doorman giving me the usual extra long look of surprise when he glanced at the date on my ID. I smile at him, knowingly, and follow Rita into the bar, and was immediately overwhelmed by the crush of people everywhere. Waitresses and busboys dashed by with determination and skill, darting in and out of the crowds with practiced ease. Rita and I took a moment to orient ourselves and try to make sense of the ordered chaos going on around us. I grabbed a waitress and asked her if we had to be seated but I barely heard her answer through the noise although I did catch the ‘sit in any open spot’ part before she ran off to take care of her customers. Anxious to find Matt, the reason we were there, I began to follow the source of the music into the next room and saw him with his band, The Sunnyside Social Club. smack in the middle of a rather cavernous hall, lined on either side with large, rough-hewn picnic benches, each full of boisterous twenty-something frat boy types, and young families with infants and toddlers, gay couples, and the occasional hipster. Beer steins and pitchers were in abundance, cluttering the tables, and the smell of food was intoxicating, more so than the promise of alcohol. I couldn’t get Matt’s attention from where we were and our way was blocked by the crowds milling about trying to find a seat so Rita and I made our way back through the bar area to try our luck at the other doorway towards the back of the room, closer to the band. My years of working in the casinos and the Studio Six gave me an edge, as I easily made my way around the bar with Rita in tow. As soon as I got to the entryway, Matt and I caught each other’s eye and he waved, I loved seeing the smile on his face. Since he was still in the middle of his set, I figured our priority was to get seated, get to the bathroom, and get some of whatever they were cooking, we were close to the open kitchen and the pans full of sausages and bratwursts were creating a rumble in my empty stomach. An adorable waitress with a red Mohawk saw the confusion on our faces and, through a half-screamed conversation, was able to find a seat for us at one of the picnic tables in the back, next to three pretty young girls to the one side, and two guys on the other who were intensely engaged in a conversation. We ordered drinks, me an unpronounceable dark beer and Rita a voddy and Sprite, and we looked over the food menu to see what they had. I settled on one of the brunch menu fares, and Rita decided to get her own from the little open kitchen behind us and we were both very satisfied with our selections, delicious and fresh. The sauerkraut was really excellent and it took a lot of willpower for me to not dive into Rita’s plate to eat all of it myself. Whilst we were eating we both had a chance to absorb our surroundings, watching all the people around us and listening to the band. Rita and I agreed that it was nice to get out of South Jersey and do something different, I know that personally needed another getaway to recharge my batteries, so to speak. It’s always good to go and see other faces, look at different buildings, be in different spaces, changing your perspective every once in a while gives you a new look on your life at home. Soon, Matt finished his set and came over with a pretty friend with her long dyed green locks piled on top of her head, and we hugged and said hello and introductions were made all around. I teased him that it took so long, and his going away party, for me to finally hear him play the accordion. He used to have it with him occasionally on set when we filmed Boardwalk Empire but wouldn’t play it for us, no matter how much we begged. We chatted about his upcoming gig on the cruise ship, what he was looking forward to and when he would be leaving, and for how long. He’s rarely been out of NYC and this is an exciting adventure for him. Rita and I complimented him and his band, they are very accomplished and you can tell they have spent some time together, they are tight and raucous, a good combination and they seem to be having fun even with the smattering of attention that this particular crowd was giving them. He and his friend ran off to talk to more people and Rita changed her mind and decided to have a beer, a proverbial when-in-Rome moment since we were in an urban biergarten. She tried to decipher the menu and chose one of the beers and I ordered another round and we cheered to our little New York adventure. Eventually, a couple was seated opposite us, he had a vaguely German accent (or Germanic in origin) and he asked what we were drinking and eating. We told them and they ended up getting the same beers as us but slightly different food, they both opted for the open-kitchen fare. Of course, the smell of their sauerkraut made me crave it again. We made small talk with them and the band started their next set, another bluesy-swing band-New Orleans tinged collection of songs and they sounded great. I noticed that the guy sitting next to Rita bore a resemblance to Steve Buscemi, he was short and wiry like Buscemi, and had on all black. I jokingly declared that he was Buck Buscemi, Steve’s son, which had Rita and I laughing. At one point, some of the toddlers began to dance in the aisle, delighting not only the crowd but the band as well, and they nearly stole the show. Rita and I were amazed by how many young kids and small babies were around us, her doctor instincts taking over and she fretted about such young ears being exposed to this loud music. But many of them were blissfully sleeping and didn’t seem to care one way or the other. Conversations and beer flowed continuously over the next hour or so, the Sunnyside Social Club started their third set with Matt back on the accordion and Rita and I watched the people around us, although my gaze became a little more hazy with each glass stein. Compounding my hazy vision was a little bit of what I call ‘contact drama’, my right contact lens began to bother me relentlessly. I must have gotten something in it and the irritation would not stop. I managed to pull out the lens and use Rita’s drops to clean it a bit, reinserting it with care since I would definitely lose it on the floor of the room, especially with all these people milling around us. I had thought to use the men’s room for my little emergency cleansing, but after my last visit there, the open trough for the gentlemen to pee in (reminded me of the Brass Rail a bit) made me think that the beer hall was an ever-so-slightly more hygienic option. It worked... for a few minutes. I ended up pulling it out and storing it in my pill case until we could hit the Duane Read and get some proper cleaning solution. Now I was truly hobbled, losing my depth perception, comically trying to reach for things and slightly missing them on the first try. It also took me a few minutes to focus on our check, sixes and eights are not easy to tell apart,and it took some skill to fight through the beer haze and the missing lens to sort it all out. I managed, somehow. With the end of their last set, Matt was done for the evening and Rita and I were feeling very nice. We decided to change our venue (and get to the drug store) and said our goodbyes to Matt, and wish him a bon voyage on his upcoming trip, and off we went through the never ending crowded bar to the street to see where the evening would take us.