Catching Up

 The war continues to rage in Ukraine, the images coming back of bombed out homes and maternity hospitals is sickening. I have shed a few tears over it. Something needs to happen to stop this madness. 

My friend Khoi died over the weekend, initially under mysterious circumstances but it was later revealed, by the local west coast news media, that it was an overdose. It surprised me, I had no clue he did drugs. Although I can't imagine he would have done anything it knowing it was laced with fentanyl but we weren't that close so I'm not sure what he was into. It's very sad, he was someone I really liked and always made me smile. 

Went to a meeting last night concerning plans for some sort of Pride event in Atlantic City this coming June. I have my reservations, it's awfully late to plan something like this, it should have been in the works last year, and heavily promoted for months now. I'm still on the fence about how much weight to throw behind it. I think I'll wait until the emails consolidating all the ideas discussed at the meeting are sent out and make my decision then. I'm torn between my desire to make this a great event for Atlantic City and my experience as to how hard it is to producing events like this. It won't be easy to make this even moderately successful. 
And then there's the distrust I have for City Hall. They've made many strides in the LGBTQ+ direction but I have my suspicions. I've lived here far too long not to have suspicions. 

Back to work this weekend, it's unofficially St. Patrick's Day weekend so it might be busy. Although we're not really an Irish bar but the VUE wasn't an Irish bar and we were always slammed during this weekend. 
After the meeting last night, several people remarked about how they heard how busy we've been at Little Water, it was good to hear. I want the Distillery to be well known in the city, and a destination place, even if it's not on the main drags of the Boardwalk or the Orange Loop. I'm all in with Mark and Guy and I want them to be successful.
As I've always said, when the house makes money, I make money! 

Watched and finished The Andy Warhol Diaries on Netflix and was obsessed with it. Lots of footage that I've never seen before of Andy in his private life, all very interesting. I'm definitely going to rewatch the series at some point. 

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.  

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. 

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!

From Boardwalk-To-Boardwalk, Part VI

I received another email from the casting agency informing me that I was needed once again for "Boardwalk Empire" and I was ecstatic! I didn't expect to get a call back so quickly and I readily accepted the offer and made my plans to travel back to Brooklyn. 

I had to check in at ten at night to get my call times for the next day's shoot and I patiently waited all day, finally making the call and getting a recorded message instructing me to call back in a half hour. This went on hour after hour, I reset my alarm waking up each time to call, finally getting the message around one thirty in the morning with my call times and other pertinent information I'd need for the day. Luckily it was a later call time then my last appearance but I still had to leave Atlantic City rather early to get to Brooklyn and find the set. 


It was a beautiful day and I had mapped out my route to the location set, not really sure what I was going to do, exactly. Supposedly the scene was taking place in a Chicago speakeasy which seemed exciting and full of promise. This part of Brooklyn was rather charming, full of little cafes and eclectic bars and my map was surprisingly accurate, taking me right to the YMCA that was rented to act as our holding area. I followed the signs upstairs and met with the PA, filled out my time sheet and then got directions to the church that was going to be our wardrobe area. On the way over, I met a nice young guy who was also on the show. It was his first time so I, being a veteran now, gave him a little advice and we talked a bit about the show. The church was a few blocks from the set and the YMCA and out front, craft services had set up a light breakfast right in the street, which garnered a few questions from the neighbours passing by. I walked through the little courtyard and through the doors. Through the small vestibule on the left were the bathrooms and to the right was another small room that led into the larger church basement area which now served as our hair/make-up and wardrobe. I went in the men's side and I looked at the walls and windows, over-painted and peeling, the linoleum faded and missing here and there and found a spot to get changed. I got into my costume, listening to the bustle of action around me. Once again it was controlled chaos, with the PA's herding us through the process and making sure things were running as smooth as possible. They were constantly talking into their radios coordinating the millions of minutiae that concerns the filming a television show. I stood in line and waited my turn for hair and make-up making small talk with everyone around me, smiling to myself, again, that this was happening to me!
One of the women there grabbed me, directing me to her chair to fashion my hair into something more era appropriate. As she started, she said, "So, you're a bartender." and I was shocked. How did she know what I do? So I asked her, "How did you know?" and she said, "No. It says it here on the call sheet.". 


Ahh!!! 


So I had a role (of sorts)!!! The rush of emotions nearly overwhelmed me, I wasn't expecting anything like this. I was happy, scared, nervous, terrified, excited, each feeling competing for attention but I didn't let any of that show. I just sat there as she finished her work and I got back in line for final wardrobe approval and then back to the holding area. When they asked my number for the day, ninety-four, I told them and that set off a frenzy of action. I was not in a bartender's costume, I was in my original wardrobe! Suddenly they removed my jacket and vest, found a different tie, suspenders and an apron so I would look the part. My trousers were also wrong, too long and creating a crease and that had to be adjusted by hiking them up very high, tightening the suspenders to their very limits. Evidently, men in the twenties did not have that little crease at the bottom of their pants. I found the attention to detail to be admirable, the camera wouldn't focus on our legs but they made sure we were still appropriate for the time period. I was also missing a button that needed replacement and they sewed it on while I was still in them. 


After a few more adjustments, there was another "bartender" as well, to make sure we were similar but not the exact same (yes, they argued over the tying of the aprons and how they should sit on our bodies), we were approved and released to have breakfast. By now, most of us were in costume and it was later in the morning, the neighbourhood was busy with people going about their business but it's not every day you wander down your street and see dozens of people dressed in clothing from another era. The camera phones came out and pictures were snapped by almost everyone walking by us. We milled about talking and passing the time before we were told to go to holding and wait for the set-up. 


This is when I noticed the set, or where the set was to be more precise. We had passed it before but I wasn't really aware of what was going on. Yes, they had equipment everywhere around the building, huge black-tarp tents covering the entrance of the building and generator trucks, trailers and other on-set items all over the street out front. You may wonder how I could have missed it but I did. I guess I was just focussed on finding out where I was supposed to be and getting ready than I was on where I was going to end up for the rest of the day.  It's amazing how the mind works. I made a few phone calls, updated my Facebook status and wasted time. They finally gathered us together to take us over to the set, explaining what we were about to do. It was indeed a Chicago speakeasy, where we would see the character of Agent Van Alden enjoying himself when we would get raided by Prohibition agents who later recognize him as one of their own. 


This was going to be fun! 


We filed out of the YMCA and across the street to the location set, now the streets in the neighbourhood were teeming with people and traffic, all gawking to get a look at all of us in costume. The director and crew grabbed us according to our characters to be placed on the set. I walked through all the equipment carts, full of every sort of item you could think of, props, lenses, extension rods, clamps, simply everything you'd need to make a film and I made my way through the tarp, over the snaking cables and wires, into a little area set up with the playback equipment, monitors and electrical boards of every sort. To my right was a door and we went through it and back in time! 

"Empire" Update

I'm currently writing my next "Boardwalk Empire" instalment detailing my role as a speakeasy bartender. Watch this space!

From Boardwalk-To-Boardwalk, Part V

Continuing my account of my first day of filming on "Empire": 


The PA's escorted us out of the holding area trailers and led us over to the set, passing along the bank of the Hudson River where the early dawn sun lit up the Manhattan sky-line perfectly. I walked near the front of the group and as we passed the shipping containers and I could see the "beach" and a quick glimpse of the boardwalk set, flanked by huge blue-screen panels where they add the ocean and extend the view with computer generated effects. My heart leapt a bit and I followed along through the back of the set to this little alleyway that ran the length of the boardwalk set but behind it. Suddenly, I was at a carnival, circa 1923, walking over planks and passing carny booths and games of chance. At the far end they had set up the cameras and the lighting, silver screens were positioned to direct the lights and parts of the set were removed to make room for the camera. The director was there with a contingent of assistants and the two stand-ins were on the marks, with masking tape on their jacket fronts denoting who they are standing in for. One was a little person perched on a box. He was the stand-in for the actor who plays Tommy Darmody, the son of Jimmy and Angela, both of whom died in the previous season. The other one was standing in for Jack Huston, who plays Richard Harrow, the guy with the mask. The crew were furiously running around, setting things up and talking into their walkie-talkies about everything at once. Construction was still going on here and there, painting and rigging. It was controlled chaos. There was a chilly and steady breeze whipping through the set but, with my excitement and nerves, I didn't feel a thing.

There was another discussion between the director and the PA's and suddenly they were parsing out our roles at the carnival, the director was grabbing us and positioning us around the set and giving us mini directions as to who we were in the scene and what we should be doing. There was a call for the "floozies", the "fat lady and tall man" and some of the other speciality roles and they set them up in their predetermined areas. Before I knew it, the director looked right at me and told me to stand right behind the stand-ins and then positioned one of the women to be my on-set wife and then called for two girls to be my on-set children. The one little girl was absolutely adorable dressed in her 1920's wardrobe, she looked like a little doll. I was instructed to hold her in my arms, so she could be seen in the shot. All of this happened so fast, I barely had time to register the fact that I was going to be DIRECTLY in the camera shot! Since we are shooting outside, there is a need for speed and the director quickly finished setting up the background actors that would be seen in the shot (several more were positioned around me) and we were told what the scene was and how to react.

I had no clue what I was doing. Honestly, I hadn't a clue what I was doing and a brief moment of panic set in.

We did a small rehearsal and they refined the placement of the actors and props, moving me over a bit so I was directly in the camera shot (yikes!) and they decided to switch my family, giving me a new wife and a young son. They reasoned that little girls wouldn't be interested in a shooting range as much as young boys would. We did a few more quick run-throughs and before I knew it, the principal actors took their marks, they handed him a loaded cap-gun rifle and I hear "Gun Hot", "Set", "Background" and then "Action" and we were shooting my very first scene for "Boardwalk Empire"!!!

I STILL had no clue what I was doing!

My nerves received an additional shock when the gun went off, over and over. Although he was shooting blanks, the report was extremely loud, especially since we were so close, and after the director yelled cut we were told to try and stifle our reactions. We were all jumping a little with every bang.

The refined the scene some more, there were discussions between "Richard" and the director as to where he should point the gun, how frequently he timed his shots, and a lot of other details and we continued to do our reactions over and over with each take. I did what everyone else was doing, trying not to over-sell my expressions and the director was pleased, asking my name at one point and telling me to make sure I stay on my mark so I could be seen behind the actors. I was loving every minute of this and in minor shock, I couldn't believe that I was actually going to be right on camera my very first day of filming!

Before I knew it, we were done and told to take a short break up on the boardwalk set while they reset the cameras and lighting rigs.

I walked over to the steps (which I would later rue but I'll get to that) and ascended them, looking around me at the detail of this entire operation. This was no plywood-front, Hollywood back-lot set, this was an actual boardwalk and shops, even from behind there were back doors to the little shops and alleyways built in off the boards. I went through the tarps they had stretched over the area and walked out into the direct sunlight and the actual set and it was a marvel to behold!

Where the beach and ocean would be, there was a two-story high blue wall (for the CGI effects). The railing and light poles were authentic and I turned around once I got to the railing to get the full affect of the set all at once. It was magnificent!

We all milled about and although we weren't filming here, it was cool to see everyone in costume wandering along the boards. I walked over to some of the shops and was once again blown away at how authentic it was. The shops were real, the restaurants had tables set with plates and glasses, the Fralinger's had a counter and displays of salt-water taffy, it was all so surreal, being from Atlantic City and seeing all the comforts of home up here in Brooklyn. The entrance to The Ritz was blocked off, though, so I couldn't go in there but the French dress shop next door, where Mary worked, was visible and it was a real working shop. It was amazing.

They called us to attention once again and we had to line up in the middle of the boardwalk and the wardrobe department went down the line giving us the once over, making sure the hats sat on our heads correctly, the make-up was touched up, all the little attention to details that makes the production even more special. We were admonished a few times to refrain from taking photos and I was only able to sneak one before we were called back to set.


Once back, they had changed the camera angle to a long shot, moving it behind the targets that "Richard" was shooting at and we went though the motions over and over, repeating our reactions and trying not to jump with each shot. There were more discussions as to when he should shoot and they seemed to get the timing wrong so it was a tedious process of repetition until the director was satisfied with the shot and we finally broke for lunch. 


Evidently there's a pecking order and, since I was there to learn, observe and keep quiet, I quickly realized this and sat down waiting for the crew and the principles to get their food first. I didn't think it was rude, not by any means, it was simply prudent to get them fed and out of there to get the next shot set up. But a hundred and fifty background actors were waiting and the food smelled delicious. I took the opportunity to take a quick bathroom break and the small trailer set up as our facilities was overwhelmed by all of us and I had to wait a bit in the cold before I could get in there. 


By the time I got back, we were being served and I went up to get something to eat, my eyes popping out of my head with all the choices and the quality of the food set out on the buffet tables. I stayed away from the messier fare, since I was in my wardrobe I didn't want to be the one to get food all over it and have to have it cleaned. I don't remember what I had, exactly, but I do know that it was really good and I went back for seconds and thirds, getting dessert (the cakes, pies, cookies, and treats were awesome) not worrying about my waistline since we were filming out in the cold, I figured I would shiver off the extra calories. 
After eating, we were all lined up again and the wardrobe mistress came along with her team and a film crew and they went down the line, again, making minor adjustments and reapplying make-ups and fixing an errant curl or two. I later found out that this was for the mayor of New York's employment initiative documentary and I had to sign a release for my image to be used. I happily obliged. 


We milled about when we were done and then the announcement came that the elephant would be on-set and the famous line, "Do not walk behind the elephant" was made, good advice whether you are filming with an elephant or just advice for life in general. We were all a little excited to see the beast, cracking jokes and we filed back to the set to resume filming. They were setting the elephant up about halfway down the set, a good distance from where my mark was but I could still see her doing her thing. 


I swear the weather changed, it seemed a bit colder even though it was now afternoon and the sun was directly overhead, although the elephant was not allowed to film if the temperatures were too cold so I guess it was just me. I noticed they had changed a lot of the area where I was previously filming, the shooting gallery set was complete (the movable walls were all back in order) and the camera was now going to be behind me and to the left, they were going to do a tracking shot from where we were through the entire faux carnival, passing all the other booths, the barkers and the elephant as well as all the other background extras milling about.  Now, when the principals walk away, I was to encourage my "son" to step up to the booth and then we were to decide not to play and cross over and up the steps. Only this time, they had wet down the set and we were now standing in mud. In the cold. With a chilly wind. 
We got through the shot after only a dozen or so re-sets (a term I learned to loathe later in the afternoon). We were given another quick break up on the boardwalk and, once again, the wardrobe department came along to work their magic. It was a testament to the quality of the show that they continually made sure we all looked our best. 


They had moved the camera down even further we did a few walk-throughs mostly for the benefit of those actors that were now going to be in camera, we'd now be in the far background but had to continually make the same pass across the set and then up the steps. 
I had noticed, at one point, that we were just standing around for a lot longer than normal. The crew is very good at their job so when I noticed that they were just standing around I knew it wasn't a problem with the shot. Then, from my vantage point, I could hear some muffled arguing and then the voices became clearer and the problem was revealed. We had been standing there for the last 30 minutes because the child actor that plays "Tommy" didn't want to put on Chapstick and they were trying to convince him to do so. He stood his ground and no amount of reasoning was going to make him put it on and here, and entire film crew and a hundred and fifty actors were standing around in the mud (with very uncomfortable period shoes that had no lining nor protection) and cold all because of a minor temper-tantrum. I giggled to myself about the situation and mumbled to my "wife" that if I was that kid, my parents would have grabbed my face and covered me in Chapstick and told me to get back to work! In the child's defence, it was turning out to be a long day and he was tired and cold and cranky and had a lot of pressure riding on his little shoulders. He finally put it on and we started filming again only this time, it took so many takes I lost count. I can't tell you how many times we had to re-set and then climb back up the steps, over and over again. It also didn't help that Riley, the boy who was my on-set son, was a rambunctious little rascal and I had to continually corral him for the shot. He was enamoured with the elephant and I had to run through the set and grab him to drag him back to our mark. This is where the filming process can get extremely tedious and it was becoming an effort to continuously mime the same motions over and over with a smile on our faces. 
I felt most sorry for the girl who was playing the "fat lady", she was standing directly in the cross-breeze and was wearing a very skimpy dress. The poor thing had to be wrapped in a blanket between each "Cut" and "Re-set". 


The fading light meant we needed to get this shot and get it as soon as possible, they didn't want to waste yet another day of filming this scene and we mercifully were given the words "you're done" after a few more takes. We made a beeline back to wardrobe to take everything off. 


Although, when crossing over the boardwalk set, I stopped a moment and looked around, it was now dusk and they had turned on all the lights. It was magical to be there at that moment and I stifled yet another smile. 


Dismantling was quick and I changed into my street clothes, getting one of the assistants to sign-off on my sheet and I then went over to holding to have my pay sheet officially signed. I remembered to tell them I had been shaved and they added the extra pay and I went out to wait for the shuttle bus that would take us back to Manhattan. This took a little while, the women took far longer to get changed and we made chit-chat as each person boarded. 
Before I knew it, we were off, making our way through mid-town traffic and the bus actually dropped me off a few blocks closer to Port Authority. I barrelled through the crowds, marvelling at the mass of humanity that does this every day of the week, and finally got to Port Authority and my bus, which was waiting there and leaving shortly.


I settled in and promptly fell asleep. 


With a huge smile on my face. 

Long, LONG, Overdue.

I was awake early, I always am. The cat and I did our usual morning dance, he climbs all over me as I lie in bed, his purring and mewling a gentle wake-up call. Then he follows me to his litter box as I sift through it, collect his dishes from the day before and slowly stumble to the kitchen with him underfoot, not caring if I kick him or step on his paws, all he knows is that he's getting food and that's all his concern. Ahh, to be a pampered cat and not have a care in the world.

The rest of the morning went on as it always does, I updated my Facebook status, commented here and there, left birthday greetings on certain friend's pages, and played the games I loathe but can't seem to stop, they are more frustrating than fun and never ending, much like life. I made the bed and straightened up a little, there's always something to do and began to think about what to do with myself. I had planned on going to the gym but the day was shaping up to be ever so nice that when a friend of mine reminded me that we had made plans to take a long walk through the city (to satisfy an errand of his) I put my workout plans on hold and began making preparations for our constitutional. I busied myself through his endless delays and finally got the call to come collect him.

As I was leaving, another friend of mine was passing in front of my home and I called out to him and we chatted about our plans to walk and he gamely joined us for our little excursion.

It was a beautiful day, usually here on the island there's always a breeze either coming off the ocean, damp and chilly despite the sunshine, or it's coming from the north and over the bays, and the north winds are always cold. This day was perfect, warm and bright with no breeze at all and we quickly made our way to the boardwalk to take it all in.

I was enjoying being in the company of an old friend and a new one, both dear to me in different ways. We talked and talked, commenting on the people we passed, the overly-huge and garish homes, the memories certain places brought up, the conversation never lagged, the laughs came free and easy.

Eventually the real reason for our little jaunt came out to my other friend and he was game, although I had yet to decide if I wanted to participate.

The boardwalk was busy, the day was spectacular and I was glad I put on my sunblock. I wrapped my hoodie around my waist since the direct sunlight was warming me up and we travelled along, taking our time and enjoying each other's company. But our goal, as it got closer, began to weigh heavier and heavier on my mind.

Before I knew it, we were walking down Tennessee Avenue, that long stretch of street that, although is now almost completely devoid of buildings it always seems to have the ghosts of the past hovering just out of sight as I wander along it. I see the shades of the former buildings, the hotels and bars and rooming houses and people that used to populate this neighbourhood, their apparitions haunting my memories. The ghosts of my past were getting more and more apparent the closer I got to our destination, which was just in the next block. I kept chattering on, keeping it light and trying to stifle the nervousness that wanted to creep into my patter, my voice, as I continually debated in my head what I should do in the next few moments when a decision would have to be made.

To say I was terrified would be an understatement.

Before I knew it, we were here. Before I knew it, we were inside. Before I realized it, I was giving them my name and filling out forms.

Before I knew it, I was taking my very first A.I.D.S. test since becoming sexually active thirty years ago.

I remember every moment of this experience. Vividly. Terror and anticipation have a way of slowing down time and making things hyper-real. The faces of those waiting in the lobby, taking care of their business whatever it may be. I knew what that business was, I had done fundraising for Oasis over the years. I knew what their business was, I had done fundraising for the S.J.A.A. and the outreach programs in the city. And here I am taking advantage of one of the services provided, free of charge, by this worthy organization. Taking advantage of something I should have done a very long time ago. But fear of knowing the truth is a powerful thing. And here I was, the ultimate hypocrite, finally doing the very thing I have militantly counselled countless people over the years to do. I have berated my friends for having unprotected sex, for not knowing their status, for getting tested, and the entire time I had never, ever, done so.

Until now.

I suddenly found myself climbing the stairway to the first door on the left and entered, the person there was waiting and shut the door behind me as I took a seat at the desk. I knew him. Of course I did. I'm Mortimer, I know nearly everyone on this island in one way or another. He was gracious and offered to find a stranger to administer the test but I felt more comfortable being with him. A friendly face. Someone I knew but didn't know. He explained the procedure, did the legal spiel and the drill, asking me questions about my sexual behaviour and proclivities, which I answered honestly. Far more honestly than I expected to but this whole process was so foreign to me, I had separated from myself. It was as if I was acting out the scene, and watching it at the same time. I think it was my mind preparing myself for the eventuality that may come to pass. And I was terrified. As he talked, he prepared himself, too. Putting on the gloves, getting the apparatus together, opening each item from their little sterile containers and laying them out in front of himself. He asked for my hand and I stretched it across the desk and he pricked my middle finger, wiping the first drop away and then squeezing out a bigger drop of blood, scooping it up and placing it on the small plastic device that will decide the rest of my life. Imagine, my entire future was in that little drop of blood on his desk.

He set the timer for twenty minutes and we waited. The enormity of this situation was staggering. The fact that I'm in this tawdry little office, devoid of any warmth, extraneous decoration, or a bloody window and have this sword of Damocles hanging over my head was getting unbearable! If it wasn't for the forced chit-chat I was making with my caseworker/friend, I don't know how I could have made it through.

The timer was facing him, blessedly, and before I knew it, the twenty little minutes were up. He looked down at the testing device and looked up at me. The results are in, you are...

I thanked him, we exchanged numbers, and I went out the office and down the steps, sending in one of my friends for his turn. After trips to the library, talking to some other friends outside of Oasis that I knew from my lengthy club days, and talking on my mobile, the three of us were done and off we went to find some lunch.

The rest of the day was a blur. No, I know each and every thing that happened from the moment I stepped out of that office but it's still a blur. When you take the fact that I have buried over forty friends who died of A.I.D.S., that I have friends who are living with the virus, that I have raised hundreds of thousands of dollars to help those with it, that I have had my drunken moments where I was very stupid and regretful, the fact that I now knew my status that had devastated my community overwhelms each and every detail of the rest of the day.

It was truly the first day of the rest of my life.