We Love Lucy, the Elephant!

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

A Letter From Atlantic City

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

A Tale Of Two Meals (Part I)

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


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

Hello Brooklyn (Part II)

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

Hello Brooklyn (Part I)

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

Memoriam: David Tompkinson

David was a sub-mariner. How hot is that?! And he was hot, from his infectious smile to his tight little body, I had a little crush on him, I must admit.
He was also extremely nice. Out of the way nice. He was quiet and unassuming, that is until he was wearing a leather mini-kilt and dancing on a go-go block at the Trocadero in Philadelphia. Then he was a dynamo, full of energy and charisma, you couldn't not look at him pumping his body to the music in total freedom, total release.
His boyfriend, Jimmy Hyde, was a great friend of mine. They were together for a long time and David was his heart. His love. His everything. You could feel their connection when they were together. They lived in a house where they recovered furniture, high quality work, very professional. Everything they did was beautiful.
David began to get sick. Preparations were made. He seemed resigned, as much as one could be with a death sentence hanging over you. I remember him taking me aside one day and asking me something very personal, and he was very serious. He said, 'When I die, can you come to my funeral in drag. I have always loved watching you perform and I really want you to come to my funeral dressed up.'
At first I said no. I didn't think it was appropriate but, looking at how sincere he was, I told him I would. More out of getting this uncomfortable conversation over than agreeing to his wishes.
When his beautiful body failed, it failed quickly and he finally passed. He was finally released.
Miss Patti and Joe told me I had to go to his funeral dressed in drag. Jimmy insisted on it but I told them all that I couldn't do it. I just couldn't pull it together. To me, my drag persona was a stage performance, my art, a way for me to entertain people. Attending a funeral was not the place to put on my 'entertainment face'. It wasn't about me, it was about celebrating David.
I remember being in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror, debating over and over with myself about whether or not I was going to get dressed. I thought I had convinced myself that I wasn't going to do it. But... slowly, I shaved, then began putting on my make-up, all before I even realized what I was doing. I knew that if I didn't go, if I didn't honor his last request, a very personal request, a dying request that I had never had anyone ask of me before, that I couldn't live with myself.
The funeral was beautiful, although the church where it was held is now Bally's Wild Wild West entrance. I walked in wearing a short black dress, high black heels, a long black overcoat, black drama hat, big bug-eyed black glasses, my long red curls draping down my back. I signed in and we paid our respects, walking by the coffin, hugging Jimmy, and took our seat in a pew.
The lady singing 'Ave Maria' was just this side of a karaoke performer and that sent Joe, Patti and I into laughing fits. We knew David did that for us.
There was a problem with the Navy, with them giving David a military funeral, but that was resolved at the grave site.
Afterward, at the wake, I had changed before we went to the family's house, and everyone was buzzing about the mysterious movie star that came to the church for David. Who was she? Why was she there?
Of course, they had no clue it was me.
David was a gentle soul. A beautiful soul. And every time someone reads this, he will still be alive somewhere in the world.
I remember you, David.  

Habit Forming

Spring cleaning is coming, I have a hankering to go through all my boxes of paperwork and mementos and whatnot to see what I really want to save and what I should jettison. My ex, Joe, used to holler at me constantly about my piles of paperwork, I'm always holding on to useless stuff. It's funny, though, I'm usually quick to discard items that I no longer need, clothing that no longer fits, chipped bric-a-brac, stuff like that but there's something about all those little receipts and pay stubs that I feel the need to cling to and horde. I also have some keepsake boxes where I throw items that remind me of events I've gone to or trips I've taken, program books, placards, ticket stubs, and the endless newspapers that I've had letters printed or where I've been mentioned (fame whore that I am). I should go though all that and see if I still have an emotional attachment to the things I find in there (I have three boxes of this crap now). It's time to get rid of it all, and make room for more! 
I also need to go through my clothing again, now that I've gotten bigger, I can't fit in a lot of my shirts. And, barring a catastrophic injury, I am going to continue working out for a long as I'm capable so I don't need all these ill-fitting shirts taking up valuable space in my wardrobe and drawers. I guess I'll donate them to a local charity, let someone else get some use out of them. 
I'm still debating if I should keep the beautiful Brooks Brothers Gatsby Collection blazer that Helene talked me into buying. It's $400, and I'm already paying off my computer so I don't know if I can justify such an expensive clothing purchase. The computer is a necessity, a blazer is a luxury right now. I know I'll be working at The Claridge once the season starts and I'll have a more regular income coming in (and some more acting gigs) so that might sway me to keep it. It's SO beautiful. 
Although, there's the added expense of getting it tailored, the cuffs come unfinished so you can have them adjusted to your arm length. 
Time to wander to the gym, I have a long day ahead. Today is Chore Day and I need to run uptown to deposit two paychecks (which are already spent). 

Back Into The Swing Of Things

It's been a while since I've written and these next few entries will be mostly rambling and unmoored so I can get back in the habit of writing on a regular basis. Feel free to ignore these entries until I get my bearings again.
The last few weeks have been pretty busy, at least for me. I've had to pull some extra shifts at The Claridge Hotel, bartending special events such as the NJ Film Festival. Interesting gigs, I got to meet some actors and producers and eavesdrop on the conversations around me.
The acting front has been slow, after 'The Knick', I haven't found anything I'm completely interested in doing. And those I do fancy are usually rush calls and there's no way I can get up there in enough time to make it work. I did get a request to grow out my hair for an upcoming rock and roll project but my red curls take FOREVER to grow to a point where it looks like I have long, rocker hair.
The gym has been satisfying, although my body is telling me that this latest push to lift heavier is taking it's toll. My shoulder, elbow, knee, and other assorted body parts hurt a little more than they should. Hopefully, I'll get my healthcare packet soon so I can get on some sort of insurance and get checked out by my doctor. I did recently bench press over my body weight so that made me feel all accomplished. I have been getting some compliments, although I don't see it, evidently I look bigger/more fit. I know many of my button down shirts are extremely tight around the chest area and a few of my T-shirts no longer fit. It's been a work in progress. I regret I didn't get the workout bug earlier in life.
Helene decided I needed a laptop so we stopped in Sam's Club and she put one on her charge for me. I actually REALLY love it, it's a touch-screen/laptop that folds over and can be used like a tablet. It was a bitch getting used to Windows 8 operating system but I'm getting the hang of it as I go along. I think it's superfluous, actually, most of the time I just go to my desktop and take off from there. I did download a killer LCARS app, it doesn't do much but it makes my laptop look like I'm in Starfleet, I'm such a total geek. The graphics are amazing, the sounds and the layout are all authentic. I wish they would add personalised buttons so I could access my usual sites, make it more like the Windows 8 tiles. No matter, it was well worth the few bucks I paid for it.

VOTE!

I was at a party thrown by my friends Jonathan Van Meter and Louis Mazza when they lived on Ventnor Avenue over a barber shop. The party was in full rage, fashionable and creative people populated every room, Charlie Heiser had his ever-present camera snapping artful pictures of all the guests. The tables were full of cheeses and crackers, bottles of alcohol, pretzels, chips, the usual fare of post-graduate young gay men. There was an eclectic group of guests, downbeach doyennes and uptown club-kids, it was the perfect mix to keep things interesting and everyone chatted up everyone else. Jon had a way of mixing his guests like a perfect Martini, it was intoxicating but in a classy way, the perfect blend of ingredients with just enough garnish.
I remember being in Louis' room standing next to the radiator deep in a political conversation with my friend Carol Tadley, Ronald Reagan was the topic. Surprisingly, I was lauding his merits at the time, I admit that I was caught up in his patriotic rhetoric and aw-shucks shucksterisms and she was staunchly, rabidly, anti-Reagan, so much so that I was finding it difficult to counter her arguments with anything of substance. Our exchange got heated at times, both of us were not willing to give ground. As I said, I found my stance wobbly on the facts of his presidential legacy but I refused to concede defeat. I was very young and full of ideas and determination, in that way you are only when you are very young.
Suddenly, she hit me with a direct question, 'Who did you vote for in the last election?'
I looked at her and confessed that I didn't vote and never had.
Her entire demeanour changed instantly and, with a dismissive tone she said, 'This conversation is over. You don't vote, you can't have an opinion.' and she walked away to freshen her cocktail.

I stood there, dumbfounded. Yes, I had been losing the argument anyway but with a simple sentence, she completely changed my entire world view (and destroyed whatever defence I had left). If I am not willing to cast my vote, my opinions are moot. I was not a part of the democratic process. My voice did not matter.

Shortly after this conversation, I registered to vote and have done so in every single election since. I have to say, it's one of the most simplest and easiest things to do but the sense of pride I feel once I hit that button in the voting booth is enormous. I am part of the process. My vote counts.

I urge all of you to vote. Be a voice. Be heard. Be counted.

And thank you, Carol, for giving me this continuing sense of pride as a voter. 

Ghost Story

My boyfriend Joe and I decided to finally get a place of our own. It had been long enough and we were doing well financially, with my shows and our cleaning jobs, that we felt that we could afford something small for the two of us. One of our cleaning clients happened to have recently bought a small property on Richards Ave. in Ventnor a block from the bay and she offered to rent it to us. We took the obligatory tour of the little one bedroom and immediately fell in love, it was very quaint with a porch, living room with a mantle, dining area and a kitchen to the left and a bedroom to the right towards the back of the house. The bathroom was tucked under the stairs going up to the apartment above but we thought that was charming, even though that meant taking daily baths since there was no room for a shower stall.
We moved in quickly, we didn't have that much to begin with so there wasn't a whole lot to haul across the island. We settled in, getting as domestic as a drag performer and tortured artist could possibly get in the middle of suburbia, since that's what Ventnor is compared to Atlantic City, although in condensed form. There was an attached garage and a little front and back yard that Joe quickly commandeered for his artistic needs and I cordoned off a bit of the porch to store my costumes and accessories. It was an idyllic time in our lives, the money was coming in, the rent was cheap and we were enjoying our lives as a couple. Of course in short time, our home became an end point for our nocturnal wanderings, we routinely came home with an entourage after a night at the Studio Six or wherever else I had been performing. Alcoholic libations were plentiful and we continued our party well into the mornings, watching the rest of our little block wake up to begin their day as we drifted off to sleep.
Halloween came that first year and Joe and I went mad with the decorations, transforming the entire driveway and front yard into a haunted house, with creepy sounds coming from the hidden speakers in the azaleas and crazy glowing televisions lining the lawn with bizarre images flashing on their screens, along with the copious spider's webs and insane decorations that we came up with to scare the neighbourhood children. We dressed up and frightened the kids as they came up to our front door, the panic was clearly evident on their faces but you could also tell they loved every minute of it. We had a blast decorating and giving them a good thrill for our favourite holiday.

I'm not sure when I saw him for the first time, but I clearly remember to this day the first time I saw the old man in our kitchen.

Actually, I think it was summer of that first year. I had fallen asleep on the couch watching the telly (no idea where Joe was) and when I woke up it was getting a little dark and, as I glance across the room, I saw an old man wearing a hat, shuffling back and forth in our little kitchen. There was no door to the room so I had a clear view. He would go to the sink and then stand in front of the washing machine and then turn and go out of view. Of course, I was startled out of my skin, I had no idea who this was in my house and how he got in! I jumped up and crept across the living room to see further into the kitchen and, curiously, no one was there. Confused, I walked across the dining room and turned on the kitchen light, nothing was amiss, and I looked at the back door and it was locked tight, from the inside.
Needless to say, I was freaked out a little. I ran through all the possibilities and could only conclude that I had dreamt the entire thing. But I couldn't shake the feeling that what I saw wasn't my imagination running wild.

Joe and I went about our lives, planning a big event at the club (I think it was our Fantasy Show, to benefit Dooley House in Camden) and everything was as normal as it could be in our lives.

One day, I came home from a cleaning job, unlocking the inner porch door and I went to put my supplies down by the doorway and when I looked up, there he was plain as day, the old man in a hat shuffling back and forth in the kitchen again. Of course, I jumped a little and gave a start but he didn't notice or respond. As he wandered to the back of the kitchen, that's when I saw him simply vanish, melt away into the air as if he was never there. This time, I was unnerved but more convinced that I hadn't dreamt him up and what I saw was a ghost. Of course, the scientific side of me continued to doubt what I saw but it was so real, and this was the second time, that I could come to no other conclusion.

I saw him more and more over the months and I finally had to tell Joe. Of course, he wasn't surprised at all, he had seen him, too. He told me he'd see him when we were snuggled on the couch, the old man would appear and do his little thing in the kitchen and then walk to the back and disappear. The sightings became so common that we just accepted that he was there and didn't give it any more thought. Of course, when our cat would come walking in from the kitchen when we had let her out the front door earlier, that would freak us out a little knowing that, somehow, our old man ghost was letting Lesco back in the flat.

After one after-party, we all staggered awake in the late afternoon, clearing our heads of the night before. I came out of the bathroom and our friend Michelle was on the couch, I asked her how she slept and she hit me and said, 'Why didn't you tell me about the old man with the hat in the kitchen!'

Well, we explained that we didn't want to sound crazy by telling people about our little ghost. And the fact that we didn't tell anyone and she saw the same thing only confirmed that we had an actual ghost in our home. He seemed to be benign and, over time, it became a badge of honour for our friends to see him. We were all in on the little secret, not revealing anything until someone said they saw him, each person confirming for the rest of us that our ghost was really there.

Joe was always out in the front yard, tinkering around, and one day I woke up to him covered in dirt and our entire lawn was missing. He decided to make it a wildflower garden and began transplanting bushes and flowers and landscaping the little patch of land into his new vision. In short time, it bloomed and blossomed into a beautiful little garden, flowers grew at different times, bursting with colours all over. The neighbours would come by and tell us how lovely it was and that's when we began to hear stories of the original tenants. They were an older couple who were very much in love. The neighbours said that the original couple would have loved the new front garden, they always had flowers around. We were happy to know that little bit of information and figured our ghostly old man was one of the original tenants, who simply wasn't ready to leave his home.

Time went on and, for whatever reasons, Joe and I eventually moved from our flat to other places. We had heard friends of ours moved in but hadn't seen them for nearly a year. Eventually, I saw one of them at the Studio Six one night and he came straight over to me in a beeline and playfully hit me on the shoulder saying, 'Why didn't you guys tell us about the old man with the hat in the kitchen!?!'

I guess our little ghost was still keeping an eye on things at Richards Ave.

True story.

Happy Halloween!

Stockton College Speech Notes (Delivered On 10 Oct)

I want to thank Lydia for inviting me to speak today.

Opening remarks, nervous, first time.

I was asked to come speak to you about the A.I.D.S. crisis in the early years.
I'm not going to bore you with a million statistics and graphs, and I'm of an age where a Powerpoint presentation is way beyond my skills so I'm simply going to tell you my story from my point of view.
Considering I lived through it, I have a unique perspective on the history of the crisis.

I always knew I was gay, from a very early age. Growing up in a small town in the Collingswood area I was the ONLY gay person for as far as the eye could see. And it was nothing like what you have now and conveying what that is like to your generation is nearly impossible. I knew nothing about being gay and I knew no one who could help. No Internet, no magazines, nothing. But my childhood years were idyllic, my friendships were tight and I have remained friends with many of them to this day.
Eventually, after my parents divorced I moved in with my father in Atlantic City, and as a young teenager, for the first time, I was thrust into a world completely different from anything I have ever experienced up to that point. Although AC is not exactly a big city, it was full of cultures and races and people I have never encountered up to that point, my freshman year was at a preparatory school and there wasn't much diversity there.
School was strange to me, especially being gay and I never fit in. I was bullied and picked on, I hated going to certain classes, I'm sure things haven't changed that much.
But one day, in our English class, not your normal English class, it was more of an open forum where we'd discuss ideas and books and language more than simple rote studying, the subject of gay people came up and one of the kids said, 'Don't get off on New York Ave., that's where they all hang out!'
Needless to say, when I left school that day, I got off the Jitney at New York Ave.
I had no clue what I was in for. The street was alive with my people! I couldn't believe it.
Discuss the street, bars, restaurants, people, boarding houses. Snake Alley.
At that time, the gay population in AC rivalled New York and San Francisco. It was incredible.
And it was all in the open. We even had a gay beach in front of the Claridge.
A short time later, I went to my first gay bar, no one checked IDs back then, and saw things that schooled me about gay life instantaneously!
After that, I started going out to the nightclubs and that's when I saw someone from school for the first time, a lesbian named Lydia, ahem, although we called her Libby. She was just as shocked to see me.
Needless to say, we became the best of friends. The next day at school, glitter still on her eyes from the night before, she showed me a version of ACHS that I didn't know existed. She outed EVERYONE to me! There were gay teachers, many of the students were gay, and many of the most popular ones, and I was astounded that all of this was right here in the school right under my nose.
As I got a older, the popular culture began to change, MTV was HUGE and showed America that there were all sorts of people out there. Annie Lennox and Boy George with their gender-bending looks advanced the notion that being gay was not icky any more, and it became very fashionable. And films like 'Making Love' were being shown, putting the gay thing centre stage. Suddenly, I was popular, at least in certain circles, and I felt accepted in a way that I never had before.
I had a few boyfriends at the time, now that I think about it they were much older, but it was nothing long term. I wasn't  even worried about getting anything because everyone said you just go to the clinic and they'll give you some meds and you're back to business the next weekend. I wasn't very promiscuous but I was active, I was a horny teenager and there were thousands of gay men out there to meet!
Now, growing up, my family was always very newsy, we watched the morning news shows (I remember when GMA debuted) and we watched the news at dinner and discussed current events at family gatherings, some getting very heated. I never stopped being this way, I had subscriptions to Time, and Science magazines and I read The Press every single day.
I began seeing these odd new reports, buried in the back pages of the mags and papers, about this mysterious disease that seemed to be affecting Haitians and druggies and gay men. And then, as time went on, the articles were closer to the front, and getting longer. And then they began naming it. G.R.I.D. gay related immune deficiency or the gay-plague but the mystery of it deepened. How was it spreading? Why was it spreading?
But things in AC continued humming right along, the parties and the clubs were packed, the restaurants and the boarding house were full, it was all a gay ol' time here on New York Ave.
But I was intrigued. And I started seeking out whatever I could find about this new disease that was showing up in the gay world. I was curious as to why it only seemed to affect these certain populations. At that time, we knew NOTHING, and there was so much misinformation out there.  But I continued to read on, trying to figure out why this was spreading and why it was happening.
The gay population in AC started talking about it, too, since, by then, it was becoming front page news and was on the broadcasts. Now, the people affected were dying.  And at an alarming rate. The big cities like New York and Frisco began showing large rates of infection and the cancers and lesions were popping up everywhere and they still had no idea what was going on. It was getting scary.
But then the link was made that the transmission might be blood borne, and that gay sex was what was transferring the disease to the next person. Once I heard that, it made sense to me, because sharing needles also involved blood. Personally, I became a monk at that point. I was scared out of my wits and in the prime of my youth, I did not want to risk my life.
Unfortunately, many gay men did not believe that was how it was transmitted. They considered that an attack on the gay lifestyle, the free love, free sex, reckless abandonment, the whole concept of being a gay person, they took the link to be political  and not medical and didn't change their habits.
As the years went on, of course, we accepted the fact that H.I.V. was being transmitted sexually but, curiously, as we watched the news reports of people dying in all the large cities through the mid eighties, we here in AC seemed to be an oasis, no one was obviously sick, no one had lesions, no one had anything as far as we could see.
But a little organisation started called the South Jersey A.I.D.S Alliance and we dutifully paid tribute but we thought it was for THEM not US and most of us continued on.
Until it hit us.
Yes, we were mercifully a few years behind the curve but when A.I.D.S. hit the island, it made sure to make up for lost time.
Now we started hearing about so-and-so being sick. Oh, I heard so-and-so was at that A.I.D.S. doctor, Miss Thing saw him there. Oh, did you see so-and-so, he don't look good. We still didn't have a handle on how dangerous this was, or how devastating it would become.
Until our friends started dying.
Once we hit the 90's, the crisis was on our doorstep like a hurricane.
How can I convey to you the horror of that era? It's really hard to give you an idea of what was lost during those days. Imagine, if you will, that a third of your Facebook friends were to die within a year. I lost that. And more. At one point, I  started going to funerals more than I was going to the club. One of my closest friends committed suicide once he found out he was infected, because back then it was a death sentence and he did not want to die suffering. I went to the hospitals to sit vigil at the bedside of my friends, cooling their skin, taking care of the lesions, giving what little comfort I could and seeing them waste away right before my eyes. They looked like zombies, or skeletons, or Holocaust survivors, so thin and sunken. Grey skin. Sores. It was heartbreaking to see these once healthy and loving and vibrant people wasting away and there was nothing that could be done.
And then the backlash started.
Where once it was a badge of honour to be gay, or to know someone gay, now we were pariahs. And not just to the straight community, who blamed us for the disease we had no idea we were spreading, but amongst our own people. Suddenly no one would touch anyone. No one wanted to get sick. It was taboo to even mention someone's name that was infected, as if the simple act of saying their name out loud would magically infect you too. We were so scared. Scared to live. Scared to love. And we were getting bashed and hurt and vilified. And we were dying. Dying horrible deaths.
And that's when we started to find our strength, in the bleakness of that horrendous crisis, we realised that no one was going to help us and we had to FIGHT BACK. We had to ACT UP! We had to FIGHT A.I.D.S.
I went to ACT UP rallies here in AC and we were screamed at and made fun of but we screamed back and made a statement. We began to get angry and we wanted something to be done.
One day, all the magazines and newspapers and galleries in New York did A Day Without Art, blacking out all photographs, and artwork, and fashion, and everything that the gay community excelled at to hit home to the wider community that we matter. That we all contribute to this world and that if we lose this community, we lose a lot more than just a few undesirable people. We lose our humanity.
But we in the gay community in Atlantic City also saw a greater need. Our friends were so sick and they had nothing. The medicines at the time were experimental and expensive, and they were too sick to work to afford them. That's when we came up with our Miss'd America Pageant, a fundraising spoof to raise money for the South Jersey A.I.D.S. Alliance because they were our home-grown organisation and they helped our friends right here. The people we danced with. We ate with. Our roommates. Our friends.
We did other benefits, ceaseless benefits to raise money because there was no money to be had. The president, Ronald Reagan, wouldn't even say the word A.I.D.S. Imagine if he made a speech to rally the entire scientific community to find a cure at that time, imagine how many people would still be here.
It was so hard, the fights were so hard. GMHC in New York and other organisations popped up in every city, fighting to get funding, to get treatments, to release drugs, to get help, to raise awareness. There was nothing, because it was just druggies and gays dying and no one cared.
But over time, we began to get angels and heroes. Poor dear Ryan White became the poster child, literally, of how A.I.D.S. was NOT a gay disease but everyone's disease.
Finish with how we began to change perceptions, how things changed.
Friends from youth. A whole generation missing. Friends from now.
Talk about getting tested at the Oasis.
Talk about Jimmy Hyde.
But remind them that the crisis is not over, you buried Shante Jefferson a few months ago, and that she died of A.I.D.S.

Ventnor, At Night

Summer crept back into the night air, the heavy clouds rolled by overhead making the dusk a little darker, the shadows a little deeper. You can feel the humidity rising, coming in along the light breeze. I took our dog Ricky out for his evening walk, keeping along our usual route and allowed him to take his time, getting a good sniff here and there and leaving his mark for the next dog to investigate as it walked by. Along Jackson Ave. the island is pinched, there are only a few blocks between the ocean and the bay and I could see from the ocean side that the sunset looked interesting as it set over the bay and I tried to hurry Ricky up so I could catch a glimpse of it but he had his own agenda and took his time with each pole and bush. We wandered by the little convenience store at the corner, looking for the two Asian women who are usually sitting on the steps but they weren't sitting out tonight and we hurried along. After a few more very important stops for Ricky, we made our way along the bulkhead that protects this area of Ventnor and there in the distance the clouds were lined up, spectacularly catching the deep blues and purples of the final dusk, the sun had already set behind the horizon. I snapped a few quick shots with my mobile phone camera, making sure to get the rippled water in the shot as it reflected the last of the light in the sky. Satisfied, I continued to walk and noticed Ricky giving me an impatient look as if his sniffing were far more important than a stupid sunset. You can't smell a sunset, you can't eat a sunset, you can't hump a sunset, so why bother? I imagined him thinking.
Up ahead down the street that runs along the bay, I could see the lights of a cop car and, in another try to hurry Ricky up, I made my way down to see what was going on, dragging him along when he got too involved in deciphering whatever it is dogs learn from the various smells they come across. The police car was blocking access to the cross street, where a fire truck was parked at the other end of the block, it's lights also lighting up the night in red and blue and white. Ricky and I made our way up the street, jumping over the running water in the gutter, water that I guessed came from the fire truck. As we got closer, Ricky continued to sniff the trees and bricks, oblivious to what was going on, and I sniffed the air, to see if it smelled of fire but I didn't smell a thing. A man was on his mobile phone standing beside his van, talking to someone furiously as the firemen stood in front of a house, dark and intact. Children were all over the street playing and running between the parked cars but evidently I missed any excitement beyond the flashing lights. We made our way to Ventnor Ave. to circle back and regain our usual route and picked up where we left off, being followed by older kids who I could hear gossiping about what happened at school.
We made it to the little park that faces the bay and looks over to the ball parks in Ventnor Heights, where, although it's posted NO DOGS on every post, bulkhead, tree, and lamp in the line of sight, no one seems to see the signs judging by the piles and piles of dog droppings lying in the grass all around. I let Ricky get a good sniff of whatever he needed to smell and we made our way from this tightly packed neighbourhood, where the houses are all jumbled together, built all in a row, each the same but changed over the years and wandered into another part along the back bay where the houses get bigger and are much older, each with a bit of lawn or garden.
I hear a crowd, and glasses tinkling, music playing but not too loudly, and we continue our walk when I come across a house party, a very genteel house party. On the side lawn was a beautiful dining table set for twelve, with a few well dressed people at some of the chairs deep in conversation and finishing up the wine they had had with the dinner that was obviously finished. The candles were still burning, glasses sparkled in the light and on the porch you could hear the rest of the dinner party, drinking and laughing, enjoying this beautiful late summer evening. Ricky paid them no mind but I strained to hear a bit of the conversations, to no avail, as we walked further and further away, the quiet sounds of the city silenced them to a whisper.
Onward we walked, up to Ventnor Avenue again, and made our way, passing an elderly couple here, a group of people waiting for some ice cream at Carisbrook Ice, and dodged the cars coming in and out of the Wawa parking lot in a hurry to get wherever they were going. As we neared the street where the fire had occurred, a group of teens came careening around the corner on all manner of skateboards, some running along side, in shorts, boys, long hair, no shirts, girls, sneakers, bare feet, a cacophony of laughing and the grinding of wheels on the pavement and they jumped off the sidewalk and made their way around the fire truck that was sitting across the street. The lights flickered across them, creating shadows and bright, and they continued on to where they were going, hurriedly.
Ricky and I turned, we were at our street, and walked in the near darkness, the trees hanging over our heads and blocking the light from the street lamps. Once down the street the silence again overtook us and we were alone.
Inside, Ricky ran to gulp down some water and met me back on the couch and we sat and watched some television. 

A Resume

To the Board of the S.J.A.A.:

When A.I.D.S. hit Atlantic City and began to devastate our gay community, I began a personal campaign to help combat the disease and raise funds for our local organization to help those friends and neighbours of mine in dire need.
As Miss'd America 1995, I developed a personal relationship with the S.J.A.A. and was honoured over that year of my reign to serve as the spokesperson for the organization. In the years before and since, I took part in many fundraisers for the them, including Drags-R-Us, the Red Ribbon Bingos, and many other events.
I have also done outreach at the Studio Six whenever we had special events, I have entertained support groups at the Church of the Ascension, and have promoted the S.J.A.A. and the Oasis for decades in my online blogs, the social media sites, and through all my years working at the nightclub.  
My work ethic has always followed the old adage; a job is not worth doing if it's not worth doing well. That ethic has always helped my in my various careers in the casinos and nightclubs that I've worked at. Nearly every job I have held has been in a supervisory position. From my very first job at Trump's Castle, where I was promoted to supervisor the evening before we opened (at the ripe old age of 18), to opening the Showboat, Tropicana's first expansion, and the Taj Mahal, where I was brought on to help refine and 'straighten out' the coin department which was in serious disarray at the time. I have great organizational skills and I'm very good at logistics and my years on the stage and behind the bar have honed my interpersonal skills to fine point. My show, Mortimer's Cafe, was the longest running show in Atlantic City and showcased new talent and cultivated diversity, many of the performers have gone on to their own successful careers. I am intimately connected with the city on many levels through the various jobs I've held, and have maintained friendships to this day with the people I worked with over the years.
At the nightclub, I started there as a promoter (at the ripe old age of 16) and over the decades, I was the featured performer, barback, bartender, and eventually the assistant manager. During that time, the club expanded and grew and that came with a whole new set of learning experiences that I can bring to the board of the S.J.A.A., namely, a penchant to work well under pressure and in a rapidly changing environment. 
I have been to many social functions for the city, attending fundraisers and events and met many of the city's movers and shakers (surprisingly not all of them have been indicted) and have a working knowledge of our local city government and it's political climate.
I'm also well known for my various letters to The Press of Atlantic City, even being featured as a guest columnist with an article I wrote about bullying. My passion is evident in my letters, and my love of the city is also well documented. I have also been featured in the Philadelphia Inquirer on occasion, and have a friendly relationship with a few reporters there.
I am currently serving as a Foundation Board Member for the New Jersey chapter of Phi Kappa Delta, helping them to promote and raise money for scholarships for Richard Stockton College students and, through them, I have been learning the ropes concerning the processes used in foundation boards.
In closing, I was deeply honoured to be approached as a possible addition to the board of the S.J.A.A. and I hope that through this resume, you will find that I might have something to contribute to the board and would make a welcome addition.

Thank you for your consideration,
Mortimer

Open Letter to Caesars Entertainment

I read my discharge paper with sadness and regret since I wasn't given a proper chance to defend myself, as I was promised, and the fact that I was losing a job I enjoyed and you were losing an excellent employee.
I freely admit that I violated the company's policy concerning internet postings, and, in hindsight, I realise it was a mistake to post the photo but I did so innocently and without malice.
As I explained in the piece of paper given to me to write a brief statement, I had posted a photo earlier that day of the beautiful sunrise that I get to see from my workstation and, when I saw the young gentleman walking around with his pants hanging, I thought it funny that I also got to see the 'moon' as the popular expression goes. Since I have been using the internet and social media for many years, going back to the early days of dial-up, I am well aware of the dangers of workplace postings. In my defence, although the person in the photo I posted somehow found the picture and recognised himself, the actual photo does not show his face, nor does it identify him by name, nor does is there any identifying features about his clothing to give anyone the inkling that it is someone specific. It was a grainy photo from across the room of an anonymous person walking around in public with his pants hanging down.
My intent was of the incongruous juxtaposition of images (sun/moon), and I had no desire, want. or need to embarrass or humiliate one of our patrons.
On that point, I want to also remind you that I have always followed all the Total Service training that I received in orientation and through the many refresher courses that I was given since my employment began in March of 2013. Many of the guests that came to Bally's Spa remarked about my professionalism, my work ethic, and my friendly personality. A few even wrote comment cards praising me for the job I did, and I was very humbled that they took the time to do so. The job required a personal touch and with my decades of experience in the service industry, I was more than capable of bringing my skills and experience to the job and give the guests a professional and personable time during their visits to the spa. With recent cutbacks, we stopped providing a daily newspaper for our members and massage guests so, in the spirit of delighting the guest, I made sure to bring in magazines that I receive at home so they had reading material. It was something extra that I felt would make the guests more comfortable. I always made sure we had supplies, took extra care to provide help and services beyond my job description, and always went out of my way to make our spa members and guests feel special.
I was also given a few notices from my coworkers and supervisors about my excellent job performance. I freely admit that before I began working there, I had been unemployed for quite a while (aside from a few acting jobs) and I was very grateful for the chance to work at the spa and went above and beyond to show that I was capable, appreciative, and eager to prove myself. I had never called out, nor was I ever late, and I covered any shift I was asked. Because I was happy to do it and happy to have a job.
And, although I have been discharged for posting photos because one person objected, I need to remind you that through the many photos I've posted of the spa and the attendant facilities, I generated business for Caesars Entertainment, business that would have never happened without my promoting. Yes, being a former bartender/club manager, I am used to posting about my job as a means of generating business. And to that point, I had friends from around the country come and stay at Bally's for several days, and used the spa and pool because I had posted photographs on my social media sites. No one seemed to even know all of this existed at Bally's and, through my extensive friends lists, I opened up a new market for the casino/hotel and Atlantic City.
In addition, I have been recently elected to the board of the South Jersey A.I.D.S. Alliance and the Greater Atlantic City LGBT Alliance, which produces many successful events throughout the city, including the Miss'd America Pageant, and I fully intended cross-promote with these organisations as a way of generating business for both parties, not the spa and pool specifically but Bally's and Caesars as a whole. With my termination, both my organisations and Caesars properties will miss out on many exciting opportunities over the coming season.
I write this because I don't think I was given the chance to properly defend myself, I don't feel I was able to express how much I enjoyed working for Caesars Entertainment/Bally's Spa, and I don't think that my one transgression should result in my termination. Believe me, should there be any way you reconsider and hire me back, I promise you that I will never post another thing about Bally's Spa or Caesars Entertainment again. Point of fact, I haven't posted a thing since I was suspended and was supposed to be interviewed about this situation for the investigation.
I urge you to reconsider. I think Caesars Entertainment and myself are a great fit and I would be able to continue being the excellent employee that I've proven myself to be during my tenure and your corporation will benefit from my skills and professional work ethic.

Sincerely,
Mortimer Spreng

Mr. President, It's Up To You.

What has been simmering in the background is now becoming a full-fledged bonfire and I can not, with all the fibre of my being, continue to remain silent about the injustice going on.
The United States must lead the nations of the world and call for the 2014 Winter Olympics to be removed from Sochi, Russia to another host country or for an all-out international boycott of the Winter Games itself.
Gay men and women are being baited, beaten, raped, and killed all with the sanction of the Russian government simply because of who they love. A portion of humanity is being hunted and punished simply because they are different and the world can NOT simply stand by and sanction these horrific acts by staging an international sporting event, pouring millions and millions of dollars into their country, and turning a blind eye to the willful hatred perpetrated by the powers that be on not only their own citizens, but those gay men and women competing in and attending the Games as spectators and fans.
With the recent announcement that anyone displaying overtly gay 'propaganda' that attends the Winter Games will be arrested and forced to answer to this draconian Russian law, Vladimir Putin has declared all gay men and women targets of his government and we can not allow our fellow Americans to walk into such dangerous conditions.
How can we allow our citizens enter a country that has threatened their very rights as Americans to live their lives freely, in the pursuit of happiness? How can we look away when our American citizens may be jailed or assaulted for being who they are?
Shall we, as Americans, attend the Winter Games knowing what is happening like we did when we entered the Berlin Olympiad in the 1930's knowing what Adolph Hitler was doing to those he considered inferior? The laws against Jews had already been passed by the start of the games and the same thing was happening to them that is now happening to Russian gay men and women. This is government sanctioned bigotry, this is government sanctioned hate, and this will be government sanctioned murder, no, this will be the genocide of a group of people who had the misfortune to be born gay under this fascist regime if we don't take a stand.
History has already shown us the way this will end. We can not, as citizens of the United States of America and members of the human race, blindly participate in the Games being held in a country that is blatantly, willfully, and openly denying it's own citizens the very rights we hold so dear. We can not give President Putin validation by holding the Games in his country.

Call to remove the Winter Games from Russia, President Obama.
Do not allow this horrific part of history to repeat itself.


 

I read the headline "Parade organizers say event bigger, honors city spirit' and nearly spit my coffee across the table since, just a few days prior, I was informed that the float we were planning was rejected by the Miss America Parade committee because we were deemed a 'mockery'. They evidently thought the former winners of the Miss'd America Pageant were not respectable enough to be included in the parade this year. The theme of the float, sponsored by a local seafood restaurant, was going to be Under the Sea and we were planning to dress as glamourous mermaids with light-up tails. That constituted a 'mockery' and we were denied entry.
I would like to let them know exactly what Miss'd America represents and detail our city spirit.
In September of 1993, after a horrific decade of losing our friends and families to A.I.D.S., a small group of drag performers in a local gay bar put together a good-natured spoof of the venerable Miss America Pageant, calling it the Miss'd America since we 'missed' being in the actual pageant (get it?). It was a fundraiser to help our friends in the local community. What started that year as a small spoof quickly blossomed into a smashing success, year after year, bringing more and more people to the show and raising much needed money and awareness of A.I.D.S. All the proceeds raised went to the South Jersey A.I.D.S. Alliance (S.J.A.A.) and was distributed through them to people of all races, creeds, orientations, and sexes who were in the South Jersey community and living with the disease.
This is how we show city spirit.
In addition, the producers, writers, actors, musicians, technicians, venue owners, waitstaff, choreographers, set builders, back-stage hands, costumers, and anyone else involved in the production of the Miss'd America Pageant have never taken ONE THIN DIME for their services. Every Miss'd America since 1993-2006 has been done FREE OF CHARGE by everyone involved. The chairs and tables were donated by the casinos, lighting and sound and video were also donated, no one expected payment nor would they have accepted it if offered. We all realized that by taking one dollar, that was one less dollar that could help the members of our city, of our family, of our community who were battling the effects of A.I.D.S.
This is how we show city spirit.
The old adage, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, could never be more appropriate than in this situation. We, as a community, have ALWAYS enjoyed the Miss America Pageant and parade. Most credible accounts give credit to the gay community for the whole 'show us your shoes' phenomenon. Everyone knows to go to New York Ave. and the boardwalk during the parade, long known as the gay street in Atlantic City, for the most enjoyable time. And any look backstage at Miss America will find many gay men and women working behind-the-scenes. We have honored and supported our Miss America for decades upon decades and took great pride in Atlantic City's grande dame of pageants.
This is how we show city spirit.
Now, Miss America left the city, rather abruptly, for the west coast and we were devoid of our beloved pageant. Many non-casino businesses relied on the revenue generated by Miss America week, since most of the support staff have been coming back for decades and knew the city well and frequented it's many hidden gems year after year. The city suffered, but we endured. And Miss'd America continued on. We got bigger and better, and even performed the production twice in Boardwalk Hall, which was the pinnacle of our little 'mockery' of a pageant. We continued the tradition of the pageant, in our own little way, and brought fun and excitement back to the city whilst Miss America was gone.
This is how we show city spirit.
And now that Miss America is back, they have the unmitigated gall to deny us a float in their parade and declare us a 'mockery'. We, who have selflessly put on our little pageant to raise money for the community, is being called a mockery by an institution that only raises money for itself. We, who were born out of the very community we live in, are denied entry in a parade by the same organization that wants to promote city spirit. Although I am angry with their decision, I am more hurt than anything else. Our mockery was always done with love. Our mockery was always done with admiration. Our mockery was always done in honor.
And I consider it a slap in the face that I can not show my city spirit in the parade that was born in this city.

Mortimer
Miss'd America 1995
 

Diagnosis

I've been going through some emotional turmoil recently that I've been keeping off the social media sites and have only discussed with a few close friends. I'm still not altogether comfortable writing about it but today is especially trying and I needed an outlet for my feelings and, hopefully, some support.
Today, my friend (and step-mother), is undergoing a double mastectomy and reconstruction due to the cancerous masses they found under her arm and in her breasts. All of this has happened quite fast, she was only diagnosed two weeks ago, and I'm still trying to come to grips with all the implications. My father is taking this stoically, as usual, but I know he's extremely worried.
During this crisis, my sister had long-overdue surgery to fix a series of sinus problems and my niece had a recent health scare that had us all worried. She's going to Philadelphia today to undergo steps to resolve the issue and her prognosis looks great.
I have to work today, so I can't be with the family for support (which is killing me). I've been an emotional wreck for the past two weeks and, predictably, I've been trying to ignore the problem since I don't know exactly how to deal with it.
I've been counselling with a few friends who have gone through this and they have eased my mind, I know intellectually that she'll be fine and that this diagnosis isn't the death sentence it once was but this is all new to me. I know A.I.D.S., through all my years raising money for the S.J.A.A. and having friends living with the disease. I don't know cancer, so this is all unknown territory for me.
Today is going to be a rough day of many phone calls and emotional rollercoasters. I have faith in Sally's doctors and in her strength that she'll recover and flourish.
Keep her in your thoughts, if you would.

Flexing My Creative Writing Muscles

 The following is a "definition" I came up with out-of-the-blue for my Facebook nightly Safe Word: 
He sat down, exhausted and covered in the spatter of blood. He couldn't catch his breath, the excitement and thrill of the kill still coursing through his veins, the adrenaline pumping his heart into overdrive. His brain couldn't focus on one thought for long, he was in ecstasy. This was the culmination of an entire day of stalking and he felt a vicious satisfaction in the final resolution. His murderous intentions hit the magic number and he was surprised at who drew the short straw at the end, surprised and happy. The first person he saw was the paper delivery boy, driving by with his pimpled face and throwing the newspaper onto his lawn. He began his grim count of the day, that was one. He will live. 
When he went out to get it, he saw the little neighbourhood children lined up at the bus stop just a few yards from his home. He slowed his movements, keeping his gaze on them as he bent over, silently counting them, adding them to his daily tally. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. And the parent standing there with the kids, that's eight. Now his count was nine, nine who will live and his quota was nearly half over. He retreated back into the house, stifling the horrific visions that clouded his mind. Visions he found exhilarating. 
After breakfast, he holed up in the darkened bedroom, savouring his isolation, not wanting to rush through the day, making it last. He wrote a little, checked a few websites. Read the paper. He waited. 
A knock at the door roused him from slumber, he must have fallen asleep. He padded to the front door, peered through the spyhole and saw blurry, distorted faces moving to and fro. He opened the door. Standing there were two Mormon missionaries. He made his excuses, parrying any argument they had to convert him, he was beyond redemption today, and got them to leave, to bother the next house along the way. 
That was now ten and eleven. 
He ordered lunch from the local pizza joint. His usual meal, half a cheesesteak and fries. The goateed delivery guy came quickly, considering it was just after noon. He paid, with a nice tip and let him go. That was only number twelve. Not yet. 
After eating, he cleaned up and decided to take a shower, he was getting closer and closer and he wanted to make sure everything was ready when it happened. 
He sat in his living room, towel draped over his waist loosely, clicking through the channels and mindlessly watched whatever was on. He liked the feeling of his leather couch next to his naked, wet skin. A dog barked outside, from the fenced-in yard next door and he turned his head to peer out the partially opened drapes to see two young teen girls walking by, books in their arms, loudly chatting about whatever it is young girls chat about. Numbers thirteen and fourteen. They, too, will live to gossip another day. 
Suddenly, the postman came into view and walked up to his door, he could hear the sound of the mailbox open and close through the wall as he dutifully shoved the letters and magazines and bills into the little tin box. He continued to watch him through the window as he walked away, and got up, securing the towel around his waist and opened the door to get his mail. He watched the postman, number fifteen, walking up to the house next door and hand the mail to his neighbour that owns the barking dog. There's number sixteen. 
They will all live today. 
He threw the day's mail on his kitchen table, the excitement building too much now for him to concentrate on what was there. He'll deal with it later and went into the bedroom to get dressed. It was getting close now, and he wanted to be ready. 
As he got dressed, formally, with a clean white button down shirt, a nice pair of black trousers, one of his nicest ties, skinny and striped, he could hear noises coming from the backyard. From the bedroom window he saw the landscapers unloading their equipment, doing it with a practised ease, both tanned and dirty from the constant sunshine and the job, respectively. They started up the lawnmowers and began their work. He added them to the count. Seventeen and eighteen. It was getting so close now. 
Too close, his pulse quickened and he retreated to the bathroom to finish getting ready, trying to focus on the task at hand and calm his rising nerves. He combed his hair, adding a little gel to keep it in place. Brushed his teeth. Retreated into the mundane in an effort to savour the moment that was coming so soon. 
The phone rang, loudly and unexpectedly, jarring him out of his reverie, and he fumbled with the touch screen trying to unlock it so he could answer. It was his daughter. 
"Hullo, sweetheart! Why are you calling?"
"Daddy", she said in her high, plaintive voice, "can I go over Jessica's house now? We have to do a project for class and she's my partner and we need to get this done by tomorrow and her mom said I could have dinner there and she'll bring me home after that so can I please go to her house? PLEASE?" 
She said this all in one breath, the way children her age talk, as if the fate of the world hinged on his answer. 
"Of course, sweetheart. Just tell Mrs. Kane that you need to be home by eight, I want to check your homework before you go to bed."
His daughter screamed in delight and thanked her daddy over and over and hung up abruptly. 
He smiled to himself. 
The doorbell rang at that moment and he went to answer it, noticing the FedEx truck parked out front through the partially opened drapes in the front window. He opened the door and saw a clean-cut young guy, impatiently waiting for him to sign for the package. He quickly did so and let number nineteen walk away to live, and deliver again.
At that moment, he saw his beautiful wife drive up to the house and pull into the driveway. He waved to her and waited for her to get out of the car. She walked over, and he couldn't help notice how beautiful she was, and gave him a big smile and kiss, asking him about his day. He kissed her back, long and deep, savouring the moment, feeling the love he had for her. And knowing now what he must do. 
They walked in the door and he shut it firmly behind her, turning the lock on the handle quickly, silently. She took off her suit jacket and threw over the back of the kitchen chair, picking up the pile of mail sitting on the table and rifling through it, inanely talking about something that happened earlier today at the office. 
He wasn't listening. 
He slipped the knife silently out of the butcher block holder, the largest one in there, and stood behind her. She was intently looking through one of the bills, her focus on her conversation and the paper in her hand. He got closer and closer, smelling her perfume that still lingered on her blouse from this morning and he plunged the knife in her back. 
She gave a little strange sound and he pulled it out and plunged it in again... and again... and again. 
Unfortunately, vigesimation was a cruel and random condition. Fate took him through the day, through the grim count, and she ended up being number twenty. 
She had to die.