WE’LL NEVER SAY “GOODBYE” – my heart at its fullest.

…and this is a long one. Brace yourselves.
She burst into tears upon seeing me; she had thought she had missed the opportunity to say goodbye. Pam, of all people, was the last one I expected to cry at my farewell…not. She and I had had our share of tears with each other in terms of office troubles, but I was not expecting this well of waterworks. She had to go on home to take care of her young ‘uns, and 20 minutes in, had to go, thinking she would not see me again.
The long hallway begged to differ.
We embraced as we never had, and she knew full well that in the lobby, a slew of people had already assembled…she encouraged me to traverse the hall, and we bid a quick farewell. Quick is best, and we both knew that…and we also knew this would not be the end; just a temporary distraction from seeing each other every day. I knew I would miss her, but something was telling me…this wasn’t over yet. Not with Pam. I strode along, and as I turned the corner to enter the lobby, I heard that familiar echoing clink of the double metal doors on the opposite end of the corridor…that quickly she was gone…the first.
I opened the lobby doors.
I don’t suppose anyone was expecting me to enter from anyplace except for the main entrance…in fact, many had their backs to me in anticipation of my arrival; it was like the surprise party gone wrong – everyone suddenly turning around, re-acclimating themselves to my understated entrance. The hugs and hellos commenced and I was astounded by so many dear and familiar faces…young and old, theatre and non, family and friends, co-workers, colleagues…and a few recent newcomers into my life.
The lobby was already decked out for the Christmas Show at the theatre, and the theme continued with a long set of tables spread center with sandwiches and crudite, snacks and sweets, festively dressed in holiday decor. The Christmas tree was lit, and there was a piano and microphone set in place…hmm. The bar was open, and my favorite Grand volunteers were standing at the ready. Along one side, a miniature “shrine” was laid out, with scalped photos of me downloaded from my Facebook page, all framed in splendor, along with the quintessential photo of me: the one that was also on my goodbye cake…the “yes, it IS my job” photo of me bussing tables at The Grand’s Season Preview. As I continued hugging and saying hellos, I also found out why everyone was facing the main entrance: there was a sandwich board with a large-scale photo of me on both sides out on the sidewalk with an arrow pointing inside. I laughed out loud when I saw it…a frightening marquee, if ever there was. I was additionally giddy at the current art exhibit on the walls of the acrobatic Three Little Bakers…my face had been cut and pasted into almost every one of them, and taped over the face of the unsuspecting Bakers…odd to see me in black and white unitards…haven’t seen that since college. I was filled with mirth.
My heart was particularly touched when I saw our Vice Chairman of the Board, and the Co-Chairs of Board Development appear, with hearty congratulations and best wishes. They three are some of the closest colleagues I have had on the board, and I was touched that they came…we laughed and recounted many a tale – of old and new regimes—and they each in their own way stated how they wondered how The Grand will go on without me. I assured them it would, because they would be the ones to see to it. I encouraged them to proceed to “the shrine” and drop a note in my “memory box”…a large colorful box brightly on display with paper and pens nearby. The only thing I asked of anyone coming to my farewell: let me take my memories with me. Everyone seemed to be in compliance.
And then I noticed a figure dressed in black, her strawberry blond hair resting gently on her shoulders; she was sipping a glass of wine. Laney was not expected. In fact, she and I had had some words about my leaving. But I had hoped against hope we would mend…that’s what friends do…they can fight, and tell it like it is…and then…move past it. Laney and I seem to have that kind of strength in our friendship. She is one of my “five little fingers.” By that I mean, there is a longstanding theory I have adopted ever since my father’s funeral. My brother Jimmy, his namesake, gave his eulogy, during which he relayed this perspective from my dad (one which, I unfortunately did not learn until he had passed): “If you have five good friends,” he said, flexing his thumb, index, middle, ring, and pinky fingers, “they will give you,” (here he reached out) “…a hand.”
Laney is one of my fingers. The index one, in fact. The maiden mother, the pointer in right directions, the pointer of shame, the pointer of emphasis and “listen to me.”
I had thought my index finger was “broken.” But here she was…reluctant, unwilling, reserved. I approached her softly, and we embraced. Unlike we’d ever have…it almost felt like it could not ever end…such strength, such depth, such emotion attached…it was surreal.
She did not wish to stay long, and continued to insist that “this isn’t happening.” We spoke intimately, and made peace. Spoke from the heart, and spoke truth. Again, I assured myself, this isn’t over yet. And with her trademark softest kiss in the world on my tear-lined cheek…she was off.
That was two.
But my finger felt better.
More hellos, more hugs…it was beginning to get crowded…I was not expecting this. My boss, Steve Bailey, arrived with his wife, Maryann, and their two Cairn Terriers in tow: Jack and Gracie (my adopted “kids”…I would sit for them often while the Baileys would travel to Florida or Montana…and exercise some discipline with them…they are not wonderfully trained – cause they’re spoiled – but they are responsive:) .
Jack and Gracie flitted about, obviously turned on by the smell of the food display, and searching for remnants between visits to my calves and scraping me in their traditional pawing at my legs. Steve and Maryann met me with quiet determination – knowing the inevitable, we all went on to mingling. Clearly, they were headed to the bar to improve their steely resolve.
Melissa zoomed in to me as I petted the doggies. She uprighted me and turned me in the direction of the main entrance to the lobby…asking me if I’d seen who had arrived. I was stunned. There he was, Damian, my best friend from high school, along with Ann Pinto McCarney, whom I’d known since we were 10, along with her darling husband Dean. All my worlds were colliding. But in a good way. I could not believe my eyes. We embraced as if it were yesterday. Oh my, how time goes by. They knew so many others in the room as well that I knew they were in excellent company, and I promised myself I would catch up in moments…again, best laid plans. I was stupid not to dedicate every precious moment I had to them. No regrets, Patrick, no regrets. Here they were…wow…what an honor.
I spent a goodly amount of time with the Robsons, David and Sonja, and their daughter Ingrid…whom I’d not really seen since 1995 (well, Ingrid wasn’t part of the equation back then). David, a playwright, and Sonja, his actress wife, and I had done work together to Christen City Theater’s Pub Plays in “the old days.” Our tour de force was Christopher Durang’s Naomi In The Living Room…my first real excursion at drag (and my last!). We were briefly interrupted by board members from another theatre at which I worked, New Candlelight…Sue and Tom Hornung…I was so very surprised and delighted at their arrival…what a compliment. And how enthusiastic they were, despite my loss as a fellow board member.
And then: Mother arrived.
With big brother Jimmy in tow…I was glad they’d endured the weather and the half-hour trek from outside Philly to come down to lil’ ol’ Wilmington. Famished, she immediately grabbed a sub sandwich and a plate, took a seat, and chowed down as I got her a VO Manhattan. Mother’s not shy; there’s a reason she goes by “Auntie Mame.” (“Felize”…her other nickname, is another story entirely.) She handed me a card and then another card from my Godmother Aunt Bernie…and said, “Now don’t spend it all on pizza.” My mom knows how obsessed I am with pizza. She doesn’t hesitate to remind me; and I don’t hesitate to remind HER that pepperoni pizza is the best of the best when it comes to representing the four Food Groups: meat, dairy, bread, and veggie. True?
[Editor’s Note: Please substitute the word Pizza in the above paragraph with “Beer.” But the Pizza thing is true, too.]
The Robsons joined us at our table and Jimmy and Mom (a bit out of their element with “theatre folk” as they always are) actually engaged in great conversation with them…I suppose Ingrid Robson, a darling beauty, their daughter, helped break the ice. Soon Melissa joined us (my middle finger, the “rebellious” one who just simply tells me like it is, or just tells me off), and then, Steve Bailey took the floor by taking the mic. I gathered it was now “showtime.”
Steve was sturdy as he awaited silence among the cast of characters assembled. He was endearingly gracious as he attested to my years of service at The Grand, but I was moved when he started to talk about where I was off to. “Patrick is going to a place where he can truly follow his heart and his passion for the theatre, something The Grand cannot offer him here, and he is daring to take that chance to go and follow his heart” was the general gist of it…but I was really taken with the fact that at this very moment, he truly understood me. Understood my choice, my motivation…Steve – finally – “got” me. He raised his glass, along with the rest, in an unexpected toast to my future…I was beginning to well up.
“And on with the show,” Steve continued, handing the mic to Melissa, as my dear friend Steve Weatherman took to the piano.
I was not prepared for this. I dashed to the bar for “A Slice Of Pizza.”
Melissa Joy Hart, ever the professional Cabaret Artist, began the first in a series of dedication songs. I don’t know where she found the strength…she and I have a tumultuous history…the stuff of bestsellers (and it will be)…but lo and behold, she belted out “Listen To My Heart” (our song forever) with finesse and flair and I was on the first of my series of waterworks. I had never heard such gusto come from her…it reminded me how much I am attracted to her talent…which is the understatement of the year. My best friend gave me the greatest gift of all…her heart…and I embrace it daily. “Listen to my voice, and it will tell you everything: all about the life, that’s just about to start, so if you want to know how much I love you, listen to my heart.” I’m always listening.
Not that she could be trumped, but if there was ever a gift of love coming at me, it was next: Melissa (Bernard) Dammeyer, my pioneer with City Theater. Melissa is an actress. Got that? ACTRESS. She doesn’t sing…but this night, she did…and she stepped up, singing what has become City Theater’s theme song, “Young At Heart”…quaking lyrics in hand, trembling in her voice…it didn’t matter…this Melissa was singing, actually singing…just for me…and she later said, it was ONLY because of me that she did that. It was a double whammy…freely given with love. “And here is the best part; you have a head start; if you are among the very young,…at heart.” Never were words more true.
I was surprised at the next performer…my first love, Michael Gray…we go a long way back…and we have an unending connection that defies comprehension…even ours. A creative connection, a brain drain, an understanding: he thinks something and I know how to make it into words – or a picture. I laughed at the intro to his song, “Anyone Can Whistle” (we’re both Stephen Sondheim whores, and this show is the one we always promised we’d do together, …cause NO ONE does it…best laid plans, ah well…story’s not over yet). He sang the title song with his sublime baritone, and all the wasted time with him (or so I’d ever thought) was worth every second. You never forget your first love. Michael and I will always be connected. “Maybe you could show me, how to let go; lower my guard; learn to be free; maybe if you whistle…whistle for me.” I definitely will.
I continued wiping tears as I hugged his rippled figure…there is not one in my life who has the strength to break my back the way Michael does…and then, adjusting the mic to her her 4’11’’ stature, stood Karen…duly dubbed “small but mighty” by me. She is the pinky. (Jury’s not out on this amongst the fingers, but I know my own hand.) The one that somehow keeps the others connected. Not an easy task…which is why she is small but mighty.
I knew the music immediately…again, “our song.” “Trust The Wind” is especially important to Karen and Me…she is a triple Air sign…it’s an astrology thing…but she and I get it, and that’s all that matters…she is in many ways, wind beneath me (differently than Melissa, my Air polarity…again, I digress) and Karen knows how important this song is to me…sometimes you just have to trust. And that’s what I was doing…it was a truly blessed gift from her to lend her voice to its message…again, I was waterworks. “I know wherever breezes blow, wherever winding rivers flow, I’m going where I need to go. I can TRUST the wind.” I have, and I do.
But no one could prepare me for the last presentation. Genevieve (Gen, my Anam Cara, my spiritual soul connection) was suddenly in the lineup. I didn’t see her arrive; I just saw her suddenly there. I heard the first few chords of her song and was shocked to stillness. The one I had asked her to learn so many moons ago: “Ship In A Bottle” …I thought it would be a good audition song for her soprano and her belt…an eclectic mix that she has, not unlike Melissa. I turned to one side, realizing that Steve and Maryann Bailey were right at my side, watching…watching…watching me watching her. I moved closer to them. Maryann put her arm around my waist and held me fast. The tears just didn’t stop, hearing the lyrics of “a little boy sailor…taking his chances on the wind and the sea.”
I was a fucking mess.
I was asked to approach the mic, to give a “speeeeech….speeeeech”…not exactly my thing, but I conceded.
Jack licked at my heels as I started speaking…thanking everyone (many of whom I’d not even said hello to yet, and arrived mid “Cabaret”). I didn’t have many words, except of thanks to The Board and The Staff of The Grand…to everyone who made the evening possible, my five little fingers…to friends, old and new, and with thanks for their support and encouragement this night…and I quickly closed (cause I am NOT a speech maker) with a quote from my friend Steve Weatherman, the man who had so graciously dedicated his piano talents to each song that night…he and I had had a discussion about this whole huge transition and how serendipitously all the elements fell into place: the job, the apartment, the whole new life. He had turned me on to a quote by Goethe: “Act courageously, and you will attract mighty forces.”
It was the last thing I said to everyone. I encouraged everyone to act courageously. And then…the party continued.
It was time to turn to my Ring Finger. Sue Werb. She had arrived with all of my closest professional colleagues in the Special Events Industry.
But she and I go way deeper than that. She is my mother, my sister, my friend, my coworker, my heart…my…words can’t say.
She is the Ring Finger. My commitment. To love. To know that love is possible. My protector, my maternal instinct, my provider instinct…my teacher. There really just aren’t words. She is so much of my hand all rolled into one fiery, fierce fist…(make a fist and see for yourself which finger hits the palm first)…there is just nothing else possible without love. She knows that. As do I. She totally represents that to me.
And I will miss her greatly. But if I went on about her, she’d be embarrassed…so I shall honor that.
After some time, Mother and Jimmy said goodbye, thanking me for knowing how much I was loved and how many people cared about me; Jimmy later said to my mom: “I’m sorry I never saw more of his shows…he’s done good.” I don’t begrudge this. Jimmy and I are just fine; there is always something inherently connected between the oldest and youngest of siblings.
Mom and Jimmy seemed to start the trend: the period of goodbyes.
They started to waterfall over me, and there is too much to recall; who they were, what they mean, how they impacted my life…there just aren’t words…and time is fleeting; which is why I asked them all to contribute to the “memory box.” That was the point. To remember. To take each of them with me.
There were photos, relegated to “respective theatre companies only” that I had worked with…there was my roommate, Karin, and her friend Sarah, with whom I’d spent the last year bonding with, only to have this bond severed. There was Bee and Denny and scores of friends…how lucky was I.
There were goodbyes with Ann and Dean and Damian…my best friends of all time and all years. The Robsons gave me a collective hug (including Ingrid, who gave me multiple memories in my box…having only just met her).
Things were winding down.
I was pulled aside by Steve Bailey near my memory box, and he wanted a moment alone. He didn’t want to leave things to chance when I would open his “memory”…which he promptly handed me, a slick, 10 x 1 inch neatly and tightly wrapped gift…I was befuddled at his insistence.
As I opened it, he started to speak, saying he was looking for the “right” thing to give to me…that he really didn’t quite know, but he was standing at his dresser and this came to mind…the gift of time. It was at that moment I had unwrapped the package, like Charlie from the Chocolate Factory, looking at a golden ticket. There it was: his Prized Wittnauer Watch…his favorite…black leather band and gold encrusted with diamonds…rectangular in shape…I was reminded of the ghetto “claw watch” I got from Dave & Busters with Jen and her brother Don in Irvine…which, remarkably, had just STOPPED working that night, otherwise I would have worn it. Steve is a collector of watches and I know how much this particular one means to him; for him to pass it on to me was a generational, intimate, moment…this was one of his babies. I was an unexpectant heir to his fortune.
I looked at him with tears in my eyes (and my eyes only, he wouldn’t have stood for otherwise)…he embraced me with a half armed hug…his style…and he too had reticent tears in his eyes as he said with a choked up voice…”you take good care of that.”
Not knowing how to respond, I said, “I will. Time’s on my side now.”
He and I, duly parted now, looked at each other one last time. He went off to wrangle Jack and Gracie.
And I was left with a series of more goodbyes. But not before a last “hello.”
Tom Shade, my longtime friend, my City Theater director, muse, and confidante, had just arrived….he’d missed the festivities, but there he stood…in line as I bid my farewells over and over again…just to say hello.
It was an exhaustive wait for him, I am now certain…the photos, the posing, the long goodbyes…Tom has always been patient. It has always been his strength…especially when dealing with me. I was enthralled by his presence…I mean…presents. His presence WAS a present.
I had one more goodbye to say as he waited, scruffy beard, tousled hair…the Tom I know and love. I was wondering where his wife and children were, but, from Towson, MD, I’m sure it would’ve been a hike.
Steve Bailey was waiting with the dogs off to one side of the lobby…I had a lovely redhead in front of me, Steve’s wife, Maryann, who, whether she realizes it or not, is the start of my “second set of fingers to give me a hand”…she is class with a capital C. And we have grown close these last two years…for a lot of reasons…none the least of which is: we both have taken care of the same School Boy lo all this time…we share the same heartache, heartburn, heartlift.
She couldn’t believe it as much as I could, that this was a last hug. She held fast to me with her Taurean stability. I couldn’t let go either. “It’s only California” we agreed…for someone who goes to Ohio, LA, Montana and Florida…it was a simple solution to wipe our tears. She did however walk away from me with her own full teary eyes…she turned her back and I watched her pull her hand to each side of her face to wipe her tears…I know Maryann has the strength within her to move past all this. She and I and Steve have been through worse.
Tom was waiting…and it was only fitting that he and I connected once again as the event breakdown occurred. Tom and I quickly caught up, but the scenario was subsiding…and there were a few guests waiting up the block at The Exchange, a local pub that has survived the Wilmington Renaissance and has actually thrived…I am optimistic for Wilmington in this regard.
I watched as the staff of GOH cleaned up…it was weird not to be part of that. I was accustomed to cleaning up after myself…this time, however, it was all taken care of. I hugged Melissa, saying I would see her later up at The Exchange.
And then Small But Mighty was reluctantly nearby for me to say farewell as she tidied up the lobby. There is something to be said about 6’1” hugging 4’1”…it’s a good fit. Karen was, I dare say, flummoxed, that “this” was “it.”
She held fast to me, and I to her…neither of us wanting to trust the wind. But we knew we must. With some strength, from God Only Knows Where, we were able to let go…nah, probably a better term is: let be.
I walked past the Almighty Grand Opera House for the very last time, up to The Exchange, where a bit of an AfterParty awaited.
I had a Relocation Pod still to pack, but each moment was now precious. Time. My new friend. Was now on my side.

FEARING A FAREWELL - time is not on my side

The day had arrived; a blustery and cold day, but sunny enough to tend to packing up “some” items in the ominous pod. It was strange to carry things down four flights of steps (my thighs would pay for it later) and, while I hoped I would’ve been further along, I just simply…was not.
I had to have an exit interview with HR, to finalize my keys, my phone, my pension, my last paycheck…oh the details. I finally handed off my keys to Christine, like a yoke lifted off my neck. She accepted them with a certain reluctance, knowing that there were a bunch more of facility keys in her newly inherited desk. There is a bit of power that comes with keys…if you can open doors, then you can do pretty much anything. It was a gift bestowed upon me that I took for granted; I hope she does not do the same.
And while I can’t quite recall all the details, because I had to say good bye to so many in the building in so many varying places, I finally walked out of The Grand…keyless…and I decided to take the main entrance, those looming 14’ doors that have been so welcoming for so long. I turned and glanced at its Parisian cast iron façade once more; the sun was starting to set, and…as I was just about to walk on and due to the setting sun, the sensors for its multicolored lights illuminated its 5 glorious stories…I was being bid farewell even by she herself; The Grand. I smiled in awe and wonder. Then turned away.
Errands to the bank, errands to the stores, I was quickly up the stairs of my four flight apartment, and finalizing a few more boxes and streamlining my thoughts: this was it. Tonight was my going away “gala” and then…off I would go, in less than 12 hours.
My roommate Karin arrived at the apartment, her custom, around 6 pm…we only had about an hour left to be with each other. Karin has been a true blessing; she comes from San Francisco after living in DE for most of her life; but California was where she, too, bloomed. Perhaps it was another one of those serendipitous moments that she joined me as my roommate a year ago…perhaps she was laying a foundation for me with all her glorious tales. We spent many a night out on “the moondeck” (as she Christened it with twinkle lights and candles), and had our share of spats as to who was to provide toilet paper versus paper towels. One thing I admire about Karin (among many things), is her ability to get the job done; she waits for nothing…lesson learned. I only hope my landlord, now in her hands, can oblige…if not, he’s gonna have to deal with her fiery energy, of which mine pales in comparison.
She was coming to the Farewell, and we worked out minor details of what her inheritance would be: largely, everything I had already inherited and was in the apartment…with the exception of my massage reading chair, and the bistro kitchen table set. Other than that, she got it good. I was off to a fully furnished place, and did not need much. She and I held fast with a strong hug; she knew that she would not get to spend much time with me at the Farewell.
But I later learned that she had rearranged everything she inherited in the apartment (what, less than a week later??); her call. I am glad things now suit her needs.
I put on my best Californian jeans (compliments of my excursion with Sean back over Thanksgiving), and my favorite orange oxford (a gift from my ex Steve, with whom I had recently made peace after our breakup in April…another catalyst in this process…but not THE REASON…I am not running away, I am running TO)…I added my favorite new shoes, and as I was futzing with my hair (always a challenge), Melissa called me: it was exactly 7 pm. I assured her I was on my way…and I put on my windbreaker and hood, because the cold had given way to a small rainstorm…I worried about my mother driving in this weather.
Fifteen minutes later, I had parked at the lot where I had done so for six years, climbed the hill a bit, and decided to go into the back entrance of the building…knowing full well that, without keys, the only thing “still intact” was my keycode to the pad outside its entrance.
I opened the door and shook off the rain. I stared at the long hallway which I had tread for so many mornings I simply cannot count; then a similarly cloaked figure started walking down the same hall towards me. The fluorescent lights did not reveal, and I had already taken my glasses off to wipe off the mist. The petite figure ran for me as I put on my specs and my eyes adjusted.

HOW TO NOT BE WITH YOU - packing it up once and for all...

Monday and Tuesday were largely spent boxing things up; finalizing financials; making sure “the ominous pod” arrived. I attempted to have some quality time with folks, but time really was not too kind. I did, however, get to spend a little bit of time with a former ex (is there any other kind?)…and his new partner. It was only fitting that he and I reconnect for one brief shining moment known as Camelot. Michael, or Mr. Mike, as he would become known to me, was a brief glint at understanding whom I was meant to be; we had a torrid love affair, brief and fulfilling all at once. We never lost touch, never kept each other at bay; we just simply knew from the get go that we were not meant to be.
We reunited at Baxter’s, the one and only gay bar left in Wilmington, on the cusp of Greenville…the gay contingency’s attempt at opulence…in vain, of course. Michael, and his partner Greg, whom I’d met in Rehoboth a few summers back, welcomed me heartily. Mr. Mike looked good, despite his difficulties with job problems and lawsuits he was undergoing, but it was wonderful to see him; his partner Greg and I spent some time outside having a smoke, and I encouraged Greg, a visual artist, to pursue his craft. I told him about the serendipity I had encountered by following my heart, and he was enthused. As a friend had told me, I asked him to “act courageously, and you will attract mighty forces to your aid.”
Humph. Here I was encouraging my former lover’s new partner to pursue his bliss. Oh the irony.
Still, Greg was duly moved, and I knew that God had brought us together for a reason; I have often heard Mr. Mike say how difficult it is to live with an artist.
Honey, he don’t know the half.
Our time well spent, our farewells intact, we bid each other adieu, knowing that we would remain, however oddly, connected. They say life is a journey; but what they don’t say is: it’s a crazy, bewildering mixed up one. I was grateful for the time together…and the distraction from the obvious:
FINISHING PACKING.
I had hours to go…and miles to go before I slept. I returned to the apartment, and – of course – distracted myself for hours on Facebook. Why not indulge myself one last time. Tomorrow, Tuesday, was going to be full enough…there was a Farewell party for me to attend. How pompous of me to think that I could finish packing in such short shrift…
…and yet, as determined as I was, I knew that I could do it.

FRANCKLY - a gala

The fact that this would be my last Gala as an employee of The Grand was only further heightened by a 20 year reunion in the making. Alison Franck, a classmate from Syracuse, would be my date for the evening; in fact, the weekend. After packing up more items on Saturday morning (I was nowhere NEAR ready), I had to then pack up a suitcase for the hotel, and pick up my tux. Alison’s bus arrived around 1:45, and I dared not be late…not after 20 years.
Alison and I have been catching up for some time on Facebook, a true use of the site’s utility for staying in touch with old friends. She is a longtime fan of The Beatles, and it was a natural ask for me to see if she wanted a getaway weekend; Alison, a casting director outside of New York, was grateful for the chance to have a little holiday before the holidays…and to play dress up and see The Fab Faux, a band that authentically recreates the sound of the Beatles, was icing.
I was moments from picking her up, when she texted me to see if I was on time; I assured her I was, and just as I pulled over to park and put my hazard lights on, the bus was pulling in. I stood at the back of the bus as she disembarked. There she was, looking chic and sublime in her black overcoat and couture cap. We hugged with the strength of twenty years, and she quickly began updating me on her journey; Alison speaks as quickly as she IMs on Facebook, and soon I was caught up on her escapades in getting from New York to Wilmington.
We did the five second tour (that’s about all the time it takes) up and down Market Street, and we nestled in front of The Grand as I showed her the splendid façade of my soon to be former employer. We had to go inside, as our tickets for the Gala were in my also soon to be former office. There, the facility and technical staff were knee deep in final preparations, getting everything spit spot. Alison did not get the full splendor of The Grand, as the theatre lights were dimmed for sound check with the band; still, she got the sense that an elegant evening awaited.
Once we toured the rest of the building and picked up our tickets, we moseyed up the block to one of the few vendors open on Saturday. Lapp’s Rotisserie was a quiet respite where we had the entire place to ourselves to catch up, and Alison, a bit famished, could enjoy a buffalo chicken wrap. Alison eats well, and I honestly wonder where she puts it; her figure doesn’t give out clues. Knowing the spread that was to come that evening, I opted for a simple coffee to settle my stomach. We killed time catching up on love won and lost, of days gone by and plans to come, and, after a few errands (I needed socks, she, hosiery), soon it was time to check in.
It is often fun for me to observe another’s wonder through their eyes, and Alison’s awe at the lobby of the Hotel duPont was one of those moments. The luxurious surroundings, decked out in holiday regalia, only added to my amusement as I observed her dropped jaw and wandering eyes take in exactly where we were staying. She wanted to be certain we had rooms near each other, to which the concierge complied, and once we settled in, I encouraged her to take time to enjoy a long bath, as I planned to do the same. Little did I know what I had done.
There is nothing like a really good bath, with fluffy towels and spa finery. The Hotel duPont is such a place to lose oneself in such luxury. Each of us now pressed and dressed (and very well bathed), we descended to the lobby to meet Melissa for a drink and were soon thereafter at The Grand, awaiting the opening remarks and performance.
I had mixed feelings about schmoozing with board members for the last time; many of them kept wishing me luck and pulling me aside; I tried to laugh it off, saying there would be plenty of time for goodbyes, and we had a Gala to put on, “now get in your seats!” I especially did not want to make Alison uncomfortable with these varying accolades; I just wanted us all to have a good time.
And we did. The performance was as splendid as any I’ve seen; the tribute to the Copelands, longtime supporters of The Grand, was heartfelt and honest; the audience was clearly moved, me among them, and the band’s dedication of “All You Need Is Love” to them was, all told, the cap of the evening.
My last official duty was to hand off the overcoats of Mr. & Mrs. Chairman; a duty I’ve been performing for years. It prevents them from getting caught up in coat check lines, and eases them on their way to the after party, where they can continue to tout The Grand. Alison waited patiently as I did this last task…and then…I was officially free.
I did not expect everything to go so quickly without such pomp and circumstance, but I was actually grateful. Alison on my arm, we walked up the block to the after party, where an evening performance was letting out at the Dupont Theatre; congestion galore. But we were soon swimming with the crème de la crème, and Alison was enamored with the entire shindig. As a long time attendee, I forgot the wonder of the Gala…had taken it for granted. I lived vicariously as she enjoyed the raw bar, carving stations, breakfast foods, chocolate fountain, dance rooms and face painting. As the night wore on, I realized how few of my co-workers I had seen; Alison had kept us busy running from ballroom to ballroom…and I also wanted to be certain to spend time with a few key board members whom I knew I would not see again. As she indulged me with this gift, Alison charmed my friends and found a few of her own along the way; we took the traditional photo in front of the lobby Christmas tree, and that is where we wound up spending most of our evening – until of course, it was time for coffee and donuts in the lobby lounge.
As the hullaballoo of the night subsided, we found ourselves in a corner, dipping into donut holes with all the toppings and trimmings one could think of, and a few very close colleagues joined us as we brought the evening to a close. It was the perfect end to a perfect evening; I could not have asked for more.
Bidding my date adieu, I drifted off to sleep, but not after a good fight with room service (I had actually forgotten to EAT at the after party, imagine that). As I later learned, Alison had another bath…and then another the next morning…seems I’d started a trend. We departed the next morning for Philadelphia to take in a matinee of Hairspray at The Walnut, in which a few friends of mine (and hers) were performing. We continued to catch up and share our lives, past, present and future.
She is a remarkable woman.
And I owe her a great deal; whether she realizes it or not, her company that weekend gave me much needed solace…peace, away from the hustle and bustle of packing…of moving…of…leaving.
I dropped her off at Filbert Street Bus Station, hugging 20 more years into her. And then…was on I95 back to Wilmington.
For the last time.

A FOND FAREWELL - a few short weeks later...

Aside from childbirth (which I will never personally experience), I would venture to say there is probably nothing more stressful than moving. It’s a strange dynamic: you actually TOUCH everything you own. You make a decision about it, decide its value, recall what it means, give it its due…and choose if it comes with you or not. The upcoming weeks were spent with many of those confrontational moments. “Should I stay or should I go now” was a recurring musical underscore for my life as I wrestled with what was most precious to me. Sixteen bags of trash later; I realized how much of a pack rat I really am, but also, how much I have been given in life.
I was struck, too, by how equally I was able to fill up sixteen boxes to take with me. Getting them down four flights of steps to the pod was another matter, but I digress.
My office, which once was a centralized haven of sorts, my home away from home, had slowly started to become a barren, bare, butter-painted shell of what it used to be; the fluorescent lights only further enhanced its bleakness. I had not realized how much I had filled it with comfort, nor how that comfort toned down its starkness. It was now up to my successor to make it her own; she was reluctant to hang anything upon the walls while I was still there…but I know she has plans to fill it out on her own terms. As well she should.
Christine and I spent a very long two weeks with each other, offering an opportunity to drain my brain of six years of history at The Grand. It is my hope, wish and prayer that she will never try to replace me; that is not going to be her job. Her job will be to keep The Grand going strong, and to honor that commitment. She is a dependable and organized and efficient woman with tremendous social skills and strengths I don’t possess; I am wishing her the best of luck. May The Grand be as loyal to her as it has been to me. And I certainly hope she appreciates having that little bit of time together to get up to speed; it is a rare occasion that anyone gets to spend time with their predecessor “training.” I certainly am not going to have the chance; I’m going in blind.
My last day at The Grand was supposed to be uneventful; I expected to have a little bit of time off before I left, and knew that my upcoming Farewell was forthcoming. In true Grand Style, there was a last minute pizza lunch in the back hall, and I was very pleasantly surprised to see the entire staff in attendance…a “best wishes” cake with California-shaped icing was the topper, complete with little flag posted in the Ventura region. The flag itself was a picture of my trademark photo: a pix of me bussing tables at our Grand Preview Party. It looks like I’m about to down three martinis, but it was actually risotto crab dip that I was clearing from tables. The quote to the photo is essentially, “Yes. It IS my job.” Meaning, yes, folks, do whatever it takes to get the job done; the first, and most important lesson I ever learned at The Grand.
It was nice to have that special time with the staff. When Melissa thought the cake I had cut smelled funny, I was fool enough to sniff it, at which point she promptly smashed it in my face…there’s probably a photo lingering around somewhere now to replace my previous signature pix. She got me, and I suppose, it was rather well deserved; who hasn’t wanted to smash a cake in someone’s face??
I was teary-eyed as I sent my farewell letter to The Board; they are wonderful people with tremendous heart; and they care for The Grand greatly. They will be sorely missed by me.
I had finalized as many matters with Christine as humanly possible, knowing she and I will have to have a few email chats on processes we could not tend to. The Grand Gala was the next night, and remarkably, The Grand was calm. It was the quiet before the storm; this was the norm for the day before Gala. The Development Department had their best game face on. It was not a “crazy event planner” face, but one of “here we go.”
I was about to finally say farewell to The Grand in tuxedo style. Not a bad way to go, eh?

California Leavin' - Day 7 - A Trivial Pursuit

I was now on a mission: Blog away, blog away, blog away all. My last day in California would largely be spent at the computer…updating my various adventures and getting them POSTED. Jen and I developed a system whereby I would write, burn, load to her computer, and post on her internet connection. It was a little time consuming but, I’m sure you’ll agree, worth the effort.
Sher arrived early for a jog with Jen before she was off to Laguna Playhouse. She was needed at work, despite her attempt to take the day off, and (after a jog induced energy burst of housekeeping) she reluctantly set off as I put a second pot of coffee on and frittered away the morning and early afternoon on the keyboard, and not much else.
10 blogs later, she returned, finalized the secret ingredients of her bean dip, chilled it, and took a nap. I packed as she did, creating a hefty donation bag for the Salvation Army of clothes I no longer intended to need.
I donned my new jeans and shoes, woke Jen around 7, and she slinked into one of her quintessential black dittys; unwrapping brie and crackers and then encasing them in cellophane, she pulled out the bean dip, put a tight lid on its pungency, grabbed a bag of Trader Joe’s chips, and off we went to the party of the night: A Trival Pursuit Themed Party at Enrique’s and Kendra’s, where I was to meet her philosophical friend Pi, and get my first taste of an LA gathering.
A few blocks from her house is where we drove, for Jen did not wish to walk carrying all the foodstuffs. We were greeted by Kendra and daughter Isabelle, who was wearing a pink grass skirt and bikini top…Izzy had had a lot of sugar, it seemed, and quickly pulled Jen into the kitchen and den area, where we unloaded the goods, and filled the room with garlic-y goodness. The kitchen counter served as a full bar with a variety of bottles…a mini keg of Heinekin was the only beer, and it had already been tapped out. I opted for Grey Goose and 7 Up as Jen mixed a rum and Coke.
Enrique (or Henry, as I came to learn) is Peruvian but looks as New England as they come. He and Kendra were generous hosts, with a shared spread of ethnic dishes and Thanksgiving leftover sandwiches with a Peruvian twist. I watched their second daughter, Katerina, make up silly dances as she moved in her own Martha Graham induced euphoria to the music in the background. We sampled the food, and a few more drinks in, I loosened up and conversed with others. I met Tom and Rudy while out back for a smoke, always a good ice breaker.
Jen introduced me to Pi, an intelligent middle eastern man clad in a wool cardigan which only further made him look like he’d just finished his thesis; all he needed was a pipe to complete the picture. The sprigs of gray hair on his temporals were an ode to the wisdom of a disciplined individual. The evening in essence would become his; while the rest of the guests got bombed, Pi was destined to sip his club soda and succumb to frustration as the only person in the room taking the game seriously. Soon Jen and I were on the same team (there were only two teams among the forty guests), but I found myself out on the patio for another smoke as my interest in the game waned, and Henry joined me outside.
He pulled out a pack of Dunhills, which he only smokes once a year, and this is the night. The Trivial Pursuit tradition has been going on for several years, and it’s a credit to him and his hospitality. He offered me one of the Triple A Class cigarettes, and I found myself in deep conversation with my host for a good hour. We intermittently chimed in to the game with answers and votes, but mostly kept outside as he downed his scotches and I polished off more Grey Goose.
We were joined by Jen and Rudy and a few others outside, creating our own little clique. Rudy and Jen found themselves tucked into a corner deep in conversation, and then Henry gained interest in a young lady from Iraq, who had escaped during the Gulf War…they became engrossed in political rhetoric…and I suddenly felt the effects of all that vodka; it was time to go.
Jen escorted me out and dropped me off to la la land, and headed back to the par-tay. Incredibly, she somehow managed to wake up at 5 am in order to see me off at John Wayne Airport. We bid farewell, with Jen noting that she was only “half as sad” that I was leaving, for she knew I’d be back soon.
I boarded the flight for Phoenix with a splintering headache. Next time I go to a party in California, I’m bringing beer.
So ends the California Chronicles. I will spare you the details on the flight delays, missed connections, lost luggage – and finding my car back in Philly; my adventure ended as frustratingly as it began…but all things considered, it does make a nice pair of bookends to a world I never knew existed.
And I am now ready to explore it. Let’s begin.

California Grateful - Day 6, Part Two - "But you MUST be mad," said the Cheshire Cat to Alice, "...otherwise you wouldn't be here." -- Lewis Carroll

I was low on cigarettes, so once we arrived at the apartment, Jen and I walked to the local grocer, “Ralph’s,” to pick them up, along with items needed for Jen to make her infamous black bean dip for a party we were going to on Friday night.
We passed a homeless man on the way in, and while we did not acknowledge him as he begged to us, I was impressed to see Jen peruse through other aisles outside of the Mexican ingredients she needed. Picking up PB&J, a loaf of bread, Doritos and Chips Ahoy, along with napkins and flatware from the salad bar, she asked for them to be bagged separately from her bean dip needs. On the way out, she promptly laid the bag in front of the man, wishing him a good holiday. We continued across the parking lot as I looked at her with admiration. She stared back in wonder at me. “What?” she said, “I’m not THAT heartless. I just don’t give out money.” I chuckled, and soon she was tearing apart the kitchen, chopping up all kinds of ingredients while I blogged away to catch up as best I could.
After some time, we were pressed and dressed, and heading towards Laguna Niguel, a quiet community that Jen recalls gave her little to offer in terms of social life. Here I was about to meet the family tree. Complicated, but not incomprehensible. A new family – and it wasn’t mine. Soon enough, though, I would feel like it was.
Leonard and Carol Dufur reside in a lovely home up a hill in the region of Laguna Niguel, or thereabouts. Leonard is father to Sher and Don; Carol is his second wife. His first wife, Barbara Gray, is Jen’s mother, and Sher and Don’s. Jen’s father, Barbara’s second ex-husband, was enjoying Thanksgiving with the Italian Urbanos. Sher is married to Aaron Pai, of Asian descent, and they of 4 lovely children: Trevor, who should be a model, and is; Taylor, a quirky and fun, spritely surfer; Lindsay, recently married to Scottie, a faux red head (I can spot a bottle job in an instant); and Ashlyn, the quiet one, but eager to laugh when it’s warranted. Don was there with his younger set of children, Cody and Tessa. Their mother, Julie, and her new husband, Chris were also accounted for. Chris’ family was very much available by cel phone, as he spent a lot of time tuning in to them in this manner from the confines of the garage.
Both Carol and Leonard greeted me in their stocking feet and welcomed me with open arms. I instinctively embraced Sher but was cordial with Aaron, who was quiet and reserved like his daughter Ashlyn. Don extended a hearty handshake and his children were polite and well-mannered. Julie hugged me hard as if I hadn’t seen her in years…I rolled with it. No one blinked twice.
They were less enamored of the fact that I was Jen’s guest, for the true guest star of the day was Jen’s hair, which many had not yet seen in its current “Bernice Bobs Her Hair” exhibition. Jen with short hair is a novelty to say the least. I stood off to one side as the compliments flowed. In fact I stood off to one side in general, admiring the family dynamics of smiles and hugs, “in jokes” and sibling meddling (by generation of course)…there was a lot of love going on in that room. I tried to continue being a sponge.

The game on TV gave way to episodes of Family Guy, and I watched from the den as Trevor carved the turkey, with Cody in keen observance next to him, ultimately I suppose, learning the craft from his oldest cousin so that one day, he too may stand in those shoes. Tessa flitted back and forth doing a variety of taste tests before dishes made their way to the elongated table decked out across the living and dining room. Leonard, an artisan as well, had hand cut the plywood pieces and cinched together what had to be a 20’ makeshift table. Carol had decked it out with hand-plucked leaves of orange, gold and maroon. I don’t know where she got them from, but apparently, there are trees in California that change color each fall.
I sat with Don to my left at the foot of the table; he’s a lefty, and needs his space. Jen was to my right, and across from me were newlyweds Scottie and Lindsay. A traditional feast ensued, the only variance of which for me was cranberry mixed with pomegranate, a sweet and crunchy new taste to me.
There was simply no drama. Here I was among a blended family with general love and regard for one another. Leonard proposed a quiet toast, observing that the thing for which he was most grateful was his family, and may we all be together again soon. I was moved by his simplicity, then Cody said the blessing. I ate as well as I ever had; it was in fact my first home-cooked meal since I’d arrived.
Filled to the gills, everyone retired to various cliques of conversation in areas away from the table. I digested as quickly as possible, as the desserts were going fast. On my return to the table, I watched as Jen’s nieces and nephews (young adults, mind you) climbing on top of each other in pseudo-wrestling matches on the living room couch…Jen created miniature bouquets with Carol’s leaves, and her nieces played with the leaves over their eyes, urging Jen to do the same, as they made Chinese mockery of themselves with refrains of “Ching Chong!” to each other…they all laughed in spite of themselves.
Barbara was first to leave, after a few silly photos were taken, and before too long the feast had ended. On the ride home, Jen confided that I had survived the first Thanksgiving without “incident.” Every family has their dramas, but for some reason, I was spared, something for which SHE found herself grateful.
As for me, I was just happy to observe a different family dynamic; a California style Thanksgiving with mirth and laughter, cider and cinnamon, love…and another new memory. I look forward to growing in friendship with this family.
We were home around 8, and Jen continued her bean dip prep as I wrote more and more frenetically. Tomorrow was my last full day here; I planned to rest up for the party with her friends next evening.
The scent of Jen’s bean dip permeated the apartment as I looked at my suitcase…wondering what, if anything, I no longer would need out in this climate.

California Grateful - Day 6, Part One - Traditions, Old and New

Thanksgiving morning arrived in a mist; the much-needed rain had subsided, but lingered a bit in the morning sun. It was already 9 am Pacific Time, and I figured my own family was preparing to gather together back east…Turkey Day can be a bit of a marathon for the Irish, what with all the football games and parades and such…frankly, I was not missing the hullaballo.
I called my mother in obligatory fashion, for which she was grateful, no pun intended…I have been easing my mom into the idea that her youngest son is about to move 3,000 miles away for a few weeks now; it was time to come clean. She knows deep down this is what I want. Still, it cannot be an easy matter for her to digest. It was hard enough when I moved to Wilmington, in her eyes. She encouraged me to call my brothers (never an easy chore for the prodigal son that I am to them), and with some degree of determination, I did so.
After a few tense phone calls out on the front lawn with more criticism than an episode of Judge Judy, I entered to find Jen lounging on the couch…we talked of family dynamics and the similarities she and I share, both being single, on our own, and…gypsies. The gay uncle and the spinster aunt were in good company with each other, and her empathy was salve to my familial wounds.
But no time for sulking. I was about to experience a time-honored tradition for her: a stroll on Huntington Beach each Thanksgiving morning. We zoomed through Costa Mesa, past some industrial areas, and were quickly pulling in to the sleepy town now yawning and stretching to greet the holiday. Here there is surf, sand – and surfers. Gaggles of them. As we parked, a buff brunette was donning his scuba suit immodestly with a half-hearted attempt at keeping a towel around him. Jen chirped that she’s seen more ass on this beach than she could recount. I was mesmerized by the floor show.
As I looked out over the ocean, I could see perhaps 100 or so surfers in scuba suits; the only distinguishing quality among them was whether the hair on their heads was blond, brown…or grey. Many old school die-hard dudes are prevalent in surfing…holding on screeching and screaming for their youth. I admired their vigor, and could only hope that when I reached their age, I would be living on the wild side still.
We strode along the pier (actually my first pier since I’d arrived…although I’d seen so many…now I was actually ON one) and stopped half-way to take in the view below of the various boys on their boards. It was a goddamn buffet, with a variety of bubble butts and asses afloat on the sea, just ripe for pickin’. The waves were not as terse as I thought they wanted them to be; still, it was interesting to watch them mount their boards and attempt to hang five.
Having completed the perimeter of the pier, we headed up towards the main street in Huntington…but not before observing a quick performance by a bulldog and his owner on one of the promenades…a bulldog who skateboards…not only skateboards, but skateboards on TWO skateboards…a crowd assembled for the quick show, and upon a burst of applause, the dog and owner skated off in the other direction.
Jen’s brother in law, Aaron, and sister Sher, own a surf store on the corner just opposite the beach; they have literally cornered the market, despite a competitive store across from it. We ventured inside, to find all kinds of apparel and surfboards and supplies for the avid surfer. The store pays homage to surf stars and family members, with framed photos on its walls, and concrete impressions in the tiles out front, a la the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.
We continued up the store-lined mall, as Jen pointed out some really great breakfast joints, and before long, we headed back to the beach. I thanked her for including me on the excursion. We agreed that taking this moment to look at the sun, sand and surf is one of those things that really puts everything in perspective and gives one a sense of gratitude. Nature at its finest. And the surfer dudes don’t hurt.
We drove through some of the communities in which she grew up, she showed me her high school (a long and spread out one-story campus, complete with “smoker’s park” to prevent truancy), and soon we were back at the apartment, putting on our Thanksgiving best for the upcoming feast with her family.
Even Aaron Spelling couldn’t have come up with THIS cast of characters.

California Drifting – Day 5, Part Two – MetroLink to Irvine, Where Zombies Deserve What They Get, and “The Claw” Rules Supreme

Union Station is no more daunting than any other major metropolitan rail system; nonetheless, I had my share of “Midvale School For The Gifted” moments while I attempted to follow signage that was not quite spot on, and fought with ticket machines that were not entirely up to date. A friendly female security guard assisted me upon my beckoning to her that the train I was supposed to be on was not listed on the ticket machine. She walked me through each phase, step by step, until I held in my hand the ticket that matched the time that matched the track that matched the destination: Irvine, not far from Jen, who would be waiting for me after two days apart; I missed my travel agent and our regimented schedule.
Track 8B was littered with all types of individuals and although tired, I attempted some more people watching. The train pulled in (a double decker – now THAT was a novel concept to me) and I found a solo seat against the opposite door. As we embarked, I lost my bearings; the train was pulling back OUT in the direction it came from…it was not continuing in its original direction. I took a moment to breathe, considering that perhaps it just needed to pull in to the station and then would find its way back on track to the south. I checked the pocket schedule I had pulled from the tourist racks as the conductor announced the first stop. All was well. I texted Jen that I was “all aboard” and off I went.
The public transit is neat, clean and quiet – with restrooms…considering MetroLink can actually connect me to Jen, Sean AND Ventura (with a little help from Amtrak), it is, along with the Post Office, going to become another new best friend.
An hour later, after reading all the newspapers I’d been waiting to delve into, we approached Irvine Station, where, just prior to the announcement, Jen called wondering if I was on time/nearby. She would be waiting in the parking lot, and as the doors opened, I stepped into sunny skies once again onto a white concrete plaza. I descended a staircase with the rest of my fellow travelers, who parted from me just as I was able to make out the figure of Jen on a bench across the way. She looked at me with a small degree of wonder; I forgot I was sporting my new threads, and she was duly impressed with Sean’s preliminary makeover. “Cue strut mu--“
--NOT one to fuss, she hurried us into the car, where we spun off to Spectrum Irvine, a combo amusement park with carousel and ferris wheel along with more shops and restaurants. And, I was about to learn: Dave & Busters, where we were about to spend some QT with Jen’s brother Don. (I’ve never been to a Dave & Busters in my life, but I go where my travel agent says.)
Don was due to meet us at 4 PM…and as 4 PM approached, with still no sign of Don, she and I discussed matters of respect when it comes to punctuality. I had already seen Jen’s patience tested with Chris’ tardiness on Monday morning; I’m sure it was insult to injury when it came to a family member. We were just concluding our debate, when Don appeared at the entranceway. He asked if she’d gotten his text, saying he’d be about 10 minutes late. Jen had not checked her phone. It was 9 minutes after 4. And…in we went.
Don educated us on the ins and outs of the D&B point card system, and after the brief tutorial, we were locked and loaded with our swipe cards and found a high top near the end of the bar. After a brief cocktail and some chat, we went off in pursuit of childhood fun on an adult size scale. Jen took her turn at Galactiga, Don went to a shooting range, and I opted for a quick round of Donkey Kong, which I had not endeavored to undertake since 8th grade – and it was evident. Fuckin’ ape.
Jen was making some serious headway with her game, so I let her be and hit one of the coin fountains where you drop a coin at random to knock coins down a level and then into the abyss which ultimately issues you redeemable tickets for the gift shop. My card was not reading properly, so I called for assistance, and a referee clad skater dude set me up with more coins than I’d originally intended (I suppose, to compensate for the delay, but nonetheless ensuring a windfall).
500 tickets later, Jen popped by as I was wrapping up, and we went to find Don, who was shooting deer and bears on some virtual hunting expedition. I couldn’t bring myself to observe further, virtual or not, and as we went back to our table, Jen said, “Go have a smoke, and when you get back, we’ll shoot some zombies; it’s okay to kill them.”
If ever there was a better outlet for passive aggressiveness or projective therapy, Evil Dead III is it. Here Jen and I stood, machine guns hoisted to our shoulders, as we blew apart the freakiest of freaks – piece by wretched piece. Perhaps I was taking matters out on my ex; I will not speak for Jen. Regardless, whatever lay dormant in us was boiling over and we suddenly found ourselves at level eight…a large Bluto sized zombified officer (like Schwartzeneggar with a bad skin condition) was our only nemesis. He carried a club, and knew how to wield it. Despite our incessant reloading, we were both knocked out and the game was over before we could blink. Jen and I stared at each other a moment, breathing heavily. Then we both cheerfully put down our guns, primal instincts buried once again.
After another drink and more conversation (during which I was continually distracted by a bald-headed hot guy who appeared to be a manager making perpetual rounds – what is it with me and the bald men lately??), I left Jen and Don to each other while I redeemed my coupons. I returned with a glittery tattoo of a pair of sunglasses for Jen, just in case she misplaces her current ones (and which happens more than she would like to admit), a kaleidoscope viewer for Don, an artist, so he may always have a fresh perspective on his work, and a glow in the dark keychain for myself. Silly trinkets, but memorable just the same.
But I could not leave well enough alone. I spotted a Claw Grabbing Machine with tacky jewelry in it, and of course, had to have a turn. 3 tries later, I Clawed a ladies’ watch, offering it to Jen, who would, in turn, give it to Don’s daughter. 4 more tries later, and I had a new “Riviera Quartz” silver and black watch for myself….ooooooooh. Don’t mess with The Claw. It is something at which, frankly, I rule.
Our D&B adventure complete, we supped at The Cheesecake Factory (another first for me), window shopped a bit (the candy store with gazillions of types of caramel apples on display drew the siblings into its sweet confection realms), grabbed a coffee to go, and parted company; we would see each other soon enough for Thanksgiving.
The coffee was a weak attempt to keep going, but I think by now I was fairly numb to its effects. On entrance to Jen’s apartment, I dropped my bag, felt an adrenaline drop, and, to Jen’s surprise, went off to bed entirely too soon – even by my own standards.

California Drifting – Day 5 – Buddy at 6 AM, and Urbano’s Secret Plot

Sean and Robert have a neighbor downstairs. He is a Doctor with a very busy schedule – and a golden retriever named Buddy. She is as beautiful as can be, getting on in years, and has a bit of a hip condition. Due to the Good Doctor’s busy schedule, he will often bring Buddy up to their back deck, where Sean or Robert will tend to her throughout the day as need dictates. It is an amicable arrangement from which Buddy benefits most of all, having two gay uncles and a daddy.
Still, I am infuriated at the Good Doctor. I find it remarkably irresponsible of him to even consider himself a pet owner. Enough soap box. Don’t get me started.
I awoke at 6 AM to the sound of a text message alert; Jen had notified me the night previous that “tomorrow = rain = traffic…can sean take you to the train?” Considering all Jen has done for me this last week, it only made sense not to have her drive two hours to LA on the day before Thanksgiving in the rain, just to pick me up and return and not even enjoy the downtown. Sean considered it a bonus – extra time together.
As I smoked out back, I heard the patter of paws combined with a heavy step ascending nearby. The Good Doctor was dropping Buddy off for the day…the prick. I smiled weakly as he tethered her leash to the banister, then listened for his footsteps to fade away. Buddy stared at me blankly, longingly. I put my hands down low to reach out to her, and she hobbled toward me and nestled between my legs. There we sat and listened to intermittent sprinkles of leftover showers from the previous night’s news-making “flood.”
Now very much awake, I decided to take a quick walk back down to Basix, to see if they had coffee to go, which they did, in a café connected to the restaurant. Another cute barista waited upon me with a smile that should be showcased in a Colgate commercial. I added two shortbread snowballs with powdered sugar to the pair of coffees, and headed back up the now neatly-pruned tree-lined Flores Street.
Sean awoke a few moments after I sat down at the dining room table, and I offered the second cup of coffee to him, which he divided further in two to share with Robert, who trailed behind not long after. Each of them enjoyed the shortbread, and soon Robert was back to work in the kitchen, whipping up more Thanksgiving scents. Sean had asked whether Robert wanted to spend some time with us before he dropped me off at Union Station, but Robert politely declined, encouraging us to enjoy our time; he had far too much to do in the kitchen today. Sean conceded with a sigh, and we headed for Beverly Hills.
The houses are exactly what you think they are, except for one unusual corner home that looks like it came off the set of a Disney Halloween film…we dubbed it the witchy poo house, with its cottage peaks and harvest colored shingles. Sean rides his bike through here often and knows the back roads. We veered onto Rodeo Drive, into the heart of opulence, then down Hollywood Boulevard, past Grauman’s Chinese Theatre and parked to grab lunch and see some of the Hollywood Walk Of Fame.
Standing on Kevin Spacey near the Metro Link that could actually connect me to Union Station without driving, there was a moment of indecision about what to eat and whether we would continue the drive to Union Station itself. Sean wanted to take me back uptown to Filippe’s, home of the original French Dip…but time was fleeting, the highway was jammed, and we took the side roads up through Silver Lake, one of several areas where Sean used to live. He lit up like a firecracker when we passed an authentic Mexican Taco stand he used to patronize, and said it was destined to be: if I was going to take any memory of good Mexican food with me, this was sure to be it.
And it was.
Shortly thereafter (shorter than either of us thought), Union Station approached off of Alameda…Sean joked that he wasn’t stopping, just slowing down enough to boot me out the door. I wondered if he was in cahoots with Jen. Was this a slight attempt to say, “Alright, little bird, time to fly on your own?”
Evidently it was, as I hugged him goodbye from the passenger seat, got out and watched him drive away, and – for the first time since I’d arrived in California – found myself completely and utterly alone.
All part of Jen Urbano’s Secret Plot, I’m sure.

California Drifting – Day 4, Part Three – “It Never Rains In California,” lies The Love Talker…

Robert is a bit more of a cautious driver than some others may be out here, and he depends upon his GPS. Even after all this time, the transplant from the Midwest is guided by a British woman’s voice as he makes his way across the city. We traversed several locales, picking up two other guests of his for the show,(Chris who recently broke up with his BF, Joe, and was due for a distraction, and Ayana, Robert’s dance instructor in Caribbean and Island technique), and, passing through wealthy Hancock Park, we crossed into the Historic Filipino District, now largely inundated by an Asian population that is anything BUT Filipino.
On a triangulated patch of concrete, surrounded by iron gates, sits Son of Semele theatre company, a tiny 25-seat black box where experimental theatre pervades. Outside, a makeshift box office comprised of an empty wooden wine rack and a cash box was only outdone by an unattended concessions table with water, Oreos and Chips Ahoy…and a trusting coffee mug awaiting contributions. I expected the doors to be late, as there was a reviewer from LA weekly coming, and Sean wanted to gather some photos before the house opened to send on should the review be favorable as a Pick Of The Week.
I did not expect the doors to open at 5 to 8, however, and my earlier-consumed margarita was aching for release. Oddly, in the intimate space, one has to walk ACROSS the set to get to the rest room, a peculiar predicament, but…when in Rome…I tried not to disturb the set.
We had front row seats reserved, we four, and the 20 x 20 stage (if that) was simply dominated by a large double bed up left, on which slept an actor, awaiting the start of the performance. The remainder was strewn with mulch on the borders, a small platform up right, a barrel with wash basin down left, and a nightstand with lantern and knickknacks down right. Jutting twigs and leaves interspersed throughout the area, the only height to the set was a simple 4 x 8 flat. I noticed a color scheme of blue and crème, with patterns of diamonds and splashes of red in odd places. Crickets chirped over dark moody music, which segued from recorded to live; the performance began and the lights dimmed.
The Love Talker is a dark piece, in one act, by Deborah Pryor. It follows the seduction of two sisters in an abandoned backwoods cabin by a changeling wood creature of sorts who resembles the Greek God Pan; this is The Love Talker (Sean, scantily clad in a fig leaf and nothing more). He has a devilish sprite called The Red Head, who meddles to no end and causes rifts between the siblings as The Love Talker targets each of them in their own right. Sean, who also directed the piece, chose it for several reasons, according to his director’s notes, but what affected my observance of the piece was his political motivation: “not allowing ancient fears and superstitions to cloud and guide our judgment and decisions. For when we do, the results are always catastrophic.”
Sean has assembled a talented cast and crew, and in the confines of the intimate space, made magical moments with lighting and special effects, as items scraped across platforms on their own, or flew in the air to the shock of the audience. The actors found the honest humor in the piece, and Sean was relieved that the entire play was not so much Midsummer Night’s Dream meets M. Knight Shayamalan. One thing he did not count on however, but which greatly added dimension to the piece, was the thunderstorm that occurred during some of the most maddening parts of the show. That’s correct. It was raining. Hard. And the little black box’s roof was creating a pitter patter effect that made one feel as if there was a wooden cabin roof overhead. It was realistically chilling.
After the bows and while waiting for Sean to pack up, I stood in the triangulated courtyard for a smoke, observing the locals think that the sky was falling. Cars skidded at the intersections, and pedestrians pulled their shirts over their heads in case another wave of droplets was about to hit. Rain is enough of an anomaly here to throw things out of whack. Sean emerged to soak up the mist – truly appreciating its beauty as only he can. With a hearty congratulations on a very moving production, he and I drove back to the apartment while Robert took the other guests home.
Both Sean and I were famished…he from his pre-show adrenaline diet, me from simply having a margarita and nothing more. I asked if we could order a pizza or something, and Sean had to check with Robert to see if the local shop was open and get the name and number…Robert, by then, had just stopped at the market to pick up a few frozen pizzas, figuring we might be hungry. A strange coincidence, and not much later, our stomachs had stopped grumbling. We all three curled up on couches, Sean in Robert’s lap, me with my…pillow. We watched the 10 o’clock news to absorb the heightened media response to the rain; it was after all, the “top story.” Every reporter standing in the “torrential downpours” had on a yellow slicker and Gorton’s Fisherman’s cap…the hyperbole was shameful. Moses parted the Red Sea to less fanfare, for crying out loud.
After a few absurdist man-on-the-street interviews with such in-depth questions as “Whaddya think of this RAIN, huh?” and “Did you ever think you’d see so much RAIN??” the boys switched over to an episode of The Office. By then I had settled into the couch, snuggled up with my pillow, and my heavy lids gave way to dark dreams of beings in the woods beyond mortal comprehension.

California REALITY CHECK – Day 4, Part Two – To Do Two Things At Once Is To Do Neither Properly

Sean continued to guide me through the town, and we found ourselves near a park. Not just any park; a park with a history. Between its bushes and trees and behind the walls of its public restrooms are stories of times long since gone for the gay community. I need not go into detail here. You get the gist.
Now it is a family friendly utopia where children play on swings and slides, and mothers with strollers keep their eyes on their offspring as they climb oversized plastic playpens with tunnels and tubes. Sean was somewhat sullen as we took a moment to sit on the swings. I wondered if they would bear my weight, but after a moment, felt secure. Sean, with his 150-lb frame, was fearless as he practiced gymnast moves and played like a pendulum next to me.
He has strong opinions about gay parenting. He views homosexuality as evolution in action, and the natural attraction to the same sex is in direct conflict to the urge to reproduce. We debated the topic for a bit, and he too admitted considering adoption with Robert at one time. He looked out across the park, nostalgic for a time when there were clear delineations of “ownership” to the park. For it to have been usurped in the name of posterity and converted into a different kind of Romper Room is a scar that hasn’t quite healed. “You can’t have it all,” I mused, a fond saying of mine, “Where would you put it??” It was one of those open-ended questions we pondered in silence as we swung away, and children shrieked with delight not 50 feet away.
I received a text from Jen, who was scheduled to return to LA to watch Sean’s show with me that evening, asking if I would mind flying solo and she would come get me the next day and we would do downtown LA together. I cleared it with Sean, who has happy for us to have a little more time together. As it turns out, it would be for the best. To have both Jen and Sean at once, two worlds colliding, I might’ve been a little divided in my attention span to each of them. Sean, who has never been a multitasker, concurred: “To do two things at once is to do neither of them properly.” I thought about being gay and having children, and wondered if there was an additional layer to that statement. I was snapped out of this moment when he said with fervor, “Now let’s get you some proper jeans.”
Lesson number three: always bring a second set of eyes with you…and let the second set of eyes pick the jeans out first. Sean pulled seven pairs, from Dolce & Gabbana to Gucci to Classic Levis (dark wash). I was sweating from changing so frequently in the cramped dressing chamber, and by number six we had not one winner…he threw an eighth pair over the door, which I put on immediately since it was handy…nope. And then it happened…what was (originally) Lucky Seven…the dark wash Levis. As they made their way up my thigh I knew immediately. I opened the door and Sean took one look and said, “What do they say?” to which I responded, “They say, ‘yes.’” Sold! For 20 Classic, Well-Tailored, Durable Dark Wash Bucks. More strut music, please.
Back at the apartment, Robert had cocooned himself in the kitchen, closing the doors and quarantining us to do-not-enter status. It was a tradition for them: Robert cooks, Sean hosts. Sean had two more days before his Thanksgiving tasks were due. He singularly gathered his belongings for the show, printed his programs, made some calls to the box office, and as he did so, Robert popped out like a Muppet from the kitchen for a moment, asking if I wanted a margarita. I accepted and a moment later, he obliged. I relaxed for a moment as Sean scurried off to the theatre. Robert cleared up his latest Thanksgiving pre-cooked dish, and I donned my new wardrobe. The clothes were stiff, a foreign feeling to my fleshy folds. I felt like Dorothy from the waist up and the Tin Man from the waist down. Nonetheless, I was soon off to see The Wizard, otherwise known as “The Love Talker.”

California REALITY CHECK – Day 4 – A West Hollywood Extreme Makeover

Turning swiftly, Sean began the promenade up Santa Monica, where he promptly received a call from one of his fellow actors, who was suffering from a sore throat. He assured her that all would be well by evening, to rest her voice and have some jasmine tea. We crossed the lanes of traffic with other pedestrians while cars obligatorily stopped to honor the California right-of-way laws. A moment later, we were window shopping at Out Of The Closet, a hip hand me down thrift shop ten thousand times more couture than any Salvation Army I’d ever seen. Inside, chippy boys in tight clothes with twink-like physiques were bickering over matters such as, “does this ass make my jeans look to small?” or “how daring of you to wear canary yellow with your coloring.” Sean very quickly, in homage to Jen Urbano, pushed my shoulder to guide me then tugged my elbow to the right as we made our way to the belt racks. That’s right. Racks.
I’m fairly full-figured at the hips, but my waist is more slender. Sean immediately pulled a few options, all of which were just not happenin’ for me. He was more fortunate, finding a fun little ditty with Aztec-like metal design plates all around, which of course, fit his 38-still-looks-28-year-old body. He even fastened it over his current belt which beholds the New York City skyline…I grimaced in despair of ever having a waistline ever again.
We abandoned the belt rack for the shoe department, and while there were a few viable options, none of them really felt quite right. Sean emphasized trying BOTH shoes on always, and walking about in them first…okay, lesson one learned. Thank goodness I’d put on fresh socks. Still, nothing piqued my interest to the point where I was ready to abandon my Buster Browns. I treated him to the Aztec belt, a small price for his overnight hospitality, and we headed back out to the Boulevard.
Passing “Circus of Books,” another adult bookstore, but clearly gay male oriented, I wondered what kind of circus really went on inside. Sean regaled some stories of “gays gone by” and how West Hollywood has changed due to a surge in families, including gay families. Gay parents with strollers and young ‘uns are fairly prevalent there now, and the overall dynamic has changed. No matter, he said, as the club scene is still very much intact and the fashion district is indestructible. Case in point, our next stop: Crossroads Trading (now with 17 locations across the country to serve you).
Sean shops here often, as it is a Mecca of designer textiles and footwear without the price tag that causes coronary occlusions. He made a beeline for the shoes area, and I was once again confronted with enough options to make my head spin. All he said to me, with quiet reassurance was, “Don’t be intimidated. Look and listen. One will cry out and you will hear it. And when you try it on, you will respond, ‘Yes.’“ I trusted this advice…lesson number two.
Not much later, just after a few maybes, I was walking out the door sporting a pair of Adam Derrick’s To Boot New York Italian leather ankle boots - chestnut. Retail: $399. Crossroads: $27. Sean couldn’t have been more pleased. They were Italian; imported, well made…they showed the existence of God. I was now walking a little taller down the Boulevard. Cue strut music, please.
We strolled along the south side, past multiple clubs cleaned up from the previous night’s festivities and awaiting to re-open later in the evening for another round of decadence. This scene was never really one in which Sean would partake, but he did tell some humorous tales of when he used to work for a service called “Home James” which provided rides home to the intoxicated; a noble pursuit I wouldn’t have expected to exist in West Hollywood. One time, he took a pair of heterosexual couples home who were on a double date, and when he was trying to get directions from one of the women, she flaked for a moment on which way to go, and turned to her boyfriend, who was making out with her girlfriend’s boyfriend, and said to Sean, “Hold on, I’ll tell you where to go in a minute. *sigh* I hate when he does this.” Sean just smirked into the rear view mirror.
We stopped in a bookstore that caught my eye with a nostalgic window display of Wonder Woman collectibles. Upon entering, we were greeted with a tasteful nude calendar of European athletes and as we flipped through, Sean and I had a series of Madeleine Kahn moments as we both murmured, “yes,”… “yes,”… “yes,”… “no,”… “oh my god, yes,”… “yes,” and so on. Also inside, gifts and cards gave way to adult videos and magazines; the cover of one book in particular was like a train wreck neither of us could stop looking at: The Book Of Big Penises. After opening it to the first page however, I cringed at the sights inside. I opted for the more artistic photo compilation coffee table book, “Broadway Bares.” Much more my speed. Was it not $70, I might have purchased it. We meandered to a clearance bin of G-Storm Undies, on sale for $1.00…here I succeeded in scoring a pair of sea foam briefs – in just my size. Sean clawed through the remaining display, searching for a pair of smalls, to no avail. I jokingly shrugged at his loss. The student was teaching the teacher – for the moment anyway.

California REALITY – Day 3 into 4 – The Sun Comes Up Over Santa Monica Boulevard

He was as tall and trim as I recalled, with a mop top of curls about his brow, and several brushstrokes of stubble across his jaw line. Dressed far more dapper than in the sweatpants and plaid shirts of a college lad from yesteryear, he still looked as youthful and mythic as I remembered. Sean is a striking individual with a mischievously thin grin which often breaks into a great big smile.
We embraced in a long hug as he dropped his bags of props and costumes, and Robert excused himself to heat up a quick meal for Sean. Some performers don’t eat much before a show, and Sean is one of them, so he finds himself remarkably famished as the adrenaline rush drops post-performance. Robert returned with a chicken entrée, and Sean made no apologies as he ravaged it while I relayed the day’s events in Ventura. Both he and Robert are equally aware of Rubicon’s prestige, and I look forward to returning the favor and welcoming them for a visit; I do now, after all, have a guest bedroom.
Robert tidied up the kitchen as he had just purchased a slew of Thanksgiving needs and retired to the bedroom, while Sean and I sat head to toe on one couch and reminisced. We laughed and sparked each others’ memories and time dissipated as we realized that there are just some people in life that don’t ever leave you. And some things…don’t end.
Sean pulled out linens that he laid out for me in preparation for sleep; he too, was tired from the day, and we were going to have the whole day together tomorrow. He wrapped me up on the other couch like a pita sandwich in the comforter he had had back in college; he joked that it was still in excellent condition (and it was, for 20 years’ wear and tear), but there was a tiny waft of musk that still had his scent about it, and I drifted off quickly…from here on in, I was technically “on vacation” and looking forward to just…being.
I was up before either of them, well rested and still bearing a bit of my east coast body clock, I suppose. Now I could get a clear perspective on the layout of the courtyard. An umbrella table with chimenea welcomed me and I had a cigarette. Upon my return, the boys were up now, shamelessly milling about in briefs and boxers. Soon they were online, checking their daily messages from their agents. Sean was slated for an audition at 11 for a commercial for pop music star Spoon. Jeans and tee, plays guitar, must “jump” like David Lee Roth…we had a field day with THAT description. Sean downloaded a few MP3s of Spoon’s music, grabbed his father’s guitar, and started strumming, learning the chords…he noted things were not quite in tune, and quickly dashed to the bedroom for his capo…and his bass guitar…he was not about to “jump” and put his father’s guitar in jeopardy. Here I was, watching an actor – prepare.
We drove (climbed actually) back up winding Laurel Canyon and down into the valley on (where else?) Ventura Boulevard. Sean knows the drill of these things, and they are fleeting at best. Commercials are really impossible to prepare for, so you just go in and give them what they ask for. As he headed in, I walked Ventura less than two blocks, when he called and said he was done. I turned around, and in less than 10 minutes we were back at the Royal Gardens where Robert was already finished with two pumpkin pies, and had prepped a mash of sweet potatoes and cinnamon. The apartment was pungent with the scent of Thanksgiving.
We walked down a full block, along with Robert, to the corner café, Basix, at Santa Monica and Flores. Sean was especially disturbed to watch a series of trees on his street being pruned. Sean is part Native American and has an inherent respect and awe for nature. I tried to tell him not to look, but it’s kind of hard to ignore the sounds of chainsaws.
Our career waiter convinced me to have the homemade lemonade, which was quite refreshing as the sun warmed me under the awning; it is difficult to get one’s bearings about where exactly west is west and east is east out here. Lunch was a delight, as the “Robert and Sean Show” tuned in, and I was informed of the ins and outs of LA theatre, culture and lifestyles. Robert had a few work matters to tend to and then was going back to continue cooking, and we parted at the corner. Sean, now free for the rest of the day, looked up and down Santa Monica, asking what I wanted to do. I asked if there was a place nearby where I could by a cheap belt, for the one I had on was simply not servicing my waistline…and maybe a pair of shoes. My business Buster Browns were too tight, and the leather had shrunk from a rainy day last summer. My feet hurt.
Sean took a good look at me, eyed me up and down like an elevator: shrunken shoes, khaki pants, a dangling mess of a belt and an outdated pale blue oxford shirt was all the ammunition he needed.
“Patrick,” he said, “Let’s go shopping.”
My eyes widened with fear as I looked up and down the Boulevard and realized where I truly was: West Hollywood.

California REALITY – Day 3 – Ventura Makes Way to LA “Weakly”

Cindy and I giggled like schoolgirls all the way down the winding roads back into downtown, which took all of a minute. This would be an easy commute by car or on foot. We passed the theatre, where the tech crew continued to work outdoors building wintery flats for the Christmas show. The end of the business day was approaching, and the one thing I needed more than anything else at this moment was a detailed map of the city…but before that, a mental health break: one of the many second-hand bookstores.
Cindy too is an avid reader, and when she saw my reaction at the bookshelves at 2010 Sunset Drive, she suggested we get me something to Christen its shelves. Having no need to transport furniture from one coast to the other, she felt strongly that I needed something tangible to connect with to make this move real. As we passed the “Everything Adult” store (I’m sure I’ll “Christen” that later), we went into a quintessential tattered and torn bookshop, complete with a disinterested spinster counter clerk. We perused the selections in cramped quarters, and after a bit of time I discovered a book of poems, paintings and essays on the life of the artist. Entitled “Ep;phany” (the semi-colon is intentional), it spoke to me and I purchased it on the spot.
Across the street, the Convention and Visitors’ Bureau awaited. Their building signage outside is missing the “A” from Ventura, but you can still see the shadowy mark it has left on the façade. I had a bone to pick with them already, as I had signed up for their mailing list weeks ago, and received no materials, but the front desk clerk, Jill (from Australia), was so charmingly apologetic, it was easy to forgive her. She offered some free materials, but not sufficient a stash to satiate my need for a detailed map. I purchased a comprehensive layout, thanked Jill for her assistance, and told her that when I returned, I would be more than happy to “buy them an A” for out front. She didn’t get it. Crikey.
It was now near 6 pm, and Jen and her entourage were due to pick me up; after checking in, I learned they would be another half hour or so. Rather than infringe upon any more of Cindy’s time, I thanked her profusely for all she’d done. We had another one of those moments of silence, knowing that this was going to be a good thing, and we bid farewell as she dropped me off at Dagnan’s, an authentic Irish pub on the corner of Main and Chestnut.
Jennifer had pointed out this place in the morning when we arrived. It has frosted glass windows in the shape of Irish harps, rich wood floors and tables, and a very friendly staff. A long L-shaped bar on the far end called to me as I took a few moments – finally – to myself. The vast selection of draft beers flummoxed me for a moment, but I honed in on a Stella Artois, and made my way through the cocktail hightops to a corner near one of the frosted harps.
I closed my eyes for a moment and meditated on the day’s events. I would have been remiss if I did not send up a prayer of gratitude, so I tuned everything out just long enough to express my thanks to heaven above, and I felt a swell of emotion fill me as a tear came to my eye from such pure unadulterated joy.
Soon Jennifer, Chris and Lauren arrived from their wine tasting in Los Olivos, and it would seem that the cheese and crackers that accompanied the tasting barely attacked their hunger. Each of them variously ordered a build your own burger, and as they ate, they recounted tales of the day, in particular, Jen’s “report card” from the winery: “Jennifer sometimes gets too aggressive with her ‘swirling.’” I swirled my Stella in agreement.
Back on the LA freeway, we zoomed south as my next port of call awaited: a visit with my college friend Sean, whom I’ve not seen in 20 years. Jen Mapquested directions on her iphone and we were quickly weaving down Laurel Canyon (and I mean weaving; it’s practically a rollercoaster) into one of the many chambers of the heart of LA. It took a few moments longer than expected, and we actually thought we were lost; but as we crossed over Sunset Boulevard in The Valley, we knew we were near. We circled the block, and I called Sean’s partner, Robert (Sean was performing in a show at the moment). He guided us in front of his building, where my entourage of sommeliers relinquished control and left me staring at a pair of cast iron gates as they “swirled” back down The 101 to nurse their tannen-induced headaches.
I approached the courtyard of 1261 N. Flores Street with a bit of trepidation. The Royal Gardens is fairly similar to the Aaron Spelling now-vintage TV hit Melrose Place, with a u-shaped courtyard and terracotta tiles, lush with foliage. All it needed, truly, was a pool. Robert said to go to the far right corner and look up at the oversized windows and I’d see him. And there he was: standing there like the ghost of Hamlet’s father, a warm, amber light glowing behind him.
Robert is a robust man a few years my senior, and he and Sean have been together for well over a decade. Their apartment was vacated by actress Jean Smart before they acquired it, and it has high ceilings and sweeping architectural nooks and crannies, including a curving fireplace that they fill with candles and accent cylinder lamps. As Robert got me a glass of water and we each took a seat on opposing couches, Sean called to relay his completion of the show he was performing in, and that he was on the way.
Robert was more than entertaining, recounting many stories of LA theatre; he is a professional union actor, has worked for Disney in special events, is an acting coach, and like many gay men in LA, is a bit of an activist. He and Sean actually broke ground by being the first domestic partners to receive benefits from Disney – it is documented in their annals – and I was taken with his stories and warm good nature.
We chatted and chatted, and I was facing the entrance through which I’d arrived, expecting Sean to come through it at any moment.
Imagine my surprise when I heard a familiar voice behind me: “Patrick Emmett Michael Hunt O’Hara. How the hell are ya?”
I stood up and turned. There he was. Sean Galuszka, my college friend. 20 years melted away as we embraced, and I felt like a kid again.

California REALITY – Day 3 – Ventura, Part Three – A Room With A View

Cindy enjoys coffee – a lot. As do I, so we stopped in her favorite brew house, Palermo, for a couple of medium cups of joe, and she wandered through the shop with me, pointing out the various other items for sale: trinkets and candles and books and stationery. I was immediately struck by the friendliness of the staff (Cindy’s a regular, so I’m sure that added to their cheerfulness), and I was welcomed to Ventura by them as Cindy introduced me. She showed me the recent arrival of “Rubicon Java Jackets” for Palermo’s coffee cups; this iteration touted the upcoming Rubicon Family Christmas Show…and we then walked up and down the main strip, as she pointed out bookstores and clubs, pubs and thrift shops, banks and marketplaces. Each side street has its share of hidden gems tucked into alleyways or alcoves, or visibly awaiting patrons with café tables and chairs. Ventura is a very walkable town, and, like Laguna, sees its fair share of population increases as the tourist season arrives each summer.
We loaded up in her Jeep Cherokee and hit some of the other key areas: Harbor Bay, Ventura Pier, Plaza Park, the Post Office (soon to be my best friend; Rubicon does a LOT of mailings), and Pierpont Boulevard, where sailboats await myriad voyages as they sleep in the marina. These various must-sees helped us bide our time to the crux of all appointments for the day: a visit to 2010 Sunset Drive – an apartment lead.
There is something to be said for timing. This entire experience thus far had been a series of coincidences, happenstances, happy accidents, and sheer timing. Seeking out housing in Ventura was one such experience.
We got lost. Well, not lost so much as out of synch. Cindy, mind you, is still in trial by fire mode, and while she had a sense of where we were going, she berated herself for not getting full fledged Mapquest directions. Still, it was interesting to climb the sloped hills of Ventura as we veered up and down many a side street observing the differing housing options. When one particular curving road put us practically back where we started, Cindy called for guidance. A few moments later, we were roaming past Ventura High School where skateboarders and poseurs abound, and then went up a steep hill; at its apex: Sunset Drive, onto which we turned left. Three houses down, there it was. I gasped.
2010 Sunset Drive sits atop one of the higher crests in Ventura. As we pulled into the driveway, I took in the breathtaking view ahead of the Pacific Ocean, Channel Islands and the soon to be setting sun. I turned to Cindy as she parked and said, “Are you kidding me?” She smiled and shrugged, then tucked our cigarettes away (NO apartment in Ventura allows smoking; a small price to pay). We approached the door and Cindy rang the bell…a moment, and then…she rang again. Behind the frosted glass a figure emerged. The door clicked.
Enter Doris.
Doris Cowart. Late 60s, short cropped white hair, very suntanned, wearing petal pushers and tennis shoes, and a flowing silk shirt with an Asian motif embroidered all about. She immediately struck me as a retired Mary Martin after one too many runs of Peter Pan, as she embraced Cindy and then grabbed my hand and did the same, pulling me into her entrance hall, where I noted we were not alone. Doris’ twenty-some-odd granddaughter was nearby in the entrance, looking somewhat spritely in her mini-sundress as her doe eyes caught mine. She smiled eagerly.
The dialog and banter and welcomes and kibitzing and such went so quickly, it was hard to keep up. Doris just GOES. (There’s an Auntie Mame quality to her that now, in hindsight, I realize I was immediately connected to; this is a woman who LIVES.) She strode past us, telling us to follow along as she headed around the driveway, down a series of stone steps on the side of the house, down to the lower back yard and then to the left along a pebble pathway…her granddaughter caught up quickly, as keeper of the keys, and opened the door to the “apartment” for rent.
“Apartment” is really an understatement. This was clearly a family room at one time, a large open area with brick fireplace and television, multiple bookshelves (which, as an avid reader, immediately caught my eye) – and – it was fully furnished: Desk and business chair, brown leather sofa, loveseat and easy chair set, rugs and coffee table, and a second (albeit outdated) 50s elongated couch. Also included as Doris and granddaughter meandered along: kitchenette and fridge, full bath with double sink; in the master bedroom: a queen-size tempurpedic bed with nightstands, a double closet and wardrobe dresser…not to mention the guest bedroom with a pair of twin beds. Oh. And did I mention the craft closet with gift wrapping station?
The tour continued along the remainder of the pebble pathway, past two lemon trees and a tangerello tree, as we made our way to the garage, where laundry facilities, too, were included. Back in the former family room/now apartment, we all sat down and chatted.
Doris lost her husband last July, and this is an attempt at supplemental income; I also learned that she is an avid volunteer for Rubicon (in the Development Department in which I’ll manage); her granddaughter’s presence was merely a protective measure to insure she was not going to be preyed upon (understandably), and while their “standard lease” (a downloadable copy) was in front of me, there was “no rush.” I perused the lease as Doris recounted countless stories of love and good times “in this room” and I felt honored to have been invited into its quarters. I was grateful to have secured my license in Real Estate two years ago, and everything appeared to be in order. Doris sat next to me, and we connected momentarily as she stated that she was simply ready to welcome a new chapter into her own life, and was I any good with landscaping. I assured her I would do my best, and there with the triple goddess watching over me, granddaughter, Cindy and Doris (Maiden, Mother, and Crone)…I said to myself, “Patrick you’d be a fool right now not to seize the moment.” We agreed to sign the lease. As we did so, the sun cast its last rays into the room before it sank into the Channel Islands; I was now a full fledged resident of Sunset Drive.
With some resistance on behalf of the sloped driveway, Cindy’s Cherokee revved back onto the road, and we waved farewell to Doris.
But not before she’d plucked a pair of ripened lemons for us to take on our continuing journey.

Next Up: California REALITY – Day 3 – Ventura Makes Way to LA “Weakly”