Roll Sissy Girl-Roll

You may have been able to figure out by now that I don’t have much of an adventurous side. And when I do venture out of my comfort zone, it’s usually because Anthony has convinced me that whatever the activity would be-it would be fun, and he’s usually right. Whether it’s taking a hot air balloon ride or scuba diving, driving a dune buggy or riding a horse, I’m usually a better person for it. However, there are exceptions…

Like, I’m forever scarred by Las Vegas and will never play Craps again.

It all started when we decided to take a quick weekend trip to Sin City a few years ago. Not being known for our gambling expertise, Anthony and I decided we were going to master the game of Craps and come home with lots of money.

A few weeks prior to our trip, we purchased a felt tabletop version of the game. We spent our summer days at the cottage reading up on the best odds and strategies for winning big, then we would practice over and over on our mini-tabletop version. By the time our trip came, we both felt pretty confident and ready to test our knowledge on the real deal at a live casino.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, I knew it wouldn’t be the same as playing at my own pace with only one other person in my little cabin, but what I saw was terrifying. These people were playing with actual money-and they were drunk, loud, and either angry or high fiving each other (by the way, I’ve never high-fived anyone in my life). And the speed at which they were playing was hundreds of times faster than I was used to. Suddenly, my mind went blank and I forgot everything I learned. Was I supposed to roll a seven? Is it good to play the pass line? Every single rule and every last strategy that I had spent the summer learning completely went away.

“Which table looks lucky to you?” Anthony asked as he brought me back to reality, “None”, I snapped as I started to back away. “Come on”, he said “we practiced over and over-you can do this”. Nope, not going to happen, I thought. “I’ll just start slow and work my way up” I pleaded, thinking this made sense, “but you go and have fun, I’ll be at the bar playing Video Poker”. And off he went into the den of smoky people to practice his new-found skill, and I settled in on a quiet corner bar stool playing cards with a machine.

After an hour or so, we decided to call it a night. I pretty much lost my $100 budget for the night and Anthony broke even. “It was a lot of fun, you should give it a shot” Anthony said, “I will-maybe-in the morning”, I lied.

Being that there’s a three-hour time difference between Detroit and Las Vegas, we woke up early. The Casino was like a completely different place. The mobs of rabid people were replaced by gentle people dressed in brightly colored clothing with friendly faces. “What a difference from last night” I mentioned thinking that maybe I could give it a try after all.

As we walked through the now clean and smoke-free Casino, I spotted a very non-threatening looking Craps table. The Pit Boss looked more like a John Denver type than the intimidating Bouncer’s that were running the tables last night. And the few scattered people around the table were much older than me and playing at a much slower pace. “There it is”, I said as the rules and strategies started coming back in to my head, “let’s play at that table”.

After I settled in at the table and began to play I began to let my guard down and have fun.

“Twelve and Six and Eight”, I said repeatedly as this was a common bet. “Twelve on Six and Eight….”

All was going great, I was not only having a good time, I was also winning some money. Then it happened-it was my turn to roll. I was pretty confident now and thought I could do this.

Evidently my first throw was a little too strong-as the dice went careening off the end of the table and on to the floor. “Sir, please try to keep the dice on the table” said the gentle Rocky Mountain High Man. “Okay-sorry”, I replied as someone retrieved my dice. Now, the object for me was to throw the dice gentle enough not to go flying off, yet strong enough to bounce off the short embankment at the end of the table so they could bounce slightly back. "Shouldn’t be too hard" I thought, so, I picked up the dice, and again, incorrectly calculated the amount of torque needed and my two little dice missed the wall completely. “Sir”, this time sounding a little more agitated, “you need to at least try to hit the back wall when you throw”. Even though my roll still counted and people won some money, I told him that I would do better next time.  Third roll- I tossed the dice down the table and this time one hit the wall and the other didn’t quite make it. “I’m getting better”, I nervously joked as sweat started to form behind my ears. This was met with some minor cheers from my fellow players as my poor rolling skills were producing favorable combinations and a dirty look from friend. My fourth roll did its usual dance before once again falling short of its destination. However, it did made everyone at the table happy-except for the now red-faced John Denver. “Sir, I have to ask you once more-your dice need to bounce-get it?” The thing is I did get it, but I failed Physics and wasn’t sure how to make this happen.

After a few more winning rolls everyone was getting excited and our table was starting to gain some attention and was even considered “hot”. Even though my rolling technique wasn’t correct, they still counted and people were winning. Finally, on my seventh or eighth poor attempt at rolling, JD lost it. “You know what? You roll like a Sissy Girl!” he bellowed. Stunned and drenched with sweat, I didn’t know what to say. I was about ready to give up until my fans around the table came to my rescue by saying “leave him alone", “we don’t care, he’s great”, “let him roll the way he wants”. Followed by the game changing- “Roll Sissy Girl-Roll”.  I don't know if I should have been insulted or complimented, so I just forged on. And with each winning roll, more and more people joined in by chanting “Roll Sissy Girl-Roll!" "Roll Sissy Girl-Roll!" "Roll Sissy Girl-Roll!”. I was suddenly popular and mortified at the same time. This went on for what felt like hours until the pressure of being crowned “Sissy Girl” was too much and I buckled.

On my final roll, my dice finally made it to the back wall and bounced back perfectly. Unfortunately they came to their resting place as a four and three and I sevened out. My reign as “Hot Roller” suddenly ended, but my legacy of "Sissy Girl" lives on forever.

Horsing Around

One Summer while vacationing at our cottage, Anthony and I decided to go to Macinac Island for a couple of days. The historic island is a little over an hour away from our cottage and is home to the Grand Hotel. The Grand Hotel is best known as the hotel that Christopher Reeves went back in time to find the love of his past life; Jane Seymour in the movie “Somewhere in Time”. The island is also famous for it’s natural beauty, fudge shops and for being “car-less. The only mode of transportation are your own two feet, bicycle or horseback. Given that my second biggest fear in life (second only to little people) is horses, every time I’ve visited the island I opt for bikes or walking. I’m not sure that I’m afraid of horses as much as I just don’t trust them. They seem to know this too. Every time that I’ve even been near one, I can tell by the look in their eyes that they have a devilish plan to either bite or kick me to death. I’m also not a fan of the way they smell.

Anyway, somehow, Anthony managed to convince me that it would be fun to take a horse and carriage ride around the island. He guaranteed me that there would be a man driving the carriage and  there would be “no risk of danger”.

And he was right. The tour of the island was delightful (except for the massive amount of poop, I mean, how much do they feed these animals?). The tour started at the stables and took us by the Grand Hotel, down the main street, the old fort where the French fought the Brits in 1700- something, along the beautiful Lake Michigan and Lake Huron shorelines and finally past some of the island’s grand old mansions. One was particularly beautiful, it was set off the road a bit, and the front yard was designed to look like an old English garden. “And to your left is the Hamady’s house”, our diver informed us. “The Hamady family was a wealthy family from Flint that owned a grocery store chain in the mid 1950’s and they used to spend their summers on the island”, he continued.  “Notice the beautiful gardens that were planted for privacy over a hundred years ago. These are the oldest gardens on the island and they could never be replicated unless you plan to live to be 130 years old and if ‘only the good die young’ only my wife’s mother will live that long”, he continued with a sad attempt to get a laugh.

After touring a few more spots, we returned to the stable safe and sound. Sensing that I was becoming more comfortable around horses, Anthony tried to push me another step further. “Hey, I have an idea”, he said like it just came to him “let’s rent horses tomorrow and take them around the island.” “No”, I said, “I’ve seen enough poop to last me a lifetime and besides, it’s one thing for them to behave when they are pulling a two- ton carriage full of tourists, but it’s another when it’s just me on it’s back”. It would be the perfect chance for them to get their revenge and take out all their frustrations from an entire summer of slavery. “Come on, when will we ever have this chance again”, Anthony said. “They are just old sweet animals that want to go for a walk”. I could tell by the look in his eyes that he wanted this more than life itself, so I decided to put my phobia aside and agree.

The next morning, after a restless night of weird horse dreams, we made our way back to the stable. “Now, whatever you do, don’t tell them you’ve never ridden a horse before”, Anthony insisted. “Otherwise they’ll give you a dud that won’t move”. “O.K.”, I said “I won’t”. After giving us a short lesson on how to get on and off the horse, how to make them walk and stop, it was time to be introduced to our playmates. “So, how much experience do you both have?”, asked the stable hand. “Oh, I’ve ridden quite a few times”, Anthony announced with confidence. “And how about you”, asked Mr. Green Jeans. “None”, I yelled. “I’ve never been on a horse so make sure you give me your slowest one”. I knew Anthony was mad, so I couldn’t even look at him, but I couldn’t help it; I’d rather ride at a safe speed of one mile per hour than be galloping along at the speed of light hugging the side of some cliff only to have Mr. Ed suddenly see a mouse, come to a screeching halt, forcing me to fly off his back like a nelly cannon ball and end up dumped into the freezing cold waters a hundred feet below. Like I always say “better safe than sorry”. 

As we started our wagon train, I have to admit that I started to like it. My horse didn’t move very fast, and he was probably blind, but I could tell he liked me. He seemed to appreciate my nervousness and interpret it as tenderness. Anthony’s on the other hand was much younger and full of energy and didn’t seem to appreciate the pace I was going.

“I have an idea”, Anthony said after an hour of thumping along, “let’s go by those big mansions we saw yesterday”. “O.K., I said, lead the way”. To get to them we had to ride on a slight incline and I was beginning to feel sorry for my friend Flicka. I could tell he was tired (sort of like me when I have to ride my bike uphill). He would stop to take an occasional rest, smell the flowers and of course, poop. Anthony’s just acted like he wanted this to be over by galloping up the hill like it was nothing.

About half way up the hill, Anthony stopped to wait for me to catch up, but his horse didn’t seem to like this idea. As I approached, I noticed his horse doing something weird. He began to move backwards, butt first, into the brush off the side of the road. “What are you doing”, I asked Anthony, wondering why he was making his horse do this. “I’m not doing anything”, Anthony said, “my horse is”. “Well make him stop!”, I demanded, “there’s a big drop off and he’s backing himself and you right toward it” this was followed by a frantic “jump off”. But, just in time and just like in the movies, one of those carriage rides with all the tourists showed up out of nowhere.  The driver could see something bad was about to happen and loudly informed his passengers that he to stop and save us. I don’t know who was more embarrassed, me or Flicka, we just sort of looked at each other like “OMG”. The driver somehow got close enough to the possessed horse and grabbed his head and pulled him out of the brush and back onto the street. The group of tourists applauded so loud, you would have thought they just pulled a baby out of a well. Me and Flicka were happy this ordeal was over, but Anthony wanted more.  “Let’s go see the Hamady’s gardens”. “What?” I asked, you almost died and you want to do more?” And in pure Anthony fashion, he said “why not? We’ve come this far”. Reluctantly, I agreed, but only with the condition that that would be our last stop.

The gardens were even more impressive up close. The ancient flowering shrubs were taller than our horses and exploded in beautiful hues of orange, purple and yellow. Not only were they amazing to see, but they smelled awesome. Even our horses seemed to like it…at first.

I don’t know if he was bored, angry or if he just had an itch, but suddenly and without warning, Anthony’s demon-horse decided to destroy the Hamady’s century old garden. At first, Flicka and I weren’t sure what was happening.  Satan started by walking into the center of one of the gigantic shrubs and standing there with Anthony on his back looking mortified. Then the monster began to lift up his legs and pounce down on the branches, smashing them to smithereens. It was like one of those show horses you see in the circus that dances to the music, only without the music and on someone’s prize garden.

The horse continued pounding all four of his feet up and down for at least two minutes, moving from shrub to shrub completely flattening everything in his wake. Flicka and I were in a complete state of shock as we watched these historic gardens being trampled to death with Anthony screaming helplessly “No, don’t do that, stop doing that!”

Then finally, our hero showed up again. Yes, once again and from out of nowhere, again, the same carriage driver with the same group of tourists were coming down the street and had to stop and save us.

A few years later, after we thought it was safe to show our faces on the island, we took another horse and buggy tour and this time, however, the Hamady House was excluded from the tour.

Monkey See

When I was a kid, I had an obsession with my stuffed animals. Not only did my orange giraffe have a name (Steve), he was also deemed the king of my rather large stuffed animal kingdom. The queen was a Siamese cat named Gwen and the twenty or so minions consisted of everyone from bunnies to lions. I loved them all, but my favorite was a black and yellow monkey named Louie. There was something about Louie that reminded me of myself, so I decided that Louie was going to be the youngest of the group, just like me. My stuffed animals had personalities too, Gwen was very aloof, Steve was suave’ and Louie was best described as eccentric, marching to his own beat and often times opting to sit out on a game of “Hide and Seek”, so he could go off by himself and play with his own stuffed toys.

Louie

I know I showed favoritism, but I couldn’t help it, I just loved my little Louie more than everyone else.

One day, my parents decided to take me to the zoo so I could see live versions of my animal kingdom. I was so excited; I was finally going to meet a real “Louie”.

We wandered around the zoo for a couple of hours observing camels, bears, lions and even flamingos and I was starting to get bored. “When do we get to see the Louie’s”? I asked. “Oh, in a few minutes”, my father said, “We still have to go through the reptile house“. I hated snakes and the idea of spending time looking at them in waterless aquariums didn’t do it for me. I’m not sure if they were trying to torture me or if they simply wanted to save the best for last, but I was growing impatient. “Can’t we just skip the snakes and go see the Louie’s?” I snapped. This was met with my father saying, “I’m sorry you’re so bored with reptiles, but snakes are very important creatures”. He then went on and on about how they keep the ground cultivated and how nurturing they are, blah, blah, blah. 

After what seemed like an eternity in the annoying reptile house and we were finally making our way to the Monkey exhibit, I heard my mom say “oh dear”. Then they whispered to each other. “What?” I demanded, afraid of hearing the answer. “Jeff, we’ll have to come another time to see the monkey’s.” “What?” I asked again as I started to feel dizzy. “The Monkey House is under construction”. This time my “What?” wasn’t so passive, it was more of a “you have got to be fucking kidding me”.

“It will be open in a few weeks, Peanut” (my mom always called me Peanut). When you’re eight years old a few weeks means it’ll never be open again. “WHAT!” I screamed again for the fourth time, “THIS CAN’T BE HAPPENING”. I had just spent an entire afternoon looking at ridiculous elephants, boring tigers and ugly baboons and now I was going to be deprived of the only reason I agreed to go to this stupid zoo in the first place? It was so traumatizing that the rest of the afternoon is a blank. We didn’t go to the zoo very often and all I can remember is thinking that it would be years before I’d ever have a chance to see a live Louie again.

And it was years, 40 to be exact (unless you count the Holler Monkey’s in Costa Rica, but I don’t). When I turned 50, instead of having a party, we took a trip to Bali.

Along with being known for it’s incredible scenery, beautiful beaches, exotic rainforests, Bali is also home of the Monkey Forest.

The Monkey Forest is located in the middle of a town called Ubid, Bali’s cultural center. It’s at the end of a street lined with chic stores and restaurants; so it seems a bit out of place, but nonetheless, I was very excited because after all those years, I was going to finally meet a live Louie.

Upon entering the park, there were hand written signs alerting us of pending doom, “Warning: Monkey’s Can Be Aggressive”, “Please Hold Tight To Your Valuables” and my favorite-“Don’t Stare At Monkey’s”. First of all, I thought, we were in a monkey park, how can we not stare at them? And secondly, what were they going to do if we did, throw bananas at us?

Along with the signs, there was a place to check our bags, sunglasses and whatever else that could possibly tempt a monkey. There were also people selling bananas. “You like feed monkeys?” one of the sweet Balinese Banana Vendors asked, while another would try to sway us her way by saying “Monkey like banana, you want monkey to be friend?” I was starting to wonder what would happen if we didn’t have bananas. I mean, if they were our friends if we had them, what would they be if we didn’t? So, we decided we better carry some treats.

Anthony gave the woman five dollars in exchange for a bunch of bananas and we were on our way. We were only four steps into our journey when I realized the importance of checking our belongings. An extremely forward monkey jumped out of nowhere onto Anthony’s leg, then climbed up his body until he reached his hands. He then grabbed all of our bananas and made an attempt at our shopping bags before screaming some sort of rebellious monkey chant and running off to the next victim. “Bad Monkey”, I said loudly, hoping that all the other monkeys would hear and comprehend English. “That creep just took all our bananas, so no one else can have any, he’s a bad monkey! He’s just lucky he didn’t take my new shoes or there’d be hell to pay. Bad, bad Monkey!”.

Anthony gave me his “Really?” look and we turned around and checked our bags, before restarting our journey.

The beginning of our hike was beautiful. It was a very hot day, so the canopy of trees was a welcomed relief from the brutal sun. And we saw monkey’s-hundreds of them. They where everywhere and even if they weren’t there, I could feel their eyes staring at me from some obscure treetop. And these weren’t just ordinary monkeys; they were fearless and human like. “These monkey’s are kind of aggressive”, I said as one of them tried to climb up my leg. “It’s like they’re forming an army against us”. And the sounds they made sounded like nothing I ever heard before. Instead of the innocent “oo-ah-ah”, it was more of an “OOOOOOOOOOO, AHAHAHAHAHAHA, EEEEEEEEE! And they were jumping from tree to tree just above our heads, swinging from branch to branch like some sort of wild animals. And to make it worse, they could sense my growing anxiety, because they began to bully me. One of them stopped me in my tracks by hopping down from his perch and onto the pathway right in front of me. All I remember was his big mean monkey eyes as he stared at me. “Don’t look at him”, I heard Anthony say as I began to panic. “But he won’t move, am I supposed to just walk up to him like a game of chicken?” “No, just ignore them, they're sweet, just look at that little girl over there playing with one”. This last comment didn’t make me very happy. Not only was I being terrorized by my childhood best friend, I was now being accused of being a bigger sissy than a five year old girl.  “Move”, I screamed. “Move it or else”. “Or else what?” Anthony asked. This was answered with a sarcastic “whose side are you on?” I had no choice but to continue to walk toward this creature. As I slowly approached him, he didn’t even budge; he just glared at me through his wicked eyes. As I slowly tiptoed around him, he just turned his head and stared as if to say “Gotcha human”. And I swear he told all his friends because it kept happening everywhere along the hellish trail. They’d all wait until Anthony safely passed, then they’d jump out of nowhere and land right in front of me and give me the evil eye. “Let’s get out of here”, I said, “I’ve had enough, they hate me and the feeling is mutual”. “Oh Jeff, they can just sense your fear, quit being a baby”. A baby! Easy for him to say, they weren’t threatening to eat him. “O.K.”, I thought, “I have to do this”. I decided maybe if I pretend I’m not scared they might sense that I’m brave instead and leave me alone.

The little girl had no idea who she was playing with.

So I continued my walk with my inner voice assuring me that they were all just harmless little creatures that want to be my friend. This seemed to work for a while until their constant screeching finally got to me, I broke-“We have to get out of here”, I demanded, “find the exit because they’re ‘freaking me out’”. And I started to walk fast, which probably wasn’t a good idea because they like to chase. Suddenly I heard the bushes rustle, so I started to run until I heard Anthony laughing extremely hard. “What?” I demanded, as he continued snorting. You see, Anthony finds humor in my anxiety and decided it would be funny to throw a rock into the brush, knowing full well that I’d think it was a giant ape. “Was that you?” I asked accusingly as he was filming me. I could tell the “would I do such a thing?” look on his face that he was guilty.

“Get me out of here”, I screamed, “I can’t take anymore”. He knew I was close to my breaking point (which isn’t pretty), so instead of risking me having a complete meltdown in the middle of Bali’s renowned monkey forest, he agreed to leave.

“I think the exit is this way,” he said. “You THINK”, I said, “YOU THINK it’s this way?” By now, sweat was dripping down my face and into my eyes. “I can’t even see where we’re going” I yelled as my eyes started to burn. “Just lead the way with your voice”. As we approached the exit, something wasn’t right. “I don’t remember it looking like this”, I said as my eyes began to clear. “Excuse me”, Anthony said to the Balinese Park Ranger, “is this the only exit from the park?” “Oh no”, said the Ranger, there are two, do you know which one you came in from?” “It doesn’t matter!” I yelled, “It’s an exit!” “But our stuff is checked in the locker at one of the other ones”, Anthony said, “So we have to find the right one” and we no idea which one it was.

This nightmare was not about to end…

The other exit was completely on the opposite side of the park too, so we now had to maneuver our way though monkey hell all over again. Then, as we stood there debating on how to get out of this horror movie, I was almost knocked over by a strong shove on my left hip. “What the hell?” I said. Then I looked down and this freakishly looking half monkey/half devil with white eyes and long fingers nails just stood between Anthony and the ranger doing nothing but staring at me. And for some reason, I couldn’t do anything but stare back. I wanted to run, but I couldn’t; my feet were frozen. All I could do was stand there and look into its evil eyes.

Evidently this was the wrong thing to do, because this creature must have mistook it as an act of aggressiveness, because along with showing me it’s teeth, it let out a very long and very loud hiss in my direction. It was just like in the Omen, when Lee Remick took Damien to the zoo and the monkeys sensed that the devil nearby so they began attacking them.

And the rest is a blur. I vaguely remember running fast toward the right exit, dodging tourists and flying monkeys along the way, but that’s about it. The next thing I knew, I was in the safety of a bar, vowing never to go outside again.

Tiny Bubbles

I consider New Years Eve to be the holiday of “forced fun”. The pressure to have a good time on the 31^st of December is unlike any other day of the year. The idea of staying home alone or simply having another couple over for dinner sounds great, but it just doesn’t seem like enough. I mean it’s the night we celebrate the ending of a year while ushering in a new one, so we are supposed to have a night of debauchery, aren’t we?

My parents wedding anniversary was on December 31 so I grew up in a household that had double celebrations on the last day of the year. For me, New Years Eve consisted of eating pizza and French Fries with my brothers while my parents got all dolled up as we waited for the babysitter. As soon as she’d arrive, they were out the door and we were allowed to eat junk food, drink as much Coke as we wanted, and sit on the living room floor and watch TV. When it got close to midnight, we’d gather our new streamer embellished noise makers (which included paper horns, plastic rattles and this weird metal thing with a handle that twisted around and around and made a sound resembling a flooded engine on helium) and go onto the front porch dressed only in our P.J.’s and serenade the neighborhood as we welcomed in a new year in sub-freezing temperatures.

The bar was set pretty high and it wasn’t until December 31, 2001 that it was matched…

My friends, Roger, Paul, Bill and another Paul had decided to get out of town and usher in 2002 in Palm Springs. 2001 was quite a year; Anthony and I had discovered community theatre and had leads in La Cage Aux Folles, we had just finished remodeling one of our salons, went on a vacation of a lifetime in Africa and like the rest of the country, we mourned about September 11. So by the time the end of the year came we had much to reflect on and a lot to look forward to.

Bill, Paul, Anthony and I stayed in one of Palm Spring’s mid century modern hotels-turned gay guesthouse and Roger and Paul stayed in another one (only theirs was much nicer) right next door.

The holiday was shaping up to be one of my favorites of all time. We laughed, ate great food and partied like it was 1999. On New Years Eve we decided it would be fun to go to a restaurant called “Shame on the Moon”. After an “accidental button push” to On-Star (which in my defense was new at the time and I wanted to see what the button did), we arrived in full New Years Eve mode (tipsy).

After dinner, my friend Paul announced that he was going to scope out the restaurant, which usually means he was checking it out to see if there was a party we could crash. When he came back he told us about a “fun” couple he met that was sitting alone and we should “go meet them”. “Go meet them” in my group of friends doesn’t literally mean to “go and meet them”, it’s actually code for “there are some people that look like they’d be fun but for some reason they’re not, so let’s see if we can liven them up a bit”. In other words, we were obnoxious.

Paul was right, when we entered the room where they were seated, we saw two men in their 40’s with very colorful clothing, big hair and big glasses, and a decorated table with battery powered blinking Christmas lights, the only thing missing was FUN.

As we approached them, Paul announced to them that we were their entertainment for the evening and they looked like they believed us too. We introduced ourselves and began doing the whole “gay geography” thing; “Where are you from?” “Oh, you must know so and so”, “Didn’t we meet once in Provincetown”, and so on. We chatted for about ten minutes about surface stuff before the conversation took it’s usual turn to stage two of meeting people. The “what do you do for a living and how long have you been together” portion.

Things were going well until we got to the third stage of meeting new people-The “the comfort/discomfort level; As I mentioned earlier, this couple had on very colorful outfits that in my opinion, only people with total confidence could get away with wearing. One of them was wearing a velvet jacket patterned with giant scissors in an “Esher-like” design and the other one was so bad that I’ve blocked it out of my memory.  Even their shoes were decorated with over the top sparkles. It was quite confusing, and like driving by an accident scene, I couldn’t help but stare. “Um, where did you get your outfits?” I blurted out. Not that I wanted to shop there, I just felt I had to say something about them. “Oh, do you like them?” one of them asked, somehow mistaking my question with a compliment. I tried to reply, but all that would come out were three words, “There just very…” I couldn’t think of anything to finish my sentence. No matter what I said, I knew my face was going say something different and they’d see right through my desperate attempt at being polite. It felt like an eternity as they waited for me to continue, when my friend Paul stepped in to try and save the day. But he didn’t. In fact, he made it worse by telling them, in his drunken voice, “they look like the interior of my Volare’”.

Then there was nothing. We were all in such shock that we couldn’t even gasp. Finally one of the now insulted two-some broke the silence by saying “I’m sorry, did you just say that I look like the interior of an old Plymouth?”

Not knowing what to say, we just announced that it was time to go, that it was very nice meeting them and we hoped they had a Happy New Year.

On they way out, I couldn’t help but peek in on a party that was happening in one of the dining rooms. “Look, they have balloons”, I said to Paul (not the one that had the Volare’, but the other one), followed by “let’s take some”. And before you knew it, their party was void of color and the two of us were running out to the car with enough helium filled balloons to fly around the world.

This New Years was shaping up to be one for the record books, first we had a great meal, then we insulted people and now we stole a roomful of decorations, I never felt so alive!

With four-dozen balloons in tow, we made our way to the getaway car where we were faced with our next dilemma. How were we going to get the six of us, plus 48 balloons in the car? I told everyone to get in first and then I tried my best at squishing the balloons in around them. “There”, I said as I managed to squeeze in the first dozen, with just a few minor casualties. “But where are you going to sit”, asked Anthony. It was then that I realized either it was the balloons or me, unless I could convince Roger to make two trips and I could tell by the look on his face that that wasn’t going to happen. So, without hesitation, I let them go. They actually looked liberated as they danced their way to the heavens; it was almost like they appreciated being rescued from that party.  We all watched for a few minutes as they made their way first past the roof lines, then over the tree tops until eventually they were just little dots in the night sky. “Bye-bye my friends”.

With the memories from the evening’s events behind us, we decided it would be fun to have a little nightcap in the hot tub at Roger and Paul’s hotel. Bill and Paul were tired and decided to call it an evening, so Anthony and I changed into our swimsuits and snuck into their motel grounds to meet them in the Jacuzzi.

It was about to be the perfect ending to a perfect evening, until what happened next…

We were making our way down a long, outdoor corridor to the hot tub that Roger and Paul had already gotten into. They looked very comfortable and relaxed and I couldn’t wait to join them. Everyone else must have still been at the clubs partying because the grounds were empty and it seemed we were the only four people around. We were almost to them, when all of a sudden and without any warning; one of the motel room doors swung open in my face and stopped me dead in my tracks. And what came out of that room still haunts me to this day.

I couldn’t believe what I was seeing (as a matter of fact, I still can’t); I watched in horror as twelve naked Asian midgets slowly emerged one by one and marched single file directly to that hot tub.

“What are we going to do?”, I asked as I began to shake. “I can’t go in there now”. “We have to Jeff, it would be very rude if we didn’t”, Anthony preached. “But, I can’t”, you know my phobia, now multiply it by twelve and add a thousand because they’re naked”. By now they were all in the hot tub looking at us as if to say “come on in, we don’t bite”. Anthony is much better than me when it comes to situations like this; he just jumps right in and faces his torturous reality. “Come on Jeff, it feels great”, he said as he climbed in the boiling water.

A small part of me wanted to just do it; it was New Years after all- a perfect time to face my fears and just get over it. But that didn’t happen, instead I walked over to Paul, leaned down into his ear and whispered, “I’m so not getting in that water”, then I turned and ran away as fast as I could to the safety of my own bed.

“Facing my fears” was just going to have to wait until 2003.

(Not) Dressing for Dinner

Maybe it’s because I’m a bad cook, but I’ve always believed the most important part of hosting a successful dinner party is the right group of people. It doesn’t matter if you’re serving hot dogs or prime rib, if the chemistry isn’t right between the guests, a party can go south in no time.

Of all the dinner parties, I’ve gone to in my life; almost all of them have had the perfect balance of people and food and alcohol, a handful have been awkward, and one in particular goes down in the history books in a category all it’s own.

It was the summer of 2004; I had just turned 40 and was celebrating every chance I had. We had been invited to stay with some friends at their vacation home in Saugatuck. For those of you that don’t know Saugatuck, picture Provincetown without the steroids. It’s a small town on Michigan’s southwest coast that started out as an artist’s retreat and eventually grew into a haven for eccentric, liberal and open-minded people. Only two hours from Chicago and Detroit, it has great restaurants, sandy beaches a lot of shopping and is home to the largest gay resort in the Midwest. Needless to say, it doesn’t get much better if you’re looking for a good time. There’s also something about Saugatuck that makes you loose your inhibitions (or maybe it’s the alcohol, which I’m quite certain is in the water system).

Anyway, on this particular day, Anthony and I, along with our hosts, Roger and Paul were invited to a dinner party at another friends house, Paul and Bill. It had been a long day of partying; Bloody Mary’s at breakfast, a clothing optional pool-volleyball game and a boat ride on Lake Michigan, so by the time dinner came, we were pretty tired. I LOVE naps, but I have a rule; no napping after cocktails. I usually don’t wake up, and if I do, I’m groggy and in a bad mood so it’s better to keep drinking until I pass out. My no nap rule applies for Anthony too, only he doesn’t realize it. “I think I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes”, Anthony announced about an hour before we needed to leave. I tried to stop him, but I couldn’t, “I’ll be fine, just wake me up in a half an hour”, he said as he made his way to the bedroom. And that was the last thing I heard him say until the morning, he was out!

I, on the other hand was in rare form and ready to play.

The moment I walked into this particular dinner party I knew it was going to be an exceptionally fun night. All the right people (except Anthony) were there, the weather was perfect, the music was right and the mood was celebratory. It was like going to your first party in High School without parents being home. Everyone was in great spirits; we felt young, energetic and decadent. The only thing missing were the chaperones…

After socializing and downing more cocktails, it was time to sit down for dinner. Since the weather was so exceptional, Bill and Paul served dinner on their beautiful outdoor patio. I can’t remember what they prepared, but I do remember that it was delicious and messy. It was so messy in fact that Paul was wearing an apron at the table. I’m a messy eater as it is and the fact that I wore white shorts made it certain that I would drop something on myself. With each bite I took of our first course, I carefully leaned over my plate and wiped my mouth with the napkin that was carefully tucked into the collar of my shirt. “I wish we could eat naked”, I said, “it would make it so much easier”. A few minutes passed and it was time for the second course. Paul stood up to clear the plates and as he passed by each of us, one by one we let out a dramatic gay gasp. You see, Paul was still wearing his apron, but that was all he was wearing; somehow, without anyone noticing he managed to take off all his clothes. “It’s your birthday month Jeff, so I’m granting your wish”; he said “we can all eat naked”, then he confidently disappeared into the house. Now, the thing with mixing alcohol and my “anything but shy” group of friends is that you never know what will happen, and tonight was proof of that. After the initial shock of Paul’s nakedness wore off we naturally did what any other mature group of adult men would do, we got naked too.

And I have to say, apart from the fear of dropping hot food on Mr. Wiggly, it was truly liberating. When you attend a naked dinner party, all the thought and effort that goes into picking just the right outfit out that doesn’t make you look fat doesn’t matter. You don’t have to worry whether someone will be wearing the same outfit (because everyone would be). And, just think of all the money you’d save by not having to go to the dry cleaners.

It was quite a bonding experience too. There’s really nothing like sharing stories over a good Cabernet, while sitting next to your best friend wearing nothing but a wristwatch. The only awkwardness was at the end of the meal when we had to get up from the table. The weather had turned a little chilly and we all had shrinkage worries. Thank God, my friend Emmanuel (not his real name and since I don’t know any Emmanuel’s I know I’d be safe using the name) got up first. Emmanuel is the life of the party, exudes confidence and loves a good time, but by his own admission, his Mr. Wiggly is a midget. So after seeing (or not seeing) Emmanuel in his full birthday suit, we all felt better about clearing the table.

After we finished the dishes and we decided it was time to get dressed, another friend named Paul (for those of you keeping track, that’s three Paul’s) announced that he was going to change into something more comfortable-whatever more comfortable than naked was. As the rest of us were putting our shorts, shirts, socks and shoes back on, Paul was in the other room alone, giggling.

“This is going to be good”, we’re talking about a man who once tried on a woman’s sundress in a country store and asked the cashier if it made him look fat.

 I don’t know what was more shocking; Paul #2 being the first one naked or Paul #3 coming out of the bedroom wearing what his version of “more comfortable was; a full-length white wedding gown.

Like the rest of us, Paul loves attention, and one way to get it was to not only wear the dress, but to make sure the entire city of Saugatuck saw him in it. So, without hesitation, he jumped on a moped and whisked off with the rest of us running after him like frantic bridesmaids. He cruised down the main street waving at stunned passerby’s as we paraded behind him. Every few blocks, when he noticed a house party, he’d stop just long enough to give the surprised guests a story to tell. “Here comes the bride”, he sang as he twirled up to their doors. “Don’t you want to kiss the bride?” Then he’d drive off.

 I have to admit, usually things like this make me uncomfortable, but I was having fun. I mean can you imagine what it was like to one minute be serving Strawberry Shortcake to your guests, when suddenly a bearded stranger in a bridal gown crashes your party, singing wedding songs with four of his closest close behind attempting harmony?

After a few more stops, we decided to call it a night. The events of the day were finally taking its toll and we were all exhausted.

When I got home, I couldn’t wait to fall asleep, so I quietly crawled into bed where Anthony asked, “Is it time to go to the party yet?”