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It’s All About Winning

Politics, relationships, life, sports . . .

Photo by Olena Bohovyk

Just about everyone I know is living through relationship difficulties during this divisive time in the States. Growing up, any conversation was fair game at the dinner table. We fought over politics, race, religion, and just about anything you can imagine. In the end, there was so much love between us, it never got in the way of our very close bond. Maybe that’s why despite our political differences, I am still very close to several of my family members. I say several because there are a handful who have become judgmental and divisive.

Our lives are not always reflective of the rest of the world. When I was a young man and I attended dinner parties, it was made clear that certain topics were taboo. My guess is that the host did not want to deal with cat fighting and screeching, people possibly walking out, and even worse, people never coming back. Individuals can be hellbent on winning arguments. We’ve all been to at least one of these epic gatherings.

For many of us, it’s all about winning. It’s one of those things some of us were taught growing up: “Winning is everything.”

“Winning is the most important thing in my life, after breathing. Breathing first, winning next.” ~ George Steinbrenner

It’s Okay Not to Win (here comes the list):

  • when you’re having an argument with your boss and you need the job
  • when you’re playing sports or a game with your child
  • when you’re playing for a charitable organization and it’s more to do with making a donation
  • when make-up sex is on the horizon
  • when you have a disagreement with someone you care about
  • when you may never see the person you disagree with again
  • when getting to a win will cause health issues
  • when winning means losing your integrity
  • when you would have to lie in order to win
  • when winning means losing a friend
  • when winning means cheating
  • when losing means keeping your humility

I have this little voice in my head that tells me: winning comes at a cost and that thought stops me from doing many things — good, bad, I’m not sure.

When Winning is Fun

Winning is fun when you’re enjoying yourself; when it’s not life and death or having to go to prison for the win. I love winning a game of cards. I love when my political party wins an election. I love winning at the blackjack table. I love winning a playful bet. I love winning a scratch-off lottery ticket. I love winning board games. I love winning a big Supreme Court Case (i.e., gay marriage). I love when winning is followed by a celebration. It’s true, I love winning.

I was never sports minded, so when I play croquet and win, I get a bit of a thrill. I can see why athletes love winning — both team and individual sports. Unfortunately, illegal betting and greed can spoil the game. I’ll never truly understand why anyone would want to spoil a beautiful thing. The worst of humanity rears its ugly head.

“The person that said winning isn’t everything, never won anything.” ~ Mia Hamm

A Personal Story

When I worked for Dorothy Hamilton, owner of the French Culinary Institute, we used to enjoy playing Scrabble; obviously not at work.

Dorothy once invited me to her Connecticut home for the weekend. We sat by a warm fire for several hours playing Scrabble. I was a better player, but I held back because I knew how much Dorothy liked to win. Although I am very competitive, there are times when winning must be less important. About halfway through the game she misspelled a word. I looked at it and thought it best not to challenge her.

It was getting late and we had plans to go out to dinner. Dorothy excused herself to change clothing. She told me that a friend of hers would be joining us and to answer the door when she arrived. A few minutes later the doorbell rang and when I went to the door, it was the actress Christine Baranski. She was gorgeous and gracious; it took every ounce of restraint not to gush. I welcomed Christine into Dorothy’s home. She asked me where Dorothy was and walked over to the fireplace where our Scrabble board was set-up.

Christine Baranski - Wikipedia
Christine Baranski, one of my all time favorites

“Playing Scrabble?” She uttered.

“We are,” I replied.

“Well, one of you misspelled a word.” Christine pointed at the board and sucked her teeth.

I told her that I knew that it was misspelled; however, I requested that she keep it between us. She asked me why and I told her that I didn’t notice it until it was too late and besides, “I work for Dorothy.”

Dorothy called Christine’s name from upstairs and ran down to greet her. It didn’t take long for Christine to call out Dorothy.

“Dorothy, you spelled a word wrong and Chris is afraid of you.”

I kept my mouth shut and Dorothy looked at me and said, “Why didn’t you challenge me?”

I lied and told her that I didn’t realize it was misspelled while we were playing. I’m fairly certain she didn’t believe me and she teased me about it for a long time. About a year later we were at a Manhattan restaurant and she brought it up.

“Are you afraid of me?”

“Yes,” I said, “you can be intimidating and besides, you’re my boss.”

I promise you she said the following:

“It’s okay with me if I intimidate you.”

I believe that sums her up. I stand by my decision to have allowed Dorothy to win.

By the way, Christine Baranski was charming, funny and great company. I believe she kept Dorothy honest and that was a good thing for the rest of us. (A tragic car accident took Dorothy a few years ago.)

An aside: Joan Rivers joined us at our table at the restaurant that night. I loved Joan Rivers, so that was a huge thrill. I just have to say, in person Joan’s plastic surgery made her pretty scary to look at — her face like a porcelain doll; the rest of her cracked and extremely wrinkled. I have some strong opinions about the amount of pervasive plastic surgery in certain parts of the world — sad and pathetic.

A Contest

I won a laughing contest in South Carolina when I was in my early twenties. It was a promotion for a new Jerry Lewis film. I defeated 39 other laughing contestants. The stakes were high and I knew I could do it if I gave it my all. I loved winning this contest, it has put a smile on my face many times throughout the years. No one was hurt in the process and I proved something to myself that will remain with me throughout my life — there was a nice prize, but the prize was perseverance. It was a small thing, but it packed a big punch. Laughter has always been a gift I take for granted. I need you all to remind me to lighten-up and laugh more.

The topic of “losing” saved for another day. Let’s just say it isn’t all bad.

Circling Back to a Previous Blog, Jan. ’21 (Updated)

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Future Travel

An Iceland cruise by way of Northern Europe in less than two weeks; Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month), Krakow, Poland in October, and a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in April 2025. Booked a Greece/Turkey/Egypt cruise for fall 2025. The United States in the late fall/early winter of 2025: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina.

State-of-Mind

Iceland and the Norwegian fjords cometh real soon! I belong to a club in the Algarve that has unfortunately fizzled. It’s not personal, but I find myself disturbed by the anger, resentment, and communication breakdown among people I like (most) and respect. This situation seems to mirror what is taking place everywhere these days.

We Don’t Talk Anymore by Charlie Puth

We don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do
We don’t love anymore
What was all of it for?
Oh, we don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do

I just heard you found the one you’ve been looking
You’ve been looking for
I wish I would have known that wasn’t me
‘Cause even after all this time, I still wonder
Why I can’t move on
Just the way you did so easily

Don’t wanna know
Kind of dress you’re wearing tonight
If he’s holding onto you so tight
The way I did before
I overdosed
Should’ve known your love was a game
Now I can’t get you out of my brain
Oh, it’s such a shame

That we don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do
We don’t love anymore
What was all of it for?
Oh, we don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do

I just hope you’re lying next to somebody
Who knows how to love you like me
There must be a good reason that you’re gone
Every now and then I think you might want me to
Come show up at your door
But I’m just too afraid that I’ll be wrong

Don’t wanna know
If you’re looking into her eyes
If she’s holding onto you so tight
The way I did before
I overdosed
Should’ve known your love was a game
Now I can’t get you out of my brain
Oh, it’s such a shame

That we don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do
We don’t love anymore
What was all of it for?
Oh, we don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do

Like we used to do

Don’t wanna know
Kind of dress you’re wearing tonight
If he’s giving it to you just right
The way I did before
I overdosed
Should’ve known your love was a game
Now I can’t get you out of my brain
Oh, it’s such a shame

That we don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
We don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do
We don’t love anymore
What was all of it for?
Oh, we don’t talk anymore
Like we used to do

We don’t talk anymore (don’t wanna know)
Kind of dress you’re wearing tonight (oh)
If he’s holding onto you so tight (oh)
The way I did before
We don’t talk anymore (I overdosed)
Should’ve known your love was a game (oh)
Now I can’t get you out of my brain (whoa)
Oh, it’s such a shame

That we don’t talk anymore

Once again please forgive any grammatical and/or typographical errors

Posted on by CP · 8 Comments

Why I Hated My Stepfather

Revisiting a previous blog (with revisions). Some of this is tedious and scattered, but context is necessary. It helps for me to dig it up as I get closer to letting it go.

Lulu & Frank’s defiance of the rules was indicative of the way they lived.

This is my mother Lulu and my stepfather Frank; photo taken just a few years before they passed away. My mom died first and then my stepfather passed about 18 months later.  Lots of irony because she took care of him for years after a stroke, then he outlived her. He actually came on to a mourner at her funeral. I should not have been shocked, but I was; trailer park trash. They had one of those on again, off again, mostly on again, relationships; it lasted over 40 years. As you can guess by now, I didn’t care much for Frank. He was an alcoholic who stopped drinking at a certain point, I don’t recall when (I was an adult living away from home). He married my mother with seven children, but he was selfish, crass and an unapologetic racist. Those were his tolerable traits. The conflict between us began the day they returned from their quickie marriage in Mexico. My mother divorced my father and married Frank on the same day. I still don’t know if that’s even possible; they might have been lying to me. Truthfully, I didn’t believe anything they told me. I still don’t.

I was eight years old when they married and my mother walked through our front door first. She was in a festive mood and officially introduced her new husband; my stepfather.

Mom: “Kids, this is your new father Frank,” and he said, “You kids can call me dad.”

I thought to myself, I don’t want to call this man dad, I have a dad, but he insisted; rather, he demanded.

I knew of course that my mother had been sleeping with this cretin for a while; a long while. I knew that my father found out about their affair and threw my mother out on the street (it was only for one night). She took us all to a Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, hotel that night and none of us got any sleep or at least I didn’t. Frank (not yet my stepfather) picked us up the next morning and I stared him down in the hotel elevator and point-blank asked him, “Are you sleeping with my mother?”

I already knew the answer, but of course he denied it. One of the many reasons I hated the pig. It wasn’t long after this incident that they were married or at least said they were. I admit I was a precocious child. I was super observant (still am) and I didn’t like what I saw. I felt that I was being forced into a situation I didn’t want to be in and I felt shame. Lots happened that seems almost fictional when I think about it today. Like the time we were camping in the woods and my mother pulled a rifle on Frank and we, my brothers and sisters, were certain she was going to kill him. I would have preferred to have Frank out of our lives, but I didn’t want to see my mother in prison. There were always lots of rifles around, Frank was a deer and rabbit hunter. He also made a habit of shooting frogs in the head because he liked how my mother fried their legs. He went hunting one time and my mother was in a panic because she hadn’t heard from him for days. I secretly wished him dead. A couple of days later he brought home a buck and we had to eat venison for a month. He often boasted about his kill and the number of rifles he owned.

His rifles didn’t scare me, he scared me. There was a time when they were having a huge brawl in their locked bedroom. My mother was screaming my name and begging for help, but I couldn’t open their locked door. I called 911. When the police arrived they asked if there were any weapons in the room and I replied, “No, just my stepfather’s hunting rifles.”

I remember the look the two police officers gave me. This was the chaos I lived in; sad to say, it all seemed very normal to me at the time. I learned to be independent and resilient. I stayed away from home a lot and never told my mother where I was and she didn’t ask. When it was just my mom and I, she would discuss her marriage with me. I liked being her confidant. I didn’t offer much in the way of advice; I hardly knew what to say. I knew what I wanted to say, but that wouldn’t have gone over well. I hoped she would leave him and she did leave him several times. Each time she’d call my father or her first husband Joe and allow them back into her life for a brief period. I’ll never know what power she had over men. Frank was always who she wanted to be with and she’d take him back in short order. As a child, I believed that all marriages worked this way.

I viewed my own marriage as inevitable; everyone married didn’t they? My father had a gay son from a previous marriage and when I would ask why he wasn’t married, my father would say, “Frankie’s different.” I certainly did not want to be different; therefore, despite my orientation, I started thinking about a wife and family. When I was nineteen years old and a college student in North Carolina, I was set up on a blind date with Lisa (not her name). Lisa was beautiful, smart, funny and perfect in just about every way and I knew almost instantly that I wanted her to be the mother of my children. Did I know I was gay? I knew that I had an attraction to men, but it was very easy to tuck that away into the far corners of my troubled mind. What I wanted more than anything else was a “normal” life. Of course I regret having pulled Lisa into this dishonest vortex, but that story is for another time.

Lisa and I were engaged about a year after we met and decided to marry after completing our undergraduate degrees. I can only tell you how it was for me; I was excited to have found someone exceptional to spend my life with. We spent all of our time away from university, together. During our first year dating, my mother was thrilled to have a family Thanksgiving dinner that included Lisa and her twin sister. We were all excited about the day as we awaited its arrival. However, as with most holidays in our house, this one too would be filled with drama — I should have known better.

On Thanksgiving eve, 1979, my mother and stepfather had a big argument. My mother called me when I was in my dorm room preparing to return home for the holiday (I was about 35 minutes from home and I had a car). My mom asked me to come home right away. She said that my stepfather had “come after her” while they were arguing and that she was hemorrhaging badly. I said, “Mom, shouldn’t you call 911?” and she replied, “I’d rather wait for you to get here.” This dependence on me was one she perpetuated throughout my youth and early adult life.

I was home in 30 minutes, having gone way over the speed limit to once again, rescue my mother. We sat in the emergency room for four hours until she was finally seen and admitted. She kept repeating, “I feel so badly that Thanksgiving is ruined.”

I assured her that we would find a way to make it happen and we did. My mother was released Thanksgiving morning and I agreed to do all of the cooking. The only dish I was unsure of was her turkey stuffing and my mom said she’d walk me through it. The entire time I was cooking, I was concerned that my stepfather would return home. At one point I heard him enter his camper in the backyard. My mother assured me that we didn’t have to worry about him. She said that he’d just stay in his camper and get drunk. She also shared that he was very angry that I brought her to the hospital. He felt that even though he had argued with her, it was his place, as her husband, to care for her. This was the mother/son, husband/wife, tug of war we battled throughout their entire marriage. What happened that Thanksgiving day is forever etched in my mind.

I cooked all day preparing for a 4:00 p.m. dinner. Lisa and her sister arrived at around 3:00 p.m. They sat with my mom and I was happy to hear laughter coming from the living room. I began thinking that I might be able to pull this off. My younger sister set the table and we called everyone to dinner; there were seven or eight of us. We were in the middle of expressing our gratitude, for what I’m not sure, and my stepfather walked into the dining room, obviously intoxicated. He had come into the house to get a jug of wine. I couldn’t even look at him. Odd that this is over 45 years ago, but I can see and hear it as it was yesterday. Frank glanced around the table, showed his teeth and said, “I hope you all choke on your food.” I admittedly have never been able to remain quiet and so I spoke up, “Maybe you’ll choke on that wine.”

Then, all hell broke loose. He lunged for my throat and most of what was on the table ended up on the floor. There was lots of screaming and Frank’s hands were squeezing harder around my neck. I couldn’t breathe. My younger brother grabbed him from behind, but Frank threw him off; my mother pleaded with him to let me go. I don’t actually remember what I was feeling while he was choking me. I do remember thinking that this was the way I was going to die. Frank must have had a moment of clarity and he finally let me go. I gasped for air and surveyed the dining room. Dishes, glass, food were everywhere; not a morsel was edible. Lisa and her sister were holding each other and sobbing. My brother Leo was talking Frank down and my mother was weeping in the corner of the room. The turkey was upside down on the floor next to the table.

I walked over to Lisa and her sister and I said, “Come on, we’re getting the hell out of here.”

We went to Lisa’s house so that we could calm down and process what had happened. My neck had huge welts and two large handprints. My mother called me and begged me not to involve the police. I told her that I wouldn’t call the police and that I never wanted to see or speak to my stepfather again. She said she understood and that she would be throwing him out and divorcing him.

Lisa’s family prayed and asked me to join them; I pretended to talk to God. What I did instead, was to tell myself that I would never again subject myself or anyone I loved, to such abhorrent abuse.

I did eventually forgive my stepfather. I also stopped calling him dad. Never too late to gain self-respect. I’ve never claimed that my life has been more difficult than anyone else’s; however, I do believe my desperation for peace has valid origins.

Hate is a word I take seriously; I believe at times it is valid to feel hate and process it.

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Future Travel

A couple of short local trips to Spain and parts of the Algarve coming up soon; an Iceland cruise by way of Northern Europe in May; Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month), Krakow, Poland in October, and a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in April 2025. Booked a Greece/Turkey/Egypt cruise for fall 2025. The United States in the late fall/early winter of 2025: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina.

State-of-Mind

A getaway this weekend that helped me gain perspective.

_________________________________

My intention is not to hurt anyone by dredging up the past. My parents (all of them) are deceased and my siblings don’t talk about it. It’s more about sorting it out in my own mind; giving myself permission to be truthful with myself and others. I believe it helps for friends and family to know why I married and why I often react the way I do, in certain situations. Why I sometimes seem insecure and why I fight particular causes; why honesty in relationships is essential to me.

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Our Expectations Are All Out of Whack

Home delivery of liquor on my bicycle in Brooklyn when I was 17 years old, provided a teachable moment which has stayed with me my entire adult life. I walked into my house after four hours of peddling all around my neighborhood, carrying hard liquor for desperate alcoholics. Trust me, it made me grow up fast. My dad, who was rarely home early in the evening, asked me why I had that look of dread on my face. I told him that I had worked hard that evening for next to nothing in tips. My dad, who was very familiar with working for tips, reminded me that I was providing a service to customers who would learn to trust me and be able to rely on me in the future. He assured me that once that happened, the tips would come. He also said that I should learn to never expect a tip. He reminded me that the customer was paying for the product and that the delivery was included in the price. Tipping was not obligatory; therefore, whatever tips I received were an extra bonus and that the amount was entirely up to the customer. He said that I should be grateful to receive anything at all. My father was my guru; any advice was sage advice.

I ended up doing very well at the liquor store. I went on to work for tips at other times in my life; always recalling my father’s wise words. Humility goes a long way when one is performing a service. The bigger lesson here is that expectations are too often unrealistic and sometimes lead to disappointment. This has been a lifelong lesson. I’m not sure if it’s my hard head or sensitive nature, but it has been one of my greatest challenges.

People

My expectations of people have always been way too high and unrealistic. Starting with family, I won’t list my many disappointments because it will only cause anger and resentment toward me. I have learned that most people do not want to hear what you really think. Instead, let me say that these days, my expectations are very low except for one individual whom I know would step up to the plate should I need urgent care. I’ve discovered just how self-absorbed and judgmental family members can be. If I’m going to be honest, there are very few family members I would consider taking in.

Close friends I have known almost my entire life are in a different category. My expectations are high and will remain high. The bond created over years of life’s travails, makes for frank conversation, trust, and loyalty. Expectations are a given; break the trust and the friendship is gone. Unfortunately, I have lost two close friends in recent years over trust issues. One of these friends revealed an unacceptable truth about her hatred toward Muslims and the other took me for granted. Walking away from toxic people is necessary; I have no regrets. Relationships are not always meant to last forever.

Moving overseas has shifted my expectations of strangers. Portuguese people have been kind and warm toward me. Culture and my openness have played a role.

Places

Of all aspects of my life, adapting to new environments has been the easiest. Growing up in Coney Island is probably the main reason, anything after CI was an improvement. The amusement park which once attracted millions, was in decay and losing its allure when I was a child. I have always sought out a better place to live and my instinct has never failed me. Hence, one aspect of my life where expectations for improvement have been met. I think it’s almost better to start low and work your way up; although to be fair, there are parts of the world far worse than Coney Island. In fact, CI is currently going through a period of revival.

Travel is a category where I go from extremely delighted to overwhelmingly disappointed. My expectations have always been far reaching; the case of a big imagination versus lackluster reality. The one good thing that has come from this truth, is the appreciation of home. I can’t complain, I’ve been all around the globe and as a result, I have seen more than most and I have no regrets. I firmly believe that exposure to other parts of the world and other cultures, helps to better understand humankind; our faith, our understanding of how we are connected to the earth and each other, and how we see the future. My expectations for a better future are changing daily and not in a good way. I fear greed, climate change, and diminishing resources. I think humankind’s finest moment has passed. It makes me sad and of course, I hope I’m wrong.

Things

Material things hold less significance for me as I get older. My expectation for the length of time “things” should last has decreased. Appliances are not made to last anymore and technology is always evolving, making devices obsolete after a short period of time. When I moved to Portugal, I realized how easy it is to replace stuff — sometimes with even better stuff. I try not to get too attached to things. Artificial Intelligence will factor heavily in the future, but I do not fear it. I’m hopeful that we will find a way to use it to our advantage and to rein it in when necessary.

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Future Travel

A couple of short local trips to Spain and parts of the Algarve coming up soon; an Iceland cruise by way of Northern Europe in May; Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month); a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025. The United States sometime in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina. I can now fly direct from Faro to Newark, thanks to a new United route. I booked a Mediterranean cruise for October 2025 — it sails from Tel Aviv, (as I suspected it would be, this cruise has been canceled. I’m looking at other options, this time out of Lisbon; convenient and no airfare). I had little to no expectations; therefore, I am not disappointed.

State-of-Mind

When you live in a place with over 300 days of sunshine a year, rain becomes glorious; at least for me. We’re getting some much needed rain this week and I love it. Also, the kids are not in school for a couple of weeks, therefore, the neighborhood is deliciously quiet. I have this “guy” thing that applies to fixing things; I fixed it so that my new computer is synched with my printer/scanner. It only took four hours, but I’m patting myself on the back as I type. When it comes to technology, my expectations are extremely low. To my credit, I try everything before seeking help.

I’m currently hosting friends from the States. We are making memories.

Note from last week’s blog: I learned that electric buses beep when they are coming and going, so that people will hear them because they are so much quieter than gas powered buses. Oh well, good to know, but I still hate it. I feel the same way about the beeping sound you hear when trucks are backing up.

“You are your own worst enemy. If you can learn to stop expecting impossible perfection, in yourself and others, you may find the happiness that has always eluded you.”
― Lisa Kleypas, Love in the Afternoon

Please excuse typographical and/or grammatical errors. I promise you they occur quite by accident.

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Too Close For Comfort

A near miss that changed my life

I can still see the terror in her eyes. She was young, frightened, and eight months pregnant. I’m as guilty as anyone in that I take near misses for granted. But there is one thing that I will never take for granted and that is the night I came within inches of a head-on collision with a very pregnant woman.

My sister Debbie and I have always been close. Just one year apart and many domestic battles won and lost. We share 99.9% of the same chromosomes and a similar sense of humor. When we are breathing the same air and we find something funny, we laugh until snot covers our faces. This has always and will always be the way we are together. I honestly believe there is no other human who gets me the way she does. Trust is everything if you are to allow yourself to be vulnerable. Our defenses disappear when we are together.

It was a very rainy January night in North Carolina. I was home from University for the weekend and Debbie and I needed to get away from our annoying stepfather. His smoking and drinking was always extreme and our appetite for his nonsense on this particular evening was nil. Without knowing a thing about the impending weather, we ran out of the house and jumped into my Chevy Nova. The rain was heavy and it was chilly, but North Carolina temps rarely went below freezing. We were so pleased that we’d gotten away, we were giddy. “Where do you wanna go?” Debbie asked as she shook off the rain. I replied, “I need BBQ.”

Heavy rain battered the windshield; and the radio was turned way up. We drove on a long stretch of roadway known for speedsters. About halfway to the restaurant, the music was interrupted by an emergency announcement: a cold front was due to arrive at any moment and a deep freeze was expected. I had only arrived in North Carolina months before and I had never experienced a southern deep freeze. Debbie said, “I don’t think it will affect Salisbury. I’m sure it will be worse at the coast;” I shrugged it off.

What happened next was so surreal, I still can’t really wrap my head around it. Within seconds, everything froze. My car began to swerve and we laughed. Clearly others had heard the warning and stayed off the roads. I cannot recall having even an ounce of fear or concern (a problem when you’re young). Debbie seemed to take it in stride and it felt like a very slippery joyride. I recall pointing to frozen solid telephone lines and lampposts, amazed at how thick the ice was. We found ourselves in an unexpected and unwelcome winter wonderland; nearly gliding on the ice.

Debbie was so tickled by the circumstances, she screamed gleefully. Her laughter as always was contagious; so much so my belly hurt. Suddenly our silly joy was interrupted by a jolt; the car spun out of control. I tried turning the steering wheel to the left and right, with no luck; pressing the brake pedal only made it worse. We spun numerous times before finally finding ourselves headed in the wrong direction with a car coming straight for us. I panicked and Debbie screamed. We were not slowing down and I was certain we were going to have a head-on collision. I slammed on the brakes and we spun again, this time sliding inches away from the car we were headed for. I looked out and saw that there was a young woman slumped over in the driver´s seat. I got out of my car and tentatively approached her vehicle. I noticed she was draped over the steering wheel and weeping uncontrollably. I was concerned that she was hurt. I knocked on her window with my knuckles and she looked up. It was then that I noticed that she was extremely pregnant.

She opened her door, stepped out of her car and through her tears, asked if I was okay. I said, I’m fine, are you okay? She said she was okay, but admitted to being a bit shocked; she was shaking badly. I told her that my car had spun out of control and that we ended up on the wrong side of the road. She expressed her relief that we had not collided and I adamantly agreed. She told me that she was about eight months pregnant and on her way to pick up her husband from work. She had also not heard anything about the ice storm. This all happened way before cell phones. Being that the temps were below freezing and there were no other cars in sight, the only thing we could do was to get back in our cars and drive away slowly.

When I returned to my car my sister was sitting very still. When she finally spoke she asked if the other driver was okay. I told her everything and she started crying. The whole ordeal shook us to our core. I told her that we needed to head home and she nodded. I don’t like thinking about what could have happened, but that’s where my mind goes — perhaps that’s not a bad thing. I still don’t know for certain that she returned home safely; I certainly hope she did.

______________________________________________

My driving was never the same after this incident. I’m more careful about weather conditions, I’m more cautious behind the wheel, and my Uber app gets a lot of use. Oh, and I live in a place that never has ice or snow.

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Future Travel

A couple of short local trips to Spain and parts of the Algarve coming up soon; an Iceland cruise by way of Northern Europe in May; Oslo, Norway with Paco for all of July (with visits from friends throughout the month); a much anticipated trip to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025. The United States sometime in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina. I can now fly direct from Faro to Newark, thanks to a new United route. I booked a Mediterranean cruise for October 2025 — it sails from Tel Aviv, so it’s a bit uncertain. It includes parts of Turkey and Egypt I have not yet explored.

State-of-Mind

Do you ever have anxiety or tension and you have no idea why? I woke up distracted and detached on Sunday. I decided to go out on the terrace and clean up my plant beds — tearing out weeds, repotting, turning up soil; it cleared my head like nobody’s business. It was exactly what I needed to do in order to feel better.

I have a new laptop with a Portuguese keyboard, making blogging a slow and painful process. I thought if I wrote less I would be okay — didn´t happen; neither happened. Time.

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Coming to Terms With Aging

Update along with additional content to 2018 blog

Could be me in 10 years

I tackled this blog topic five years ago; shortly after my relocation to Portugal. At that time my life was in a state of upheaval: the shutting down of my consulting business for an early, unplanned retirement, selling my home and leaving Maine, buying in a foreign country, saying goodbye to friends and family, losing Giorgio (my pet), financial instability, Trump’s America, and approaching 60. In general, gay men struggle with aging. The idea that my body was changing and that I was no longer a young man, hit me hard. My anxiety level and life’s uncertainties are reflected in my writing back in 2018. When I look back on my journal entries and my blog, I wonder if I could ever replicate that kind of strength; I was running on high octane. Today I am stable, secure in my decision to reside in Portugal, career averse, and feeling very much alive at 64. A look back and an update:

You Can Run, But You Can’t Hide

When I made the decision to leave the States:  my friends, my family, and my home; I also made the decision to leave some baggage behind. I’m not ashamed to say I have baggage; I’m fairly certain that all adults have baggage and lots of it. Coming to terms with getting older and losing my youth has been one of the most difficult challenges of my life. As with so many other things I write about, I know others share my angst.

I decided a while back that rather than ignore the inner turmoil around aging, I would face those feelings head on. I challenged myself to look in the mirror when I preferred looking away, to light heartedly tug on the sagging skin under my chin, to grab and hold onto my growing love handles; by doing this, I am fully embracing every imperfection. In truth, they are only imperfections because I identify them as such. I am learning that it is much healthier to just accept my aging body. To admire every line and to see the aches and brown spots as a reminder that I have lived a life. Not so easy. Often I take two steps forward and three steps back. I know that it’s a process and I am determined to conquer this challenge. I welcome your thoughts on the subject.

Update: Going to the gym five or six days a week is a very positive experience. My gym in Faro has a diverse clientele; all nationalities, ages and sizes. People are extremely friendly and save for the very young, I feel seen and accepted. Although I ache all over — not the case when I moved to Portugal, I mostly feel really good. I have accepted my aging body and I do what I can to stay healthy.

Quick story: there is this Portuguese guy at the gym whom I only know as a gym acquaintance. The day Trump lost in 2020, he approached me while working out on a machine, voice raised and veins popping from his neck. This is just some of what he said, “You must be happy now that Biden won the election. Maybe this guy will give you what you want. I don’t know why you people need your own fucking parade anyway. You make me sick.” I see him at the gym almost everyday. That which doesn’t kill you . . .

My new Mediterranean diet consisting of a healthy breakfast, a substantial lunch and a dinner snack (about a third of what I used to consume for dinner), is helping to keep my weight down. I sleep better because my belly is no longer full at bedtime. I have found that my body rhythms respond best to an early bedtime and early wake-up pattern. It also helps when I drink less alcohol in the evening. I find an occasional cocktail (twice a week), and a maximum of two glasses of wine, prevents the alcohol from interfering with sleep. It helps that my daily life is more stable and that the stresses of a career and a life partner are no longer factors. Having a healthy pet and a beautiful home, also contribute to a better life. But mostly it has to do with the work I have done in “cleaning up” my act. Getting rid of unhealthy relationships, accepting who I am despite my limitations, worrying less, and being grateful for what I have and where I landed.

Men are from Mars . . .

I don’t think it is sexist or stereotyping to state that this aging gracefully challenge is greater for women and gay men. Western society places a great deal of pressure on these two groups to stay young — the goal being to remain desirable. You have an inner ego voice urging you to walk into a room and be noticed. When this stops happening, and it stopped for me over 20 years ago, you begin to feel less than.

There are things I have done to convince myself that I am still young and vital. One of them is something many men with means do, gay or straight, and that is to buy a shiny new sports car. I’ve done this more than once and although it does actually help make you believe you are young and fetching, trust me, it doesn’t last. Another thing I have done is to shop and purchase clothing that is suited for a younger man. I actually wore skinny jeans for a few months last year, a truth I am not proud to admit. Thank goodness I came to my senses by summer. Why didn’t anyone tell me that it was very wrong? (This was five years ago, but still). I know that my friends and family members are reluctant to share their thoughts in fear of hurting my feelings or facing a defensive me — I assure you that I’d rather be gently slapped into a more appropriate conscious state.

When I Started Feeling the Effects of Aging (again 5 years ago)

I’m getting very close to being 60, so it may be difficult to recall when I started to feel the effects of aging. I remember when my hair started thinning and receding in college, I became very concerned about baldness. Although embracing baldness seems to be more prevalent these days, clearly society and the media place a huge emphasis on a full head of hair. When a person is described as someone who is getting older and letting themselves go, “fat and bald” are usually adjectives used in that description. If you yourself are bald, that seems somewhat derogatory. Now I know there are women out there that will say that they find baldness in men attractive. I believe that to be true because women are much less concerned with physical attractiveness and more concerned with character and other attributes — sorry for the generalization, but that’s been my experience (it’s what women tell me). And you gay men know what I’m talking about. Just go to a gay resort and you’ll see what I mean. Many men cover up their bald heads in shame or surround themselves with eye candy in order to feel better about themselves.

Then there is the “fat” part of that “fat and bald” description. We all know that it is more difficult to keep weight off when you’re older. Some reach a point in their lives when they can afford a nicer bottle of wine and a thick steak and then find themselves having to cut back on these things because they negatively affect their health; not just their appearance, but their overall health. I don’t have to tell you about heart attack rates, stroke, diabetes and other weight related illnesses. At a certain age you begin to think about the future and your quality of life.

Loss (new)

I lost a good friend this year; the first person I came out to and an individual I have loved and admired for over 40 years. Watching Angela succumb to cancer was difficult. She was always youthful and optimistic; a fighter until the end. Our fathers were both born in Puglia, Italy; my father adored her. Angela’s death has helped me to appreciate life.

As you get older, the losses begin to pile up: parents, friends, former lovers, former classmates, and celebrities you felt you knew and grew up with. Grieving is not easy; however, there is so much one can learn from the process. I’m not a religious man, but I do feel the presence of those I have lost all around me. They are cheering me on, boosting me up, giving me the strength to carry on with grace.

Slowing Down the Process

There are a number of people in my life who believe they have discovered the formula for keeping aging at bay. They take 23 supplements at various times of the day, they eat only fresh vegetables they personally witnessed being plucked from the ground; no bread, no carbs, no meat, no alcohol, no life! And then of course it is essential that they share their healthy lifestyle with us and convince us that they know better . . . “Well the experts said so.” I have always said that if I learned today that I would live five years longer if I never ate bread again, I would eat bread and die a happy fella.

“What helps with aging is serious cognition – thinking and understanding. You have to truly grasp that everybody ages. Everybody dies. There is no turning back the clock. So the question in life becomes: What are you going to do while you’re here?”

— Goldie Hawn

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Future Travel

Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, Iceland, Scotland, Norway land & sea in May, and Oslo, July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025. The United States in 2025 is likely: Brooklyn, Florida, Portland, Maine, Maryland, and North Carolina. I booked a Mediterranean cruise for October 2025; more about that some other time — it sails from Tel Aviv. I know you may not see it, but this is a much lighter travel schedule than the past.

Current State of Mind

I’m excited to spend Christmas with a good friend and her family in Lyon. I consider myself a very fortunate fella.

I normally hate photos of myself, but I looked at this one and thought: okay, this looks like me and I don’t mind it. Seven surgeries (not cosmetic), a couple of car accidents, a few tough break-ups, years of working with difficult people, the passing of several siblings and friends, and I’m still here.

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Missing in Italy

A personal story I posted several years ago — many of my readers have not read about this nightmare from my past. Sometimes I shake my head wondering: did this really happen?

Alma graduation photograph from their website (not ICA class)

I’ve waited for quite awhile to tell this story. It’s a rather sensitive matter, therefore, I will use fictitious names to protect those involved. There are people in this story who were supportive, sympathetic, and brave and then there are the rest. I should start by saying that the entire matter was surreal. As I went through the motions and experienced it, I felt as though I was on the set of a film shoot; none of it seemed real, and all of it bizarre. What I know for certain, is that it happened and it changed me.

Searching for a Needle in an Italian Haystack

It was an ordinary day at The International Culinary Center (ICC) in New York City when I received the call. At the time, I was School Director and Dean of Student Affairs. The year was the early 2000s. I had worked with others to create an Italian cooking training program in Italy. Students would start their training at ICC and then travel to Alma in Colorno, Italy for the final six weeks of their training. I had traveled to Colorno (by way of Milan) several times. Our relationship with the staff in Italy was solid and the student experience was exceptional. I was proud to be a part of a very unique cooking school experience. Most of the students were in the 20s and 30s; very mature and focused.

We did several rotations a year and enrollment was better than expected. I was the administrator-in-charge of the program; however, there were over ten faculty and staff members doing the real work of executing the experience. The cost of the complete course was close to $50,000 and because half of it was overseas, there were many moving parts. My father was born in Italy; in many ways, it felt as if I had come full-circle in my Italian heritage. While I worked with others to create the program, I learned a lot about regional Italian cooking, its rich history, and I got to try every dish taught. In addition, I was a proud judge during finals in Italy, on several occasions.

Francesca (her real name) was my contact person at Alma. What we were about to experience created a bond and lifelong friendship born out of a terrifying situation. Francesca’s call about one of our students in Italy, continues to make me anxious all these years later. There are deeply felt emotions that are never lost and never leave us.

“Chris, I need to tell you something, but I don’t want you to worry too much.”

My body tensed and I stayed quiet and I listened.

“One of your ICA (at that time we called the program Italian Culinary Academy) students has disappeared.”

Francesca was not an alarmist and she took care of nearly any incident on the Alma campus, so I knew this was serious. Sal was gone for two days and no one had heard from him. His passport and toothbrush were still in his room and there appeared to be no foul play. Administrators at both schools agreed that he had probably met a girl and he was with her on a sun drenched beach. Sal’s friends and classmates didn’t believe that was the case and this caused great concern. Apparently, there were witnesses to an argument outside of a bar the night before he’d gone missing; in fact, the last time Sal was seen. The argument was between Sal and several locals. Some students speculated that the argument was over a Russian girl from the bar, but no one was certain. Francesca and I agreed that Sal’s parents should be informed. She was also going to call the Colorno carabinieri (local police).

I quickly booked a flight to Milan, packed a small bag, and headed for JFK. Alma had a car pick me up in Milan and I attempted to rest my eyes and calm my brain on the 2.5 hour drive to Colorno. It had been 16 hours since hearing from Francesca and by this time, I imagined all sorts of horrible scenarios. Growing up in Brooklyn during the 60s and 70s made me tough, street smart, and terribly jaded. Film and murder mysteries didn’t help.

Riccardo (head of the school, also his real name) and Francesca met me at the school when I arrived. There was no news from Sal and everyone was thinking the worst. Sal’s parents were on their way from the States and Francesca was arranging their accommodations. Jet lag was helping make a bad situation untenable; my thoughts toggling between despair about what might have happened to Sal and dread concerning meeting his parents. A living nightmare and nowhere to hide.

Francesca drove me to the police station for a conversation regarding next steps. I sat with several carabinieri officers asking every question I could think of. Francesca was interpreting for me and I could tell she was exhausted and worried. The carabinieri would not confirm or deny a street argument or that there might have been a Russian girl involved.

After hours at the police station and talking with students, I headed for my hotel room to close my eyes. Francesca agreed to contact me with any news.

There was one particular bar not far from the school that was popular with the American students attending Alma. Colorno is a very small town and everyone knows everyone. There were rumors among the students a number of Russian woman were available for hire and that Sal might have owed money to one of the handlers of these woman. Administrators at Alma seemed genuinely surprised to hear that prostitution was taking place under their noses. My mind took me to dark place; imagining Sal buried six feet underground somewhere outside of Colorno.

Sal’s parents arrived the evening of my first day, however, they did not show up on campus until the following morning. By then, I had slept a few hours and I was more prepared to meet with them. Alma was very sympathetic to their anxiety and did everything possible to make them comfortable. Looking back, I was actually quite surprised by their calm and decorum. They too spent time with the local police. They also took several students close to Sal for lunch and tried to better understand where he might be.

At some point at the end of our first full day, we all met to discuss what we might do next — parents intentionally left out. Alma seemed reluctant to contact the press, for fear the school’s reputation might be harmed. I believe we were secretly hoping Sal would turn up on campus behaving as if he’d done nothing wrong.

As time passed, the street argument became more of a factor; all involved were called in and questioned by the police. The carabinieri were convinced that there was no there, there. I started to feel as if there might be a cover-up and Sal’s parents were skeptical as well. Although his parents and I were in communication throughout the day during early days of the incident, I felt fairly distant from them; detached. They were understandably frustrated, tired, and concerned.

On the fourth day, none of us believed Sal would just reappear. If he had run away with a girl or decided to bail from the program, he would have taken his passport at the very least. We were all fairly certain foul play of some sort had taken place. The Italian state police were brought in after Alma’s administration began to feel as if the local police were not doing enough. Word got out to the press and just about every local and regional news outlet was covering the disappearance. When word got out that an American student was missing and there was speculation that the Russian mafia might have been involved, a search party was dispatched and the rivers and lakes in the area were dredged. I silently hoped Sal would call us to say that he’d see the reports of his disappearance and wanted to let us know that he was fine and that he was sorry for all of the trouble he’d caused. That didn’t happen, but all I had was hope.

I wasn’t sleeping very well and couldn’t help thinking that this would probably be the last class studying at Alma. One incident, completely unrelated to the cooking experience could threaten the viability of a program we worked on for two years. The pubic relations machine at both schools was working hard to highlight how positive the Alma experience was and that this was an unfortunate one-off situation. Sal’s parents were angry that the Italian police and government were not doing more to locate their son; we were mindful that they alone could potentially raise enough concern to shut us down.

His parents decided that a trip to the American Embassy in Milan might help get the Italian government to take this more seriously. I regretfully volunteered to drive them to the embassy. They sat together in the back seat; Sal’s father consoling his mother most of the way to Milan. Over two hours in a vehicle with someone crying hysterically is not easy for the person at the wheel. I didn’t say much for fear of saying the wrong thing. I tried my best to be supportive and reassuring. I didn’t think the people at the embassy would help, but it wasn’t my son who was missing.

When we got to the embassy it was a well-guarded fortress. I dropped them off as close as I could get to the entrance and parked the car. Just as I arrived they were being escorted in. The guards told me that only the parents would be allowed. I called for Sal’s father and he walked over and apologized. He knew that I would be staying in Milan that night and flying back to the States the next morning. It had been a full week since Sal had gone missing and there was nothing more I could do in Italy. Sal’s father agreed to call me if they needed anything and we said our goodbyes. I felt very sorry for Sal’s parents and I was exhausted.

I recall making a call to Gary (real name), ICA’s president, that afternoon and becoming emotional on the phone. The fear of learning that a dead body was found was becoming more and more real. Gary, as always, was extremely supportive and grateful. He and the rest of the staff at ICC were hoping for the best. He asked me to remain calm and to get home safely. The administration at Alma was also very supportive and assured me that they would do everything possible to find Sal. I flew back to the States the next morning.

Time passed and still no word from Sal. His parents stayed in Italy for a couple of weeks and then returned home when hope of finding him had diminished. They became angry, resentful, and blamed both schools for gross negligence. They claimed that we had placed their son in an unsafe environment. Sal’s brother publicly posted a scathing letter, claiming the school was completely negligent. Threats of a lawsuit were being bandied about. The students in Italy had gone on with their studies hoping to complete the program. I had all but given up hope.

Graduation at Alma was scheduled a few weeks out; I knew it would be best for be to return and attend. When I arrived on campus, the students, whom I had stayed in contact with, greeted me warmly. They all assured me that the ICC was not to blame for Sal’s disappearance. We all wondered if this great mystery would ever be solved. I met with the local and state police for an update — there was none. Still much speculation that there was foul play, however, the guilty party or parties, had not revealed themselves. I returned to New York having lost quite a few pounds and feeling like I’d let a lot of people down.

Thanksgiving came and went. Each day brought less talk of Sal’s whereabouts. My emotions had gone from remorse to sadness to anger; acceptance was not within reach. Then, out of nowhere, shorty before Christmas, a call from Francesca in Italy, Sal had been located. He had joined the French Foreign Legion. Apparently, when you join, you leave behind the material world and those you once cared about; some join to escape their lives. Sal somehow managed to slip a note with his parents telephone Number to an Asian guy who was leaving the Legion and had agreed to make a call. It was the best Christmas gift of my life.

There are several takeaways from this life event that are forever etched in my brain. First, Sal’s family never apologized for their treatment of the two schools. They blamed us for Sal’s disappearance for months and when he turned up, not one of them came forward to acknowledge they were unfair and had hurt several good people. Lastly, when Sal left the French Foreign Legion he did not contact me to explain himself, apologize or thank me or the ICC for trying to find him. Oddly, I didn’t care. It bothered others at the school and it made several people in my life angry, but I had something far more important to me, I had peace-of-mind and Christmas that unfortunate year.

Disclaimer: This incident occurred over ten years ago, therefore, I cannot swear by every detail outlined in my accounting of the story. Due to the seriousness of the situation and my own personal involvement, I can only vouch for my own recollection of what took place.

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Future Travel

Asia land & sea, end of October/November, Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, and Oslo, Norway July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025; it’s about time I visit the birthplace of my father.

Current State-of Mind

Just back from Basel, Switzerland. Three days were perfect. It’s a beautiful city, offering magnificent architecture, excellent museums and galleries, good eating options, easy to navigate transportation and only 2.5 hours by air from Faro. Transport from the airport to the city center by shuttle bus in 20 minutes (leaves airport every 10 minutes). Be prepared to spend some money, Switzerland is pricey. If you go, Steinenschanze Stadthotel was excellent and affordable. If you spend more time there, the city borders France for other travel options. Several other countries are close by.

I seldom return from vacations feeling rested and rejuvenated; Basel was a perfect city getaway.

Please forgive any grammatical or typographical errors. No AI software used in the creation of this blog.

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Righteous Rants Get You Nowhere

A Periodic Reminder (to myself)

This blog is not meant for anyone else but me. I’m making notes for future reference. Righteous behavior, righteous thoughts, righteous finger pointing; all harmful to one’s health and well-being. I figure if I consider it and write about it, it might someday actually stick. I’m taking bets, anyone interested?

righteous*

adjective

*morally right or justifiable.”feelings of righteous indignation about pay and conditions” Oxford Languages

If you think that someone behaves or lives in a way that is morally good, you can say that they are righteous. People sometimes use righteousness to express their disapproval when they think someone is only behaving in this way so that others will admire or support them. Collins COBUILD

Example: One morning this week, I was walking Paco and a man and his unleashed dog were walking toward us. I politely asked him if he would leash his dog (there are signs everywhere in the park). We are not in a controlled environment and Paco is not always friendly when dogs run up to greet him. The man told me his dog was friendly and I replied, “My dog is not always friendly.” He ignored me and kept his dog off-leash. I had to keep myself from chasing and threatening him. Paco has never bitten another dog, but when aggression begins, it can go in several unwanted directions. Herein lies the problem:

This guy doesn’t give a rat’s ass about Paco or his reaction. His dog weighed a good 80 pounds more than my 8 pound pooch. So he’s probably annoyed with me for about 10 seconds as he continues to defy the law and my wishes. I, on the other hand, carried the anger around for hours, days even. So who is right and who is wrong and does it matter in the long run?

How Do You Know When You’re Being/Feeling/Thinking in a Righteous Way?

Oh this will be a fun list to create:

  • When your blood instantly starts to boil
  • When you can’t see straight
  • When you write an angry text, press send and immediately regret it
  • When a friend calls and tells you to take down a post
  • When punching your pillow gives you no satisfaction or even breaking a dish against the wall
  • When you keep thinking, “But I’m right, doesn’t that count for something?”
  • When you start screaming while driving your car because you think no one can hear you
  • When you are wide awake at 3:00 a.m. thinking about something someone said to you three days earlier
  • When you find yourself spending more and more time alone
  • When something that happened 10 or 20 years ago is still occupying your thoughts

What Can You Do About it?

This question is more difficult for me than it might be for others; I am mighty righteous. I’ve had a lot of practice when it comes to dealing with righteous thoughts and actions. The following are some of the things I’ve done — a combination of successful and unsuccessful coping mechanisms:

  • Take a step back, breathe, and wait
  • Ask an objective party to evaluate your scenario and advise you
  • Let it go and keep it gone
  • Do some research on the topic and then act to address the problem
  • Escape. Leave the house. Leave town. Get away from your everyday life.
  • Read
  • Meditate
  • Find a positive way to relay your thoughts. For example: a friend of mine carries extra poop bags and when she sees someone leaving their dog poop, she walks over and hands them a bag. She usually adds, “I thought you might need this or did you forget this?” Brilliant.
  • Therapy or life coach (both have helped me navigate through life)
  • Think through the pros and cons of acting on your rage
  • Journal entries where you purge the anger and live it on the page (or blog)
  • Sometimes you just have to tell someone to go f*^k themselves

I do believe personal freedom is important and right; however, when people infringe on my freedom or space, that sets me off.

Finding Your North Star (your center)

The absolute best thing you can ever do is make peace with whatever or whomever is causing you to feel anxious and/or angry. It may mean apologizing even if you’re right. I don’t want to be “that guy.” You know that guy, the one who climbs onto his or her soap box so often everyone stops listening. I used to follow a couple of liberals on social media. I thought they had some great things to say about our current state of affairs. Things quickly changed when they went too far left and you know what happens, people stop listening; I stop listening.

My List

The kinds of things I get all righteous about on a daily basis:

  • People trying to sell you on religion
  • Motorcyclists revving up there engines and/or riding without a muffler
  • People who do not pick-up their dog poop
  • People who refuse to recycle
  • People who try to overtake you in traffic or bully their way to the front of the line
  • People who try to top you when your sharing something (i.e., my accident was worse than yours or my illness is worse)
  • Individuals who cheat and then try to justify it
  • People who lie to your face and know that they are lying
  • People who underpay their workers or cheat them out of their pay
  • People who block traffic by double parking
  • People who throw trash on the ground
  • People who complain about the government and do not vote
  • People who vote for candidates just because someone in their family (or a friend) tells them to
  • People who hate on others because whatever it is someone else is doing goes against their religion or personal values
  • People who accept invitations for parties/dinners/events, but never reciprocate
  • People who refuse to communicate because they cannot tolerate any level of conflict
  • Individuals who always think that we should laugh at their stupid, inappropriate jokes
  • Individuals who for one reason or another, think they are better than anyone else

I could keep going, but it’s making me anxious. This should help you understand why I live alone.

Side Note: I have always been jealous of individuals who seem completely unaffected by an injustice they may have witnessed or experienced. I wonder if they are so healthy that they can clear their minds of any thoughts related to what they experienced or if they can sort it out quickly and move on. Either way it is admirable, but not usually the way things go for me. Two questions loom large: 1) Are they telling the truth about their response? and 2) Is it healthy to be unaffected?

My theme song from La Cage aux Folles: I am What I Am

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zreTvtpTeoU Gloria Gaynor

At this point in my life I don’t see that POV changing: righteous, stubborn, obstinate, cranky, opinionated, emotional, critical, and big hearted. I’m not defending who I am; just stating a fact. Then of course there is the nature vs. nurture question — that’s for another day.

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Future Travel

Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea, end of October/November, Lyon, France for Christmas, South Africa land & sea in February, and Oslo, Norway July 2024. Finally, a visit to the Puglia region of Italy in the spring of 2025.

Current State-of Mind

Milder weather has arrived to the Algarve. My spirits are lifted when the air has a slight chill and a cool breeze is blowing — perhaps even some rain in the near future. I’m sure you can always ascertain from my very telling blogs, that I’m going through some sort of existential crisis. Jotting down my thoughts and tumultuous feelings, helps me to sort it out — I highly recommend it as a tool for peace-of-mind. Either writing or moderate drinking, both work.

I’d love to hear from you on this topic. Please forgive any grammatical or typographical errors.

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My Last Night With Anthony

I only wish I’d known my brother would soon leave us

Anthony was super sensitive, troubled, and a danger to himself. He was also extremely supportive and people couldn’t help loving him. He was born two years after me in Brooklyn, at a time when behavioral and psychological issues went undiagnosed. Anthony wasn’t lock-him-up crazy, but he wasn’t meant to be left to his own devices either. I knew my brother struggled, but I had my own shit to deal with growing up. Our broken home was not the best environment for personal instability. As if by random selection, I thrived in our shared dysfunction, my brother did not. Anthony was only 38 when a fatal dose of heroin took his life. He apparently had an enlarged heart as a result of years of cocaine abuse. The coroner documented his death as an accident — we’ll never know for sure. This is the story of our last night together.

I was turning 40 and finally somewhat satisfied with the direction of my life. A career that was progressing nicely, a completed Ph.D., a brownstone apartment in Brooklyn that was all mine, and for the most part, acceptance of my sexual orientation. I was ready to celebrate. I planned a big party at a friend’s Manhattan, Park Avenue penthouse. I hired chefs, entertainment, and invited nearly 100 of my closest friends and family. I had already come out as gay, but this was more like coming out as having survived my youth. I prepared a speech for the occasion where I would let those who cared about me know how much they meant to me. Anthony flew to New York from North Carolina. I was too busy during the day of my party to spend any time with him; I told him I’d see him at my party.

By the time he arrived, the party was in full swing. He walked over to me at some point, sullen and resembling death. I wasn’t immediately alarmed, I’d seen him in despair many times in our lives. He suffered from severe depression and his marriage had recently ended. I hugged him and promised him that at some point during the evening, we’d have some quality time. We passed one another several times throughout the night. I asked him to stick around for my speech because there was something I wanted him to hear.

My sister Kathy approached me during the party chaos. She told me that she knew I was busy, but she was worried about Anthony. I recall saying something like, “Aren’t we always worried about Anthony?” A failed suicide attempt in his teens left us all forever on edge. I assured her that I’d check in on him before he flew back to North Carolina. It was a big night for me and my focus was on other things.

I gave my speech and referred to him as my brother and best friend. I was hoping that would cheer him up; it did make him smile, but clearly he was in a dark place. He’d been clean and sober for a long time and I was concerned that he might be so despondent he’d start using again. Anyone who has dealt with depression will tell you that the attempt to help someone is not always met with an embrace.

Anthony stayed till the end of the party and helped me load my gifts into the car. He had an early morning flight, but he seemed eager to speak to me about something on his mind. He had a history of placing me in the center of challenging times in his life. At one point in his early twenties I found him emaciated and close to death in his North Carolina apartment. There were empty heroine vials and used needles everywhere. I carried him out to my car and drove him to a rehab facility in Charlotte. He stayed for the three week treatment and remained clean (as far as I knew) until a short period prior to his death. He traveled the country speaking to young people about addiction and his journey to a better life — a healthier life. He often credited me with saving him, although I never wanted that responsibility. It was my mother who begged me to go to his apartment on the day I found him. By then, I was close to giving up on him. Rehabilitation, meeting a woman he fell in love with, and then having a beautiful baby girl, all led to stability and some semblance of happiness. Until it all came crashing down. Back to the night we unknowingly said goodbye forever.

After loading the car, we drove to Brooklyn and went to a diner to talk. Anthony wept and shared his disappointment about a marriage that had fallen apart and the knowledge that his six year old daughter would no longer be a part of his daily life. He was devastated and blamed himself for all of it. I listened and tried my best to be supportive. His tendency toward violence and extreme anger made it difficult to absolve him of any blame. Considering his state of mind, this was not the time to chide him for his bad behavior. I liked and respected his wife, but I also felt that she had in some way brought it on — I’m certain some of those feelings came from being a protective brother; I knew the triggers that brought out the worst in Anthony. 

Hours of talk painfully passed as the sun eventually showed through the filthy diner windows. I began hearing some softening of Anthony’s sobs and a small amount of relief. His flight was due to take off soon and I needed to get him to the airport. We were both spent and weary. I was deeply concerned about Anthony’s state-of-mind, but I needed sleep. We had been there before and I knew this time we had together would only be a bandaid. 

When we arrived curbside at departures, I stepped out of the car to hug my brother. As he wept in my arms, I recall telling him that he could come and stay with me anytime. I asked him to call me when he got home and he nodded and left me with a hint of a smile. I was relieved that the night was over as I drove away. This was the last time I saw my brother. He called me several times before overdosing/heart failure in July. After his death, I asked myself if there was anything more that I could have done. The answer of course is yes, there is always more one could have done, but I’m certain that there was nothing I could have done that would have prevented his death. His last call to me was a few days before he took to the streets to find heroin. He was deeply depressed, however, that was par for the course. I know that it was Anthony’s lifelong struggle with depression and addiction that killed him. Those of us who loved him may have at times eased his pain a bit, but none of us could have prevented his death. His struggle and friendship will inspire and haunt me until I die.

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If you are struggling with a loved one who suffers from depression, there is no formula for helping them survive. Love, counseling, mental health programs, the sharing of resources, and the support of everyone around you can hopefully get you both through this devastating reality.

Anthony is sitting next to me on the sofa. My guess is that he was a year old in this photo and I was three. In the second photo, we were in North Carolina sometime in the early 80s.

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Future Travel

Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea, end of October/November and South Africa land & sea in February. My sister Debbie and her husband Lynn, will be joining me on a visit to our father’s birthplace in the Puglia region of Italy in 2025.

Current State-of Mind

These last few weeks in Faro have been a gift. Lots of quiet time for reflection and rest. I have once again decided to steer clear of toxic individuals — I say once again because I occasionally lose perspective and use poor judgment; I needed a good jolt. It’s impossible to rid yourself of all who cause you grief; however, you can limit the number by being proactive. Taking the high road is always the best path. Healthy disagreement is good, but not always possible; therefore, when it’s not an option, walk away. Anthony and others I have lost remind me of how fleeting life is.

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News: I have been waiting for the following (it will be a deciding factor in my remaining in Portugal):

After a long battle, Portugal passed a law on Friday legalizing euthanasia for people in great suffering and with incurable diseases, joining just a handful of countries around the world (wikipedia). Bravo!

Please forgive any typographical or grammatical errors.

Posted on by CP

I Thought it Was the Scotch She Wanted (repost 2020)

17 years old, naive and eager to please. Pimping myself out on the streets of Brooklyn for tips and a piece of pie. No I was not a rent boy, I delivered booze by bicycle.

Before you judge me, keep reading. I claimed to be 18 years old, but I’m pretty certain Mr. Park knew I was lying. Back in the 70s you could sell and drink liquor at age 18. Back then, there were a lot of things I could do that I cannot do now. I wasn’t quite 18, but I would be soon enough . . . I wanted the job badly. I altered my baptismal certificate by changing 1959 to 1958 — one little numerical change. Desperate measures, I was moving out of the house and I would have rent and college tuition to pay. Mr. Park, who was a liquor store owner, said he’d give me a chance to prove myself; however, he’d made it clear that one slip-up and it was over. I am certain he was fully aware of my actual age. Deception on both sides. There would be no slip-ups; well, none he would know about.

The neighborhood liquor store was across the street from the subway station and although not hidden, it was somehow safe territory for the local alcoholics. The Park’s were Korean, very friendly, and way smarter than the rest of us. I recall Mrs. Park schooling her husband on how to talk to customers. I pretended not to understand, but I was intrigued by their culture and language, and at times, I felt more a part of their family than my own. And to be truly honest, the meals they brought me were delicious. Hence why I eat Korean food whenever and wherever I can find it.

My job was to stock the shelves and make deliveries. Having delivered groceries in the neighborhood for two years, I knew the streets and the people fairly well. I was the kid from that huge family on Marlborough Road. I was polite, shy, and fortunate to have inherited my father’s charm. In early days, I kept my head down and my mouth shut (I have obviously changed). I was surprised to learn how many customers wanted booze delivered to their door. I imagine some people didn’t want to be seen going in and out of the liquor store on a regular basis; others just didn’t want to carry the bottles home. Still others, I came to learn, were clearly shit-faced when I arrived with their refill. I would imagine some started the evening thinking they’d just have a shot and ended up clearing out their liquor cabinet. I encountered a good deal of binge drinking and abuse, not of me, the alcohol. This could very well be the reason I’ve never been a big drinker.

There were a few characters I delivered to several times a week and others, nightly. The only day we were closed, was Sunday. Trust me, if it wasn’t against the law in New York State to sell from a liquor store on Sunday, we would have been open. Thinking back, it didn’t make sense that you could open a bar and not a liquor store. There was this one customer, I’ll call him Mr. Taylor, Mr. Taylor ordered a bottle of Smirnoff vodka every night of the week. He was very quiet and always tipped me 50 cents (often a 50 cent piece). I suspect he was a raging alcoholic and afraid that if he ordered more than one bottle, he’d drink it all. I’m not judging, but that’s a lot of vodka. I worked at the liquor store for several years and Mr. Taylor seldom if ever, missed a delivery. Then there was Miss Greene. Miss Greene opened the door wide enough to stick her hand out, grab the vodka, pass me two dimes and then close the door. The stench from her apartment always made me a bit dizzy. After a year of delivering to Miss Greene on a regular basis, she offered me money to do her a monumental favor. More about that later.

There were these two very friendly men who lived in the same apartment, but they were never there at the same time. One of the two flirted with me quite a bit and once even answered the door wrapped in a bath towel. I looked up, but avoided direct eye contact. He was a big tipper, his partner was not. I always hoped the flirty one would be there to accept the delivery, unfortunately it was mostly the bad tipper who usually showed up at the door. There was clearly either trouble in paradise or they had an open relationship, I’ll never know the truth.

I had dozens of regulars, but I think it was the Flannagan’s I most enjoyed. Very few customers invited me in. With most, niceties and a quick handoff was the norm. The Flanagan’s were different. This Irish couple considered me part of the family. There was usually a snack offered up and always a sweet kiss from Mrs. Flanagan. They were in their sixties, frequently laughing and carrying on and genuinely interested in my day. I knew they drank a lot because I kept inventory. They loved scotch, but oddly only Mr. Flanagan smelled of alcohol; Mrs. Flanagan smelled sweet (over 40 years ago and I can almost recall her scent). Mrs. Flanagan always answered the door. Mr. Flanagan was usually in his Easyboy. I remember seeing him fairly bruised-up a few times; he’d clearly fallen, inebriated and broken most of the time. Sometimes there was a third person, usually a man, always drunk. I would be introduced as “the son.” Keep in mind this all took place in the matter of minutes, I always had other deliveries to make. I knew when they’d cashed their social security check because my tip was always doubled.

As months went by it became clear to me that Mrs. Flanagan was developing quite a crush; her lips often lingered on my cheek and her hands sometimes wandered to my chest. I would squirm away from her clutches thinking it was all very innocent; however, there was one time when she went too far. On this particular delivery, Mrs. Flanagan was more pissed than usual. It might have been during the Christmas holidays, as if she needed an excuse to imbibe. She came around her kitchen table and moved toward me. I backed myself up against the wall and put my hands up in front of me. She pushed herself on me quickly and before I could stop her, her tongue worked its way down my throat and she started grinding her hips into my groin area. Mr. Flanagan warned her to back off, but she persisted. I did not say a word, pushed her off of me and ran out, this time without a tip.

I waited days for the Flanagan’s to place an order. I didn’t feel threatened by Mrs. Flanagan because I was clearly stronger and I knew I could resist her advances. I did feel guilty. I thought that perhaps I had led her to believe that I wanted her affection. When the door opened, it was Mr. Flanagan standing there with cash in hand. He said hello and quickly passed the money to me. I started to reach into my pocket to give him change and he replied, “Keep it,” he then closed the door in my face. I didn’t see or hear Mrs. Flanagan that day. The tip was five and change; way larger than usual. Future deliveries to the Flanagan’s were mostly transactional. Mrs. Flanagan usually came to the door; kisses and invitations to enter were a thing of the past. I was both relieved and saddened by the state of affairs. I guess that $5 tip was guilt money.

I would often return from a delivery later than usual and the Parks would want to know why it took so long. Mrs. Park especially loved gossip and she’d try to squeeze information about our customers out of me. I made it a game. I’d be cagey at first, tease her a bit, let some time go by, perhaps a couple of deliveries, and then when I’d see she was about to explode from anticipation, I’d share a bit; perhaps what a customer’s apartment was like or who answered the door, Mrs. Park was jealous that I got to see a small part of their customers’ lives. I never did tell the Parks about Mrs. Flanagan, that was my secret, never to be told — until now that is.

I never did learn the first names of most of my customers. I guess an invisible wall existed between them and me. I supplied them their poison and they were grateful, but protective; grateful for my service, but protective of their privacy. So I rode my delivery bicycle through pounding rain, freezing wind, and heavy snow and they rewarded me handsomely. I made enough money part-time to pay rent and utilities, buy groceries, and save for tuition. Of all the events that shaped my experience for those couple of years, the time I spent with Miss Greene outside of her apartment was the most memorable.

Miss Greene suffered from severe agoraphobia. The idea of leaving her apartment terrified her and made her a prisoner in her own home. When she asked me to take her to the bank I had no idea that she was struggling with this affliction; nor did I know what I was in for. She offered me $20 which was surprising because she was a terrible tipper. I picked her up after school, eager to get the deed done.

I must admit I was pretty cavalier about the whole thing. I honestly thought it would all be over in 30 minutes and I’d be picking out a new sweatshirt at Korvettes (department store now out-of-business). When I got to her door it was slightly ajar, which was never the case. She had on make-up which I found shocking, and a long heavy overcoat; it was early June and fairly warm. She asked for my arm and told me that she had called car service. When she grabbed my arm, I noticed her nails were long and dirty. I had to remind myself that I had a good tip coming. Miss Greene was shaking from head to toe, her lips quivered, and her nails were tearing at my skin. The walk down the two flights of stairs took over 20 minutes and at times, I was fairly certain she was going to collapse. I was strong, but I feared she’d fall and I wouldn’t be able to pick her up. When we got to the front door of the building she began to gently weep. I offered words of encouragement. I honestly wasn’t sure we could pull this off, in fact, I was certain we would not.

The car service driver noticed our struggle and came toward us to offer a hand. Miss Greene clutched onto me even harder and wouldn’t look at the driver. I winked at him and he seemed to understand. He asked me if Miss Greene was my grandmother and I told him that she was — I believe at that moment, she could have been my grandmother. We made it into the car. Miss Greene remained quiet and stared down at her feet. I cannot describe my feelings as all this was going down. I was filled with dread, fear, and pride. I worried for her; her fear was visceral and she seemed so tiny. The pride I was feeling had to do with the trust she had in me. I was only 18 years old, but on that day I was a man.

From start to finish, it took two hours to get the task done. The bank manager agreed to allow us to remain in the bank after closing. Everyone around us seemed to understand her pain. Up until that point in my life, I’m not sure I had witnessed that kind of empathy. The day did not get easier for Miss Greene. When we got to her door she was drenched in sweat and clearly spent. I lowered her onto her sofa, repulsed by the horrible smell in her apartment. Her sister peeked out of the bedroom door and retreated when I saw her. Miss Greene thanked me and gave me $40. It was the largest tip I ever received from one of my customers. I tried to refuse it, but it was important to her that I take it. I knew that I would never be the same. My arm remained black and blue for a week, but my pity for Miss Greene stayed with me a good deal longer. I kept my deed secret for a long time, never sharing what I had done with the Parks. When I arrived late for work that afternoon, I lied and said that I was held up at school. I felt no guilt, only sadness. Miss Greene continued to order vodka and increased her tip from 20 cents to a quarter. Her demeanor never changed and she never mentioned our afternoon at the bank. I have thought of her often since that day. I imagine her liver must have failed her at some point. I wondered which one of them went first, her or her sister, perhaps mercifully they died at the same time. I also wonder how many Miss Greenes wake up a prisoner in their own homes each day. My problems seem so small in comparison.

When I see a young person working, I imagine they might be learning the kind of life lessons I learned working for the Parks. I think, good for them, and I’m grateful for having had the experience.

Names have been changed to protect the guilty. Several grammatical errors were corrected.

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 “Summer is the annual permission slip to be lazy. To do nothing and have it count for something. To lie in the grass and count the stars. To sit on a branch and study the clouds.”  ~ Regina Brett

Future Travel

Basel, Switzerland in September, Asia land & sea, end of October/November and South Africa land & sea in February. My sister Debbie and her husband Lynn, will be joining me on a visit to our father’s birthplace in the Puglia region of Italy in 2025.

Current State-of Mind

Refreshed, grateful and hopeful. That which doesn’t kill you . . .

Reposts for new readers and when I’ve had a busy week. With well over 200 posts, I have lots to choose from. Please forgive any typographical or grammatical errors.

Posted on by CP · 4 Comments

Saying Goodbye to Mom (repost)

I held my mother’s icy cold hand and I whispered, “You can go now mom.”

Mom and me. I know, I’m working that stache
I apologize for the blurry photo. My non-digital photos are all in storage. I’m reposting this blog because it’s therapeutic for me to revisit the end of my mother’s life. It was extremely difficult and I’m only now beginning to forgive myself.

“Why don’t you feel good about this? Wasn’t it the kindest thing to do?” If my intention was to have my mother pass in order to end her suffering, that would have been kind; however, that was not my intention. In truth, I thought it was wrong to keep her hooked up to a respirator and I knew she’d try to hang on for as long as she could; mom was fiercely stubborn. We had a complicated relationship and I was tired of the drama; I was done. Before you start hating me, I’d like you to consider a few facts. For one, my mother had been in and out of hospital for several years and near death numerous times. She was resuscitated and even though she told my stepfather that she did not want to be, he went ahead and ordered it anyway. She had not completed the paperwork in hospital, no surprise to me or my siblings. When I say that my relationship with my mother was complicated, I believe an explanation is warranted. In many ways, throughout my youth and twenties, I was the parent. My mother was a heavy smoker (even during her pregnancies), a gambler, cheated on my father, a thief (insurance fraud and groceries to name two), and she did psychological damage to all four of her daughters. Three out of four of my sisters had eating disorders due to my mother’s unhealthy weight obsession. I was constantly reminding her about the hazards of smoking, begging her to cut back; also to slow down the gambling, and to see a therapist in order to deal with her self-inflicted pain. So when I said, You can go now mom, it was after many years of shame and disappointment, as well as a strong belief that modern medicine was prolonging the inevitable. Some people will say that I judged her harshly; others will say that it does not matter how awful she was, I should not speak ill of her. You can be certain that my living siblings would attest to my account of our upbringing and the chaos she rained upon us as adults.

How I handle my grief and remorse is my choice.

When she was alive she would actually say, “I know you’re going to write a book about me when I die.” That was her way of telling me to wait. The irony is that I loved her. When family members would scorn her, I would jump to her defense. But deep down I believed that she was selfish, disingenuous, and should probably not have given birth to children. True, she had an abusive father and she got pregnant when she was 16 years old, but that does not excuse the poor mothering; she knew better. I’m certain she knew better.

Future Travel

Scotland very soon — Glasgow, Oban and several islands off the coast; a brief September trip to Basel Switzerland, followed by Dubai, Singapore, Thailand, Vietnam, and Hong Kong in late September and October; South Africa in early 2024.

Current State of Mind

Mellow, very mellow. It was sweltering hot and then we had the most glorious, cool, breezy day on Friday. It felt good to be alive.

Mom always made Christmas special