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From Spin Class to Suspicion: A Cautionary Tale

Peg sat at her kitchen table pondering how she was going to get to work. Her car died in the driveway the night before and her bank account was pretty much depleted. She’s had a rough time of it lately; she’s had a rough time of it her entire life. Born in Detroit, immigrant parents from Slovenia, nothing had ever come easy. Except that she is smart; she’s smart and she’s resourceful. And despite the dead car and her financial situation, things were looking up.

About a year ago, when Peg was cleaning up after a spin class, she was approached by someone who had been with her in class.

“Hi, I’m Sheila. I think we both take the same spin class on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”

“Hi, I’m Peg.”

“Tough class today, huh?”

“Yeah, I’m pretty beat.”

“Would you be interested in getting coffee after class sometime?”

Peg was tentative; she told Sheila that it would be nice, but she usually had to run to work after class. The two agreed to try to work it out.

Weeks went by, Sheila would wave to Peg in class, but neither woman would ask the other for coffee. On a beautiful spring day in April, Peg decided to go into work a bit later than usual. After spin, she walked over to Sheila to see if a walk over to the coffee shop might be possible. Sheila seemed delighted and ten minutes later they were sitting across from one another at Cuppa Joe’s.

Peg was curious to learn more about her new acquaintance. Sheila seemed so sure of herself and not at all vain. Peg also wondered why Sheila had approached her in the first place. She was suspicious of anyone who seemed to want anything to do with her. But Sheila was different, genuinely sweet and engaging.

Sheila asked Peg where she worked, if she was married and whether or not she had children. There seemed to be no judgment, only a desire to learn more about her new acquaintance. Peg held back. She was afraid to scare Sheila away.

Sheila wouldn’t have been scared away. She looked for people like Peg and preyed on them. It would start with coffee. She played a mean game of finding unsuspecting women at their lowest and bringing them down further still. Each successful takedown, empowered Sheila more. Prior to meeting Peg, she has destroyed the lives of over ten women. Perhaps Peg would be her next victim.

After several weeks of coffee dates and pleasant walks, Sheila asked Peg if she’d like to come over Saturday for dinner and a sleepover. Peg had never been asked to share this sort of intimate evening before. She hesitated accepting Sheila’s invitation, knowing she’d never be able to reciprocate. Before she could even respond, Sheila said:

“Listen Peg, I know you hardly know me, but you don’t have to worry, I’m not expecting that you’ll have me over to your place. I have a guest bedroom with an ensuite and I love having people over. It will give us a chance to really get to know one another and share some silly girl time.”

Peg happily agreed to Sheila’s invite. She said she’d be responsible for the cocktails, having tended bar out of high school. Sheila seemed delighted.

Sheila’s home was absolutely gorgeous. Everything was in its place and the decor was tasteful. Peg was shy at first, hesitant to look around and barely touched the appetizers Sheila put out. She liked her own cocktails and Sheila seemed to enjoy them as well — Sheila sure did knock them back.

As the evening progressed, they ate less and talked more; well it was mostly Peg who talked. Sheila asked a lot of questions, complimented Peg a lot, and listened. Peg had never had a friend care so much about how she felt and what she thought. She believed she had hit the jackpot. They finally went to bed at 3:00 a.m. Sheila got up early, letting Peg sleep until noon. Peg felt terribly guilty and made an excuse about having an appointment.

The two texted one another that night and the following day. Peg didn’t want to be pushy, but she was anxious to make future plans. Sheila sensed Peg’s excitement, making sure to fill Peg’s dance card for the next two weeks. After five or six ladies outings, Peg started to question Sheila’s character. She rarely spoke about herself and after all that time, Peg knew little to nothing about her. Being mysterious is one thing, but Sheila was almost certainly hiding something.

The second sleepover was scheduled for Saturday, three weeks after the first sleepover. Sheila was as excited as the first time and requested Peg’s bartending magic be repeated. The two were about an hour in and Sheila realized she had no coffee beans for the morning. Peg told her not to worry, but she insisted that she could be at the grocer and back in 10 minutes. She asked Peg to watch a bit of television, promising to return quickly.

Peg sat on the sofa for a bit, thinking about the house and how stunningly beautiful it was. She also realized that she had never seen Sheila’s bedroom. She decided it wouldn’t hurt to venture upstairs for a peek. She opened Sheila’s bedroom door and her jaw dropped. She had never seen a more beautiful bedroom, wondering why Sheila had not shown it off. She walked around the room admiring all of Sheila’s beautiful things. Out of the corner of eye she spotted a vanity in an adjacent dressing room. She had always dreamed of having her very own vanity. She walked over to glance at Sheila’s jewelry and cosmetics, noticing many labeled glass vials. She picked one up to examine it. It was a stick on label with a female name. She didn’t recognize it as a perfume; in fact she had no idea what the vial contained — it was clear and odorless. It bottle read, The Essence of Susan. She picked up another, The Essence of Lisa, and there were a dozen others like this. Peg found herself confused and frightened by this discovery. She went back downstairs and waited for Sheila to return.

As she waited, Peg realized that she needed to somehow find out who the names on the vials represented. Were they friends of Sheila? Did Sheila formerly work for a perfume company? Where did these bottles come from? She sensed something was off, but she couldn’t quite shake her worry. She decided to stop drinking that evening without letting on to Sheila. She would discreetly pour out the contents of her glass in the bathroom sink. She needed to be fully alert for the rest of the evening.

Sheila returned with coffee beans and some other things she said she needed. She didn’t waste any time asking Peg to make some cocktails. She even said,

“We are going to get drunk tonight.”

Peg just laughed and started their drinks, making sure to put very little vodka in her own glass. Sheila prepared dinner, providing Peg with an opportunity to ask her some probing questions. Sheila was evasive and guarded. She danced around responses about friends, past boyfriends, and family. Peg acted as though it didn’t matter. She even started slurring a bit to throw Sheila off. Sheila did eventually let down her guard just enough to reveal a bit of her past.

Sheila accidently mentioned two friends that she said she no longer spends time with. Peg had an idea where she might find them. She behaved as if she was about to pass out and told Sheila she was going to bed. Later, she sensed Sheila was in the bedroom, but Sheila stayed far from the bed. She spent about ten minutes in the ensuite. Peg was now certain something was not right and she needed answers.

Peg spent the next few days tracking down Sheila’s friends. She asked around at Cuppa Joe’s and learned that two of Sheila’s friends used to go to the coffee shop after spin class. She spoke to their spin instructor and found out where at least one of the two women lived. She decided she’d pay Leila a visit that week.

Leila answered her door. She was obviously very weak and out of sorts. Peg asked her if she could come inside and speak to her about Sheila. Leila said that she didn’t really see Sheila anymore, but she was happy to speak to Peg. They sat down in Leila’s living room. Peg was struck by how this young woman looked older than her years. It was also clear that Leila was once very beautiful. Leila described how she had become friends with Sheila and how little she knew about her. She said she’d slept over Sheila’s a few times and that they’d had a great time. Leila said that she recently became very ill, unfortunately unable to work or see people. Peg asked her if she knew of any other friends in Sheila’s life. Leila told her she had once met Angela who lived across from Cuppa Joe’s. She gave Peg a description of Angela and the two said their goodbyes.

Peg went to the coffee shop the next day, sitting and watching the building across the street. Finally, after a couple of hours of hoping to spot Angela, she left her building and walked across the street toward the coffee shop. She didn’t seem to be stopping there, so Peg had to leave the shop and chase her down. Angela was not as cooperative as Leila had been. She was in a big hurry and appeared extremely disoriented. The only thing she would say is that she had not seen or heard from Sheila in a long time. Peg asked her if Sheila had ever done anything to hurt her, Angela replied:

“Not to my knowledge, but I haven’t been the same since meeting her.”

Peg was convinced that Sheila had done something terrible to these women. She suspected that Sheila may have copied her keys the night she went out for coffee beans. She decided to have a conversation with Sheila about having to leave town for a few days. Then she sat in her apartment, waiting to see if Sheila might show up.

The next morning, Peg was in her kitchen and she heard someone keying into the apartment. She quickly hid in the pantry and called the police to let them know someone was breaking in. Sheila had only been in the apartment a few minutes when the police arrived. The police arrested, handcuffed, and took Sheila to the police station. Peg provided a statement and assured the police that she would be pressing charges.

The following week, a detective contacted Peg to let her know that they had done a search of Sheila’s apartment and discovered the personal effects of over a dozen women. They found hairbrushes, tooth brushes, underwear and other items. It appeared that Sheila had been collecting the DNA of these women and creating some sort of liquid potion from each woman’s DNA. The police had never seen anything like it. They assured Peg that they would further investigate what Sheila was up to. They found no evidence of a vial made from Peg’s essence.

Sheila was eventually charged with breaking and entering several homes. She was convicted and pleaded guilty to all charges. Sheila refused to explain what she was doing with the DNA. She would serve several years for her crimes.

Peg could only speculate about Sheila’s motives and intentions. She found strength in knowing she had stopped Sheila for at least a few years. She and a few of the other women involved formed a support group. She watched them slowly regain their strength and confidence and eventually their essence.

Sheila posing for Instagram

Storyline Thoughts

I may or may not have been thinking about The Substance and Demi Moore when writing this piece. It is more likely that I ponder and think about society’s obsession with physical beauty — not just women by the way, men as well. This obsession with beauty haunts me. When I lived on the Upper East Side in New York City 25 years ago, I witnessed the wreckage of cosmetic surgery, now I’m afraid it has spread to the rest of the world.

I realize when I write these short stories character development is an issue. I wish I could say I was more committed to going on to write a novella or novel. For now, I’m just having fun indulging my warped imagination. I appreciate those of you who have stayed with me. Who knows what the future brings.

By the way, this time I used the title AI suggested. The photo is not AI.

The horrific airplane/helicopter crash this week and T’s attempt to blame DEI and the previous administration, the bogus cabinet confirmation hearings, the numerous executive orders designed to remove necessary programs, and the execution of Project 2025; I’m truly at a loss. The worst is knowing I have family who fully support the dangerous reality unfolding daily. To call these trying times is an understatement. I can’t help wondering just how bad it will get before Americans wake up. I know that I’m not overreacting.

Pornic, France in a few days. I know a change of scenery will do me some good. Not to mention the French food & wine.

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Cheater & Enemy

If she’d cheated with my best friend, at least I could say she had good taste. No, it had to be someone I despise. I almost feel as if he’s done this to spite me; perhaps he did. This guy, this limp dick schmuck, this nobody, this Paul Dunn guy. Paul is a dentist and a horrible baseball player. The thing about Paul is, he has a dirty little secret I have known for a long time. The question is when and how would be the best time to reveal it and to whom.

My wife Beth was once a beautiful woman. If I am to be honest, she might still be beautiful, but I’m not the best judge. The problem is the lens I currently see her through, dirty and distorted. I want to love Beth and I want Beth to love me, but I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. Besides, she’s a woman.

It’s not easy to admit this, but I am nothing to look at. Weak jaw, skinny legs, sausage fingers, and dusty dark hair that can be best described as mustardy brown. I think I might be justifying why Beth stepped outside of our marriage, that’s if you could call it a marriage. So maybe this isn’t so much about Paul, perhaps it’s my fragile ego. Either way, I can hardly let it go.

What do I do about that scumbag Paul? I know what I’d like to do, but I’d rather not go to prison for mutilating the jerk. The truth is I am aware of something that would destroy his dental practice; perhaps even his life. Paul and I went to high school together back in the 70s. We both played on our high school baseball team. As I mentioned earlier, he was not very good. His father would come to the games and coach him on the sidelines, but Paul was awkward and he didn’t pay attention to the ball or the other players. As a result, he was ostracized by the team.

After practice, Paul would take his bike into the woods. I often wondered what he did when he was away from the rest of us, so one day, I followed him. About a mile outside of town, he ditched his bike off to the side of a back road. I wasn’t sure what he was up to, but I was curious. There was an old abandoned barn deep in a wooded area. I watched him go inside. Not long after he entered the barn, I heard a loud thump, some groaning, and then he ran outside. I could tell he was headed for his bike, so I went into the barn to check it out. As soon as I stepped inside I knew what Paul had done. I saw an old man face down in a pool of blood; his head smashed in. I was certain the man was dead. Too afraid to touch him, I left the barn and headed home.

It wasn’t until weeks later that the man was discovered. Some of the kids from a neighboring town found his decaying body while exploring the barn. The old man was apparently a homeless vagrant who nobody had reported missing. I’m not sure why I kept quiet back then. It was exciting to know something no one else knew; rare in rural South Carolina.

News of the old man’s death died down and I pretty much forgot about what I’d witnessed that day in the woods. I knew going to the police twenty something years after the crime would make me an accessory. There had to be a way to reveal what Paul had done without drawing attention to myself.

Should I tell Beth what I know? Should I use scare tactics on Paul? Should I keep my mouth shut and walk away from a failed marriage? I could continue on as if I know nothing of the affair and let things just play out on their own. Maybe they’ll grow tired of one another.

Beth has a secret as well. I think she knows I fantasize about being with men. I should find a way to have her accidentally discover some nude photos of Paul in my desk drawer.

Don’t mind me having more fun with AI

Come on, don’t be afraid of spam mail. Type in your email address for a drop in your inbox whenever a new story is published.

Expats renewing your passport by mail

Two tips: 1) there are old websites with a check as a form of payment — no longer an option, all payments are to be made electronically and 2) it’s probably wise to pay the extra fee to expedite the process (unless of course you do not plan to travel for a while).

I have to make a trip to the American Embassy in Lisbon to pick up my old, not yet outdated, passport. Apparently, even though it’s within the EU, the airlines require a passport to fly from Faro to Poland. Oh well, another overnight trip to Lisbon — could have been worse, my passport could have been in the U.S. Glass half-full Papagni!

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While No One Was Watching

Peter was fortunate to have come into extreme wealth while he was young enough to enjoy it. His father, Martin Crowner was part of the Andy Warhol “Factory” crowd of the 1960s to the 80s. Among his useful friends were famous artists such as Basquiat, Herring, and Banksy. They were not famous at the time, but Martin and his wife Perdy, had a hunch about the potential of some of these pop culture trendsetters. The two of them were vanilla and inconspicuous and could allow their artist friends to be in the spotlight.

Andy Warhol liked Martin and Perdy because they never fawned over him. Both were aware that Warhol had a cult following and anything he touched seemed to turn to gold. Martin watched to see who Warhol was courting and promoting. During this very prolific period, Martin quietly collected 28 art pieces, which he stored in a secure unit in Queens, New York.

When Martin died, Peter became acutely interested in his father’s past and made it his business to learn more about who he knew, what he knew, and how he came upon such a lucrative collection. Why had he kept his ownership of the paintings and the storage of them, to himself? Peter was relentless in his pursuit of nibbles of truth he could use as a jumping off point in his very private and personal investigation.

When he was a young boy, he recalled a man coming over to the house early in the morning asking his father to “come clean.”

The angry man must have asked the same question ten times, “Where are you keeping the artwork Peter?”

He recalls his father saying he had no idea what the man was talking about. This incident seemed to take place around the time that Warhol was shot in the stomach while working in his studio. Did his father have anything to do with the shooting? Peter had a vivid imagination and his parents revealed no clues.

There were parties at Peter’s house throughout his lonely childhood. He’d wake up and see people he’d never seen before sleeping on the sofa or outside on the pool deck; sometimes sprawled out in their unfinished basement. He often felt invisible as he curiously wandered among the seemingly dead bodies. His parents would wake and coax people to the front door — never an argument or fight.

Some returned for future parties and others were never to be seen again. Peter didn’t have a sense back then that their lives were any different than anyone else’s. What he did think was strange, however, was his father’s detachment. These people were all around them, but his father seemed more an observer than a participant and his mother appeared to be, just playing along.

Sometimes Peter would ask about certain people, “Why is that man dressed like a woman?

“Do you take drugs too daddy?

His parents always had the same answer, “Keep quiet Peter, nobody we know takes drugs — mind your own business.”

Martin worked in advertising. He would often run ideas by Perdy, who was interested, but oddly aloof. His father would get frustrated and say,

“Thanks Perdy, you’re always so helpful.”

Martin, ever the sarcastic prick. Perdy rarely paid any attention to what he said. Peter, forced to remain in the shadows.

Perdy died of ovarian cancer when Peter was 12 years old. No family was allowed to visit during her illness. Martin stayed with his wife day and night; she remained stoic till the end. A small funeral followed her death; Warhol, Edie Sedgwick and a few others he recognized stopped by the house to pay their respects. None of them recognizing Peter.

Martin had been a reserved man who faded into the background, but Perdy’s death amplified his insecurities. He mostly remained home when he wasn’t at work; pouring over papers and watching hours and hours of television, probably for the advertising. Peter stayed in his room; talking to his father was not an option and Peter had no idea what Martin was thinking.

Martin, a complicated man for sure, but how did he acquire all those paintings? Was he gifted the artwork? Did he steal them? Did he have proof that he was the rightful owner? Peter had to know the truth. He hoped he would eventually learn how it all went down.

But how would he get to the bottom of it? He could no longer ask his mother, his father didn’t seem to have any real friends; the artists whose paintings he inherited were all dead, and as far as he knew there was no provenance documentation. Peter couldn’t go public until he knew all the facts and he could prove ownership of the paintings.

Peter cold called dozens of artists who may have known someone who knew the artists who painted the pieces Martin had stored. After months of getting nowhere, he finally talked to a friend of Keith Haring. Gerry Parma was Haring’s lover back in the 80s. Gerry told Peter that Keith often spoke of Martin.

“Oh yea, Keith told me more than once, that your father was a power broker in the artworld and that he hoped Martin would help him become famous. This call led him to four or five people who all said the same thing about his father. One friend of a friend agreed to meet Peter for a drink.

A few days later Peter met Will Penbrook at The Chelsea Hotel. Will introduced him to a staff member who’d been at The Chelsea for forty five years. Ron said he knew Martin and Perdy fairly well.

“I knew both your parents. Sometimes your mother would show up to pick-up packages. I’m pretty sure they were paintings, but I’m not sure.”

Helpful, however, no answers to speak of. A year after the death of his father, Peter received a letter from Chase Bank. They told Peter that his father had a safe deposit box at the bank and they were inquiring as to whether or not Peter would be renewing the rental. Peter informed the bank that he was the sole recipient of the Crowner estate, but that he did not have a key to the box. In fact, he’d never heard about this safe deposit box. The Chase manager said that as long as he could verify that he was the sole heir, he could acquire the contents of the box.

The next day Peter went into Chase to clear out the safe deposit box; he had no expectations. When he opened the box he found several things: his mother’s jewelry which he assumed his father had sold after her death, a letter addressed to Peter and proof of ownership of all 28 paintings in storage. Peter walked out of the bank in a stupor. His father´s secrecy lingered even after his death. Why had he not told Peter about any of this? Peter decided to open the letter later that evening, where he could be in a quieter place with a gin martini, his father’s favorite.

Dear Peter,

I know you’re wondering why I didn’t make you aware of this letter sooner. My attorney was not very happy with me for handling the matter this way, but as you already know, I lived life on my own terms.

First, I want to apologize for my failures as a father. Early on in our lives, without meaning to, your mother and I became involved in a dangerous, cut throat world of schemers and thieves. It was a rabbit hole we had no choice but to protect you from.

I looked around me and saw dealers exploiting the art market by bidding higher than the paintings value, creating the illusion of a frenzied market, and then stockpiling paintings until the value exploded. I couldn’t sit by without finding a way to legitimately capitalize on it. I had to be very discreet and professional in order to gain the trust of those insecure, doped-up artists. Most of them had little or no talent, but every once-in-a-great while I witnessed raw talent I knew I could exploit. With the help of your mother, who became a trusted broker, we promised fame in exchange for a painting or two. My sole responsibility was to create buzz around an artist who had potential. Our inclusive parties, dinner engagements, and artist friends, all helped to boost the fame of a select few.

Your mother was cunning and always gracious. We acquired the paintings along with signed and notarized letters gifting the paintings to you Peter. Every painting in storage has provenance and enormous value. Over time I sold off the paintings I knew would never increase in value. At the time of the writing of this letter, the value (before taxes of course) of your paintings is over a billion dollars. All legitimate, all done without bloodshed. And you were not involved in a single transaction.

We loved you very much Peter. You were our only authentic creation. We protected you from the moment of your birth until we could no longer do so. I know this treasure trove will cause you consternation, but hopefully, over time you will come to enjoy the collection. Do with it what you wish; museums, sales, hang them in your home, give them away — you decide. For your mother and I, the thrill was in the acquisition. Neither of us had any regrets. If you don’t already know this by now, the world is made up of passive bystanders and ferocious capitalists. We were the latter, and we raised you to be the former. I hope you come to appreciate our selfish intentions.

Please destroy this letter after you read it. There are some secrets better kept hidden forever.

Love,

Dad

For several years, Peter struggled with the legacy his parents left behind. They weren’t thieves or murderers, but what they did was deceptive. It was his hope to grow his fortune and use it for good. He knew his father was right about the failings of humankind; he also knew that his own legacy would one day be admired.

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A reminder that the story is a work of fiction.

A few more days in Oslo, Norway and then back to Faro for the rest of the summer. Krakow, Poland in the fall and Bristol, England in the winter — didn’t I tell you I wouldn’t be traveling as much this year. Faro in the fall will be glorious (I just have to get through August; hopefully with a cool breeze off of the Ria Formosa).

My first time using AI. I typed in Harris versus Trump for president and this is what I got. I think Trump looks more like Trump. Let the games begin!

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What or Who Inspires You?

What Lights a Spark Under Your Bum

inspire

verb

  1. 1.fill (someone) with the urge or ability to do or feel something, especially to do something creative. “His philosophy inspired a later generation of environmentalists.” Google def.

To fill with the urge to do or feel something. Not so easy is it? Do you inspire people? Does it matter to you? Did it once matter, but it doesn’t anymore? With age, cynicism often follows. You’ve been around the block a few times; therefore, you’re no longer easily impressed and/or moved.

I love that they use the word “environmentalists” when providing an example of inspiration in a sentence. Inspiration can sometimes be when you are moved to act; when something touches you in a way that causes you to take a stand. These days I am inspired by Ukrainians who are fighting for and standing up for their freedom. I also have a fair number of prolific artists in my life; their ability to create beautiful works of art inspires me. Photographers, painters, creative cooks, carpenters, weavers, sculptors, stained glass artists, woodworkers, writers — I have wonderfully creative individuals all around me.

How Do You Know When You’re Inspired?

Inspiration comes in many different shapes and sizes. Sometimes you wake up and suddenly feel you have to make something. Sometimes you pick up a pen and the inspiration runs through your fingers. Other times someone says something to you and it hits you like a brick thrown from two feet away. Whatever form it takes, receive it with gratitude.

Ask yourself, what has happened to me lately that looks, feels, sounds, or smells like inspiration? It is more than likely something inspiring. Words, deeds, nature, a friend, a celebrity, a photograph, a vision, a dream — any and all can be personally inspiring.

How Do You Act on Inspiration?

If you indeed recognize that you have been inspired, do not hesitate to act on it. Always best to start out by taking small steps with a goal in mind. If you think you’ll paint a masterpiece in a day, you’ll only end up feeling defeated. When I wake up inspired to write, I set out to write a paragraph or two; in most cases I’ll write a lot more, but when my expectations are reasonable, I’m usually feeling good about what I’ve accomplished.

DO NOT listen to naysayers who will tell you that you’ll never finish a novel or write a piece of music that will sell or build a model . . . people sometimes impose their own fears and limitations on others. Let’s build one another up instead of putting one another down.

“If people are doubting how far you can go, go so far that you can’t hear them anymore.” —Michele Ruiz

“Write it. Shoot it. Publish it. Crochet it. Sauté it. Whatever. MAKE.” —Joss Whedon

Do You Have to Be Talented in Order to Create?

This answer to this question fills me with hope and gratitude. The answer of course is no, you can be horribly untalented and create an untold number of things: you can write (I am the perfect example), you can paint, you can choreograph, you can compose music, you can build castles in the sand, you can create delicious dishes that might appear inedible, but delight the taste buds, you can spin a potter’s wheel . . . you get the picture. Whether talent is a natural gift or acquired doesn’t really matter at all; if you enjoy creating, do it for yourself without concern for what others may think.

A Story

I never felt that I had artistic talent — can’t paint, can’t draw, can’t act, can’t make music, but I sure can tell myself I can’t. I had a junior high school teacher that encouraged me to write. She gave me topics and said, “Just write a few words for me. It’s not a test, I won’t judge you, I just want to see what’s inside of you.” Her sincerity and interest made me want to please her. I think she saw a little boy struggling with life and it touched her for reasons I will never know. That year I won an essay contest and I’ve been writing ever since. Don’t wait for someone to pry it out of you; let your inner voices be heard.

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Future Travel

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

Current State-of Mind

I’ve come to realize how closely linked my happiness is to the amount of sleep I get and my health; also linked to sleep. When I was a younger man, I didn’t need as much sleep and I took my health for granted. The older I get, the more acutely aware I have become. A friend asked me if I had distractions. Funny thing is that I do have many distractions, but when you’re alone with yourself in the dark, all bets are off.

Thank you to those of you who wrote to me about my last blog. I always appreciate your words and feedback. I will write for as long as my fingers are able to tap the keys.

Please forgive any typographical or grammatical errors.

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Living Abroad — Reblog w/Updates

A bit about “my truth” as well.

I bought this authentic Gabbeh (Turkey) rug on the Facebook Marketplace this week. I made a little adventure out of retrieving it. It’s a funny thing about a rug, I think you have to live with it awhile to learn to appreciate it. Paco liked it right from the start. It’s the green that has me concerned; fortunately it’s a muted green. Dark grey/charcoal would have been better, but I don’t think those colors were used 60 years ago. My Portuguese tutor looked at it Tuesday and she said, “It’s really old.” I do realize that I’m giving this rug too much attention.

Repeat after me: I like my new/used rug, I like my new/used rug . . .

Reblog w/updates:

Counting My Blessings

I cannot imagine what it must have been like to live overseas 20 or more years ago.  Staying in touch with loved ones back home must have been very expensive and difficult. Facebook, Instagram, Whatsapp, and other forms of social media have made communicating and keeping up with friends fairly easy. Meeting friends through expat sites and Meetup groups is also a terrific and easy way to connect — sometimes too easy (update).

When you’ve been around the block a few times, you become more discerning. Picking and choosing who I spend my time with and how I spend my time has been of greater importance since moving abroad. It’s easy to regress back to my old ways; I have to remind myself that “my truth” is ultimately all that matters. As your truth should be all that matters to you. I needed a constant reminder, so a few years ago I stopped into a tattoo shop in Soho (Manhattan) and asked for this:

IMG_1749.jpg
Forearm tattoo — TRUTH (Chinese)

Last year I had a palm tree tattooed on my ankle. It was done to mark my new life in Portugal.

It’s been proven to slow down the aging process

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I fell in love with this piece last week. It was hanging on the wall at Carla’s Curve in Mexilhoeria Grande.  I know it’s for sale; I am determined to make it mine.

Update: when I went back to buy this piece I noticed it was damaged so I didn’t get it. However, I did buy two others that are in the first photo above (over the sofa). The artist lives in Lisbon. I never get tired of them.

The decision to relocate abroad was an opportunity to take stock of how I was living my life; the food I am eating, the amount of alcohol I am drinking, and how I am spending my time. The mind, body and spirit; holistic approach to living, seems like a better way to live in the present and think about the future. A philosophy that would be difficult to argue; especially in my own mind.

What role does social media play in my life?

I love social media. I enjoy keeping up with friends near and far, I enjoy the posted photos, I like how upbeat most of the postings are, and I even enjoy the occasional not-so-positive back and forth disagreements. That being said, I think some people take it a bit too far. I have learned rather than getting all pissy about it, I have several options:

  1. I can just quickly skim through postings and ignore the stuff that doesn’t speak to me.
  2. I can follow certain people on Facebook. This is different from unfriending, which I have also done on occasion. I have to admit that it is a very empowering exercise.
  3. I can stay away from social media for a few days and take a breather.
  4. I can counter with overwhelmingly positive posts and impart guilt on others.
  5. I can include my thoughts in my very subjective, highly personal blog.

Eating and Drinking Out

I found a wonderful coffee shop in the Faro Mercado Municipal. Most of her coffees come from Brazil; in fact I believe the owner is Brazilian. I’m enjoying learning a little bit more about her and her shop each time I stop by. There is nothing better than doing a little fish and fresh vegetable shopping and then spending time at her counter sipping a cortado. I have been waiting for my bean grinder to be released from Customs and I’m pleased to say I was able to have my coffee beans from home, ground here. More on this place to come (click for Mercado info).

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A cortado is a Spanish-origin general term for a beverage consisting of espresso mixed with a roughly equal amount of warm milk to reduce the acidity (Wikipedia)

One of the things I have always loved about Europe is that you can visit a small town and find fantastic food prepared by creative chefs. Carla’s Curve (A Curva) in Mexihoeria Grande is just that kind of place. Carla came out of the kitchen to describe what she had purchased that day and how she intended to prepare it. I did not take pictures of the food because sometimes I feel that it’s better to just be in the moment and fully enjoy everything that comes your way. Carla’s clams were prepared in olive oil with white wine, garlic and parsley and they were so fresh the simple ingredients did not over power the clams; incredible. Then I had beef ribs in a delicious barbecue sauce. I have not been very impressed with the beef since I arrived here, so I was anxious to try Carla’s ribs . . . they were tender and flavorful. People all around me were expressing their satisfaction and raving about Carla; she’s a warm, animated individual. It was a truly wonderful local dining experience and I cannot wait to return. The restaurant is literally located on a huge curve as you meander down the hill. The next time I will take pictures of the food.

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Carla, owner and chef at A Curva in Mexihoeria Grande in the Algarve.

New Stuff

There have been a couple of semi-lockdowns in the Algarve; mostly weekends. I have decided it is best to stick around Faro for a few months. I don’t want to expose myself to COVID-19 and I think it would be best to stay away from places that have a high rate of infection.

Faro has a new Italian restaurant and I’m becoming a regular. Forno Nero, excellent pizza and good pasta. Still need Thai, Korean, and BBQ. We have BBQ restaurants, but they’re not the same as our North Carolina or Texas BBQ in the U.S. I guess seeking out the food I love gives me a good reason to travel.

I’m focusing on learning Portuguese, making some home improvements, reading more, experimenting with some new dishes, and spending more time with Paco. He had a most unfortunate haircut in October, but his hair is fortunately growing back. How can you not love that face?

Paco, 2 years old, 4.5 kilos, & 100% love

No doubt I miss the States; I miss friends and family, I miss the smell of fall and the changing of the leaves, I miss the food, and I miss the familiarity of it all. I know all this would be true COVID-19 or not. It’s holiday time and it’s all very strange. I also know that what I have discovered in Portugal is very special and extremely beautiful in so many ways. I cannot take it for granted and I will not spend my days lamenting about what I had back home. Yes, Brooklyn will always be my home.

I’ve made some great friends since I arrived here. Also happy to report that a close friend from New York City purchased an apartment in Faro. She won’t be here full time, but she’ll be here a lot and that is making me very happy.

Finally, one of the owners of my croquet club in Tavira, Portugal has been in hospital for a few weeks now. He contracted the COVID-19 virus and became very ill pretty quickly. Unfortunately, he is not likely to survive. My thoughts are with his wife, family and friends. Anyone who still believes the virus is a hoax and that governments all over the world are overreacting, is a risk to the rest of us who would like to remain healthy. Please wear a mask when asked to do so, wash your hands frequently, and remain socially distant. Thank you.

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Growing Up With Broadway

Too shy to be on stage, but happy to watch and dream.

​​”I got a feeling there’s a miracle due gonna come true, coming to me. Could it be? Yes it could. Something’s coming. Something good, if I can wait.” – West Side Story

I was watching an interview with Dame Judi Dench, an actor for whom I have nothing but respect and admiration. She was asked about her favorite medium and she replied, “The stage.” When pressed for a reason, she explained that it meant a great deal to her that in order to see her perform on stage, people had to actually go out and purchase a ticket and then they have to actually go to the theatre. She wanted to perform her best for these people because they truly made an effort — makes a great deal of sense to me. Watch Dame Judi perform “Send in the Clowns,” and you’ll see and hear why she’s a national treasure.

60 principais fotografias e imagens de Judi Dench - Getty Images

 

The Impact Theatre Had on My Development

I grew up in Brooklyn, New York with Broadway as my playground. My father was an Italian immigrant with a blue collar job, but he loved the theatre. My mother, on the other hand, barely tolerated it. Her indifference made no difference to me.

There was a time when I would have chalked my infatuation with Broadway up to my sexuality — that was societal brainwashing. Obviously, people of all sexual orientations, ages, races, and cultures have an equal love of the theatre and for good reason.

My first Broadway show was The Wiz. It is an all black version of the Wizard of Oz. My father took me to see it for my ninth birthday. Stephanie Mills played the lead and she was brilliant — a performance I still consider to be one of the best I have ever seen. The show blew me away; over 50 years later and I still hear the songs in my head. I believe my life lessons mainly came from theatre. The visual spectacle helped me to escape the reality of my own unfortunate childhood.

The second play I went to see was A Chorus Line. There are a dozen themes in this play and each of them spoke to me. I may have been 12 years old when my father took me. I remember my father wiping tears from my eyes during the performance. He had huge, strong hands and I loved when he did that. “At the Ballet” hit me hard and I was never good at holding back my feelings. I wonder to this day if my dad realized I knew I was gay and how ashamed I had been; I hope he knew.

Dozens of shows seemed to have been written with me in mind; at least that what I thought. What it said to me was simply that there were more like me out there and for that I was and am, grateful. It was a lonely world, but at the theatre I felt safe and understood; I still do.

While other teens were saving their money for clothes, video or baseball games, I saved for the theatre. Back then TKTS was a real bargain. I recall seeing Broadway plays for less than $10. It’s unfortunate that young people today, for the most part, cannot afford Broadway theatre tickets. I know there are programs designed to expose young people to the theatre; however, like most things these days, theatre is big business and only the elite can afford it. Fortunately, there are regional theatres all over the States that are much more affordable than the Great White Way (Broadway).  —

In my early twenties I met a New York City couple who attended Broadway shows weekly. They were members of the Theatre Development Fund (TDF). As educators, Ann and Aaron were able to purchase a group of ten tickets at a large discount. Their circle of friends included dozens of people who would buy tickets from them on a first-come first-served basis. It took a lot of time and energy to organize the selling of these tickets and they did it without taking a dime for themselves. We had mutual friends who brought us together often and over the years we became very close. Aaron passed away at age 95 not too long ago. Ann has dementia, but we had a Skype call a few months ago and there were moments where she was her old self; funny and smart. My friendship with Ann and Aaron started at the theatre, however, it extended far beyond that for over 30 years. The common denominator was our love of the theatre; for a long time our lives revolved around shows and eating out. I’m fairly certain I would have only seen a fraction of the shows I saw had it not been for Ann and Aaron; two of the loveliest people I have ever known.

 

Times Square in the 70s and 80s

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The Theatre District (Times Square) in the 70s and 80s was a pretty scary place. In fact, when I was a teenager, a stranger pulled a knife on me only because I was walking in his path. There were sex shops everywhere and drugs sold on every corner. However, that’s where the Broadway theatres were and nothing could keep me away. I would get a ticket for a show and tell my mother I was going to a friend’s house for dinner. It was a secret world I was reluctant to share. I worked hard for spending money and I didn’t want my mother to know where my money was going; unfortunately, she often took money from me, charging me for room and board when I was a teen. I guess it taught me to be fiercely independent and for that I am grateful.

Times Square today is not what it once was, it has lost it’s grit and unique appeal. I’m afraid Disney has cleaned it up and made it shiney and safe for middle America. It’s probably for the better, but I can’t help being nostalgic. It’s become overcrowded and commercial and no longer appealing to me.

 

Meeting a Famous Composer

The following is a secret I’m not sure I have ever told. I haven’t shared this because I was closeted for many years and I was ashamed of the life I lived prior to coming out. Today, I am way past worrying about being judged.

When I was a young man I went out on several dates with a Catholic priest named Peter — I often wonder what became of Peter. I was a minor, but I knew exactly what I was doing at the time. There may have been an element of the forbidden fruit, but I’ll leave that for another blog. This priest led a double life in New York City and some of his friends were famous in the theatre world. Peter was young, attractive, and flirtatious. He knew how much I loved Broadway musicals and he surprised me by taking me to the home of a world-renowned, Greenwich Village composer. I remember walking down to this composer’s sub-street level apartment and shivering from head-to-toe. I knew at the time that this would be a memory I would hold onto for life. There is a part of me that would like to be more innocent and less jaded.

Peter knocked on the door and this larger than life man invited us in. I recall a large piano in the center of a small living room. There were Broadway show posters everywhere and most of them were his shows. I’ve had natural highs many times throughout my life, however this one, sent me soaring. I could not speak for fear of saying something stupid. I accepted a glass of wine and blushed over his shameless petting. Up to that evening I had never had a stranger show me that much attention, let alone someone famous. Peter knew it was harmless and he knew that he was the one who’d be taking me home.

 

And Then There Was This:

Stephen Sondheim

I had the great pleasure of meeting Stephen Sondheim when I was working in Student Affairs at Marymount Manhattan College in New York City. He is, hands down, my favorite composer. I cannot imagine what my life would have been like without his music and lyrics. This is not hyperbole, I mean every word of it, he is like no other songwriter alive or dead. The MMC theatre department brought him in for a Master Class. I normally do not approach celebrities because I know that no matter what I say, I’m going to sound stupid and behave badly. But in Sondheim’s case I made an exception because of the direct impact he had had on my life.

I asked one of our professor’s to introduce me and she said she’d be delighted. I shook his hand and I said, “Thank you for the many times your music has spoken to me and brought me joy.” Sondheim held my gaze for a moment and said, “It’s been my pleasure.” If there is a God, he resides inside the heart of that man.

Many songs featured in musicals were moving and played a role in my life; however, none as much as “Being Alive.” Raul Esparza played the role of Bobby and sang it in the 2007 Broadway production of Company. These are the lyrics:

Being Alive
Stephen Sondheim
Someone to hold me too close.
Someone to hurt me too deep.
Someone to sit in my chair,
And ruin my sleep,
And make me aware,
Of being alive.
Being alive.
Somebody need me too much.
Somebody know me too well.
Somebody pull me up short,
And put me through hell,
And give me support,
For being alive.
Make me alive.
Make me alive.
Make me confused.
Mock me with praise.
Let me be used.
Vary my days.
But alone,
Is alone,
Not alive.…

Coincidentally, a 90th birthday tribute to Stephen Sondheim aired a couple of days ago. What a gift to all of us; you can watch it on Youtube:  #Sondheim90Concert 

 

Theatre’s Impact on Me Today

Broadway and the West End, by way of musicals and dramatic productions, will a destination for me for as long as I can travel. It’s like a dangling carrot I can never imagine going away. These plays speak to me in ways no one can. It’s as if the writers are inside my head and my heart. Whether it is a time of happiness or sadness, I turn to lyrics and dialogue for hope and consolation. It seems unfair that there are many people in the world who will never experience Broadway the way I have. I have to assume that people in other parts of the world have their own Broadway; it is in that truth, I find pleasure.

www.astep.org — A not-for-profit organization designed to introduce and connect underserved children to the arts.

 

“So much of me Is made of what I learned from you. You’ll be with me Like a handprint on my heart.”  — Wicked

A Wicked Story

A number of years ago I was in a relationship with a Spaniard living in Zaragoza, Spain. Alejandro would travel to New York to see me as often as he could. Alex’s plan was to move to New York to be with me when he finished med school. We shared many things in common, however, one of the many things we joked about was his disdain for musical theatre. I would tell him that I was seeing a musical and he would just laugh and tell me to have fun. I have a good friend who invested in Wicked and she invited me to the opening on Broadway; certainly one of the most exciting nights of my life. We attended the after party at Tavern On The Green in Central Park and I got to sit alongside Sarah Jessica Parker, Carol Burnett, Michael Hall and many other big stars. I was euphoric, star struck, and in many ways it felt magical.

I called Alex to share the experience and he said, “Honey, if it’s that good, you have to take me.”

A couple of months later, Alex told me he’d be coming to New York for his birthday and to spend some time with me. I was able to get center orchestra seats for Wicked on his birthday. I made a reservation at a restaurant I knew he would enjoy and kept it from me until the day of the show.

When I told him over dinner, Alex was excited because he’d heard a lot about the show and he knew how much I had enjoyed it. I was fully conscious of his feelings about musicals, but in my heart-of-hearts, I knew this musical would bring him over to my side. Throughout the performance I would glance over and see Alex smiling from ear-to-ear and every so often he’d squeeze my hand or bump knee. His tears and laughter throughout made it even more special for me. During a long standing ovation, Alex whispered in my ear that this was the best birthday of his life. He grabbed my head, turned it with both hands and planted a big kiss on my lips. I was out of my mind elated.

As we continued to stand and applaud, a woman sitting behind me with her ten year old daughter, tapped me on the shoulder and screamed above the applause, “My daughter did not have to see that.”

Of course I knew she was referring to the kiss. Understandably curious, Alex asked me what she’d said. I told him and that’s when I saw his Latin temper unleashed. He held nothing back; letting this woman know what he thought of her and her biased, toxic rage over a kiss. I said nothing. I watched and listened to this man defend our love to this vile stranger. I knew that I loved Alex, but that moment, that night, that unbridled valour, sealed the deal forever.

 

Times Square Today
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Coloring Up My World

Give it a try, it might help you feel better.

 

 

The single most inspiring thing I have done over the past few years (not counting moving overseas which was a different kind of life change), is to add color to my life. Blues, reds, yellows, and lots of contrasts. For the longest time I was afraid of color. That fear still exists deep inside of me.

“Color plays a vitally important role in the world in which we live. Color can sway thinking, change actions, and cause reactions. It can irritate or soothe your eyes, raise your blood pressure or suppress your appetite. When used in the right ways, color can even save on energy consumption.”

 

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It took me months to decide on the color of this piece. Once I made the decision, it tooks months to make. The price you pay to have the color you can live with. It’s a greenish yellow (hard to tell) and it brings out the mustard in the rug and a yellow in the painting that hangs above it. I think it also compliments the burnt orange rug.

Color Matters — an article to review

Now why would a grown man like me be afraid of color?

Imagine living a lie for over 20 years; my sexuality being the lie. When you’re in a situation such as this, where you are hiding your true identity, the last thing you want to do is draw attention to yourself. I shouldn’t really generalize this way; in fact, some closeted gay people do a great deal to draw attention to themselves. Best that I switch to first person:  the last thing I wanted to do was draw attention to myself — I lived life through muted colors for a long time. On certain days and sometimes for extended periods, I revert back to this practice.

Here I am, 61 years old and I’m finally comfortable enough in my own skin to add color to my life and not feel embarrassment. True enough that my last apartment, in Maine, was decorated with burgundy and lime green, but they too were muted. I would often walk into my kitchen and think, what did I do? Is this too much? Is it feminine? What will people think?

Then I made a bold move and bought a contemporary condo in Portugal.  I am finally at a place in my life where what others think hardly matters. I can’t say it doesn’t matter at all, because that would be a lie. It just doesn’t matter as much. What does matter is what makes me comfortable; right now, color feels good.

I do admit that I’ve had to reign it in. I saw the latest Almodovar film and came close to painting my kitchen cabinets red — that would not have been good. Almodovar uses color effectively in all of his films; it’s one of his distinct trademarks and I have always envied him for it.

I want to have a big, bold, splash of red somewhere in my home. I decided on the terrace wall and then I pulled back on that idea; now I’m reconsidering it. I figure if I sit with it for a bit, a more concrete decision will come. Some would say, don’t worry, if you don’t like it you can paint over it. That seems like a big hassle to me, I’d rather get it right the first time. And now I have meshing up so that Paco doesn’t go through the slats; therefore, that would have to come down first. This is what is called procrastination; a Coronavirus byproduct. Stay tuned for a firmer decision sometime soon.

 

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The Current Situation

Like so many others I constantly shake my head wondering if this is really happening. When you have never lived through a war (Vietnam but I was a child), it’s difficult to wrap your head around so much death and despair. I’m coping the best way I know how; grateful that I have a pet to keep me company, happy to be in a beautiful place, and hopeful that my friends and family remain healthy.