easter parade

Originally posted April, 2007. For Lee- Rest In Peace, Beauty.

Michael won a stuffed dog playing Wack-A-Mole. I named it La Wanda after the black hooker he picked up in Pebble Beach last August. I have pictures of her smiling on his lap in the back seat of the Duesenberg. We were certainly the talk of the Concours that day.

Easter brunch with the Clan turned out well. Betty wanted to get all of us together for the first time since John's passing. We scattered to the winds at Christmas- Ken was in Paris with his Mom and daughter, Lee and Jordan went to Rome, Betty was in Montecito, everyone was everywhere but here so as not to have to face the empty house. But Easter, bringing with it the promise of spring and rebirth, seemed perfect to reassemble. We all knew each other because of John, but today was not for him. It was for us.

We arrived at the restaurant on Ocean Avenue in two immaculately polished Rolls-Royces and a strategically synchronized Minivan. Heads turned. Our little party of twelve, equally balanced between ladies and gentlemen and ranging in age from fifteen to eighty-four streamed inside and were directed to a lovely table on the patio with an ocean view. The brunch was enormous. There were tables and tables of food. The seafood was in hiding, but Lee and I managed to find it (and everything else). We made two trips for mussels. They served bottomless glasses of Champagne. We lingered over brunch and talked about a hundred different topics. Anita and I waited in the dessert line behind three paper thin supermodels attempting to resolve their food angst and "just have a little bite" of the Creme Brulee and pecan tarts. We asked for one of everything.

In the near distance we could see Pacific Park, which is an amusement park on the Santa Monica pier. Anita commented that she had never been there, and we soon realized that none of us had set foot on the pier in simply ages. So we decided to take a walk.

Our resident mother hen, Bruce, asked Lee (our senior most member) if she wanted to relax on a park bench with him. "Nothing doing", she replied. "I'm gonna ride the Ferris Wheel". And she did ride the Ferris Wheel, dressed to the nines, accompanied by seven of us in two gondolas. We took goofy pictures of each other while aloft. Ken bought a giant handful of ride tokens, so in recombinant pairs we rode the Roller Coaster and the Monster, and played midway games. We were conspicuously overdressed and laughed like teenagers. It was a great spontaneous time. John would not have been amused. Perhaps that was part of the fun.

god-damned fudge

I had company over Thanksgiving. Fellow blogger Texaco was in town to escape the Idaho winter and check out the sights of sunny Palm Springs. Cabazon dinosaurs, Alexander homes, walking tours of historic downtown commercial spots, all of the mid century madness that one little town can offer.

On the last morning, he admitted that he had never tried a date shake. A quick look at Chowhound, and off we trotted to the Palm Springs Fudge and Chocolate Shop on Palm Canyon, just across from the Historical Society. There we indulged our craving for Date Shakes (which are awesomely delicious but headache-inducingly sweet) and were also offered a sample of home made fudge, which is their other specialty in some 40-odd varieties.

I was reminded of my college days in Flint. It was the late 1970's and the City of Flint had bet the bank on a downtown redevelopment including a brand new Hyatt Regency Hotel, major expansion of the downtown U of M campus, Windmill Place Food Court, and last but not least a Roush Development called Water Street Pavilion.

Roush was well known by then for their Festival Marketplaces- a series of downtown retail spaces which opened to fanfare, but as we later learned, seldom succeeded financially. We held out high hopes for Flint's version when it opened.

Because of its close proximity to the University, I was a frequent visitor. A giant structure with walls of glass, the focal point upon entering was a Fudge Shop where young employees made fresh fudge daily in front of a glass wall. And more than that, they sang. Out loud. I recall their youthful enthusiasm on my first visit. "Homemade Fudge! We're making Homemade Fudge" they gleefully sang out.

In the same manner that the Festival Marketplace failed to catch on, the fudgemaking seemed to become less joyful and more like drudgery as the season wore on. "More Fudge", they glumly sang by winter to a much slower beat. "We're making more fudge".

By spring they were venting their anger. "The God-Damned Fudge" became the song of their labors. "We're making the God-Damned Fudge". It had the tone and timbre of a funeral dirge, and most certainly did not inspire one to try their wares.

On my next visit, there was no singing, only glum little faces rolling fudge on the marble tables in total silence. The Fudge Shop closed shortly thereafter, and the entire marketplace dwindled to bankruptcy, and was sold off to the University of Michigan in 1991.

And as hard as I try to recollect, I don't think I've had any god-damned fudge since.

lily girl

Originally published Dec 2, 2007. For Mom, on what would have been her seventy-sixth birthday. Sadly missed and much beloved.

The slender volume of dark maroon leatherette was on the stand next to her bed. The cover said "Senior Memories 1952" in silver debossed lettering. Inside were many casual photographs of her- playing sports, clowning with her best friend , skating in an exhibition.

Her senior portrait showed off a modest smile. She wore her brunette hair not unlike Audrey Hepburn's. A single strand of pearls accented her sweater. Her intense blue eyes stared out into a world full of promise. Each graduate's picture bore a caption, hers was "A lily girl, not meant for this world's pain". It would prove more prophetic than anyone could have imagined at the time.

She endured more than her share of this world's pain. Her years of skating as a teenager, compounded by pregnancies, caused severe back problems in her young adulthood and a premature onset of arthritis. Medical science responded in imperfect ways, including the introduction of pain medications whose presence caused dependency. Her mobility diminished with each passing year but her spirit did not.

There were emotional pains as well. Two miscarriages, including one which would have provided a badly wanted daughter. A failed marriage later in life, the loss of her own mother to whom she was extremely close. And yet her will to live was undeterred.

We spoke briefly on Friday. I had gotten in too late on Thanksgiving to call from California. When I reached her, she seemed sleepy. I told her to rest, and that I would call her later. "I love you, Mom", I said as I hung up the phone.

We found her on her sofa with her hands peacefully clasped, as if she had laid down for a nap and simply did not awaken. Five days short of her seventy fourth birthday, her pain finally ceased.

I've returned to Michigan in the winter for the first time in fifteen years. I always come in the summertime. She's commented before how I've been back for Dad's birthday but not hers. The irony was not lost on me as I boarded the plane on December first- she finally got me to come back on her birthday.

She is laid out in pink, because she loved pink. She was a girly kind of girl at heart. She'll be wearing her Macewen sash, honoring her Scottish heritage. My brother has arranged for a piper to play for her. Following services on Monday, she will be laid to rest alongside her mother. Both my darling girls will be together.

Rest well, lily girl. There will never be another like you.

gayberry

I've always loved Palm Springs, and even more so since moving here, but was in a dilemma of how to refer to it. I rename almost everything in my world. My best friend is now Trixie, my car is Kitty (the old Mercedes was Otto- how cute is that) and my hunky trainer I call Binky. And he likes it. Years ago friends relocated to a place up in the grapevine. There were two tiny towns in shopping distance which I nicknamed Hooterville and Pixley. We still use those.

Back in the early 90's ago my ex, John, insisted that Palm Springs was the model for Bedrock. Both Hanna and Barbera had homes here, and if you look at the backgrounds in the Flintstones, Bedrock is a low rise community with Palm trees and mountains in the background. I'm pretty certain he is right on with his theory but it's nonetheless a terrible nickname for anything other than a lizard motel.

I've been referring to it as the Gay Small Town. The population within the city limits is statistically 53% gay or lesbian, but the town retains its very small town charm. My favorite part of the pride parade was the High School Marching Band.

I was discussing it with my new stylist last week (in the fabulous salon next to the fabulous bookstore which is next to the fabulous coffee house) and he agreed. "I call it Gayberry" he nonchalantly remarked.

Gayberry. He nailed it. I'm living in Gayberry. Okay, I'm off to the Snappy Lunch.

chorus boy

I moved to Milwaukee in the summer of 1987. It was my transition to self acceptance. The small town boy struggled with coming to terms with himself in the conservative little Michigan enclave of his youth, and the move allowed him to grow into his skin. At that point in time, Milwaukee was a sparkling city on the lakefront with a very vibrant gay community.



Within a few weeks I discovered the M and M Club in the Historic Third Ward. It was an old Cream City Brick building circa 1904 with a generous vista of windows, the first gay bar I had ever been to that wasn't huddled in darkness (and as I later learned, it was the first gay bar in the city with windows). The openness of the pub became a metaphor for the open and honest life I would have there.

They had live music on the weekends. My favorite was a lesbian couple, Tommie and Nanette from Chicago. Tommie was a pianist and Nanette was the chanteuse. They sang showtunes on Sunday nights. I would sit at a small table and have the other chair removed. I was a sassy little thing, wasn't I?

One very snowy Sunday night in December I was there listening to Nanette (by now per usual) and went to the bar to get a drink. There I struck up a conversation with a whole group of people. They turned out to be members of the newly formed Cream City Chorus, a group in its infancy which just very recently performed its first concert. I met Mark and Ebbie and Jay and Patty and Scoots and Rona and Barb, among others. We hung out and had an much better time than I normally had alone.

I soon went for my voice audition. The musical director said I was a Bass with Baritone tendencies. I suggested he put me in the Baritone section, because I still remember what happened the last time I showed tendencies.

From that point, I felt like I has a home there in Milwaukee. I had peeps to hang out with. We rehearsed, raised funds, rehearsed more, hung out at the M and M, and sang in our first spring concert, Dinner With Gershwin. I grew musically, and as a person. I went from being the only homo (I thought) in the small town to having a circle of gay friends, both men and women.

I sang with them for two seasons before my travel schedule made it too hard to make rehearsals. After that, I spent another year All-Lesbian Stage Crew with Cindy and Deb. It was an awesome time in my young adulthood.

My mind is full of vivid recollections of winter nights at the M and M club, surrounded by the chorus, listening to Tommie and Nanette sing Marshmallow World as the snow flakes crash into the big picture windows.

I'll stay for one more set.

sunday march: palm springs pride

For this week's Sunday series, things were a bit different. This time I stood still and the images came to me. This weekend was Pride weekend,and in Palm Springs that makes for an interesting time. The population inside the city limits is 53% gay, which means for the first time ever I am in the majority. Cool.

The town has a unique flavor. It's Mayberry, but it's Mayberry with a Maribou. It's very small town and charming, and big and political at the same time. My favorites? The Palm Springs High School Marching Band (how totally adorable is that?), Cleve Jones as Honorary Grand Marshall (sorry, photo was blurry), a local dignitary in a four-hundred-thousand dollar Rolls Royce Phantom convertible, California Courage Campaign, the tireless Judy Shepard, and of course perpetual favorites Dykes on Bikes (Bykes?) and the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence. An awesome weekend in the Gay Small Town, so have a look- it's Palm Springs Pride:

still plays with cars

I started World O' Jeff nearly three years ago now to share my life- the trials, tribulations and jaded observations of a gay man over 40 in the shining metropolis of Los Angeles. That was my mission statement, and we've done a lot of that. Lots of memories, stories of friends now departed, then I lost Mom, and her stories began coming forth. Throw in my love of architecture and the mid century and you have a pretty good overview. Then Prop 8 happened and we got a little political. Not intending that to be permanent, there are far better political writers than myself, but rather as my way to contribute to the cause.

There's a side of myself that I've only touched peripherally- most of my life I've been an absolutely possessed gearhead. I could identify any car on the road by the age of five. I've spent decades with the cars, and made many great friends over the years.

Last few years I really haven't had time for it. My work schedule, the move to the west side, it just became very second tier for me. And then the move happened. Here in the desert, I play with cars. Enough that I started a second blog for my gearhead side. If you are so inclined, check out the Palm Springs Automobilist.

We'll continue in our usual path here on World O' Jeff, and I have some fabulous Sunday Drives coming up. But for those of you with a little bit of Motor Oil in your veins, drop in and see me at the Palm Springs Automobilist.

That's all for now. Carry on.