This past weekend I had the pleasure of visiting the island of Catalina with a buddy of mine. His father has a great condo there and a decent sized boat. This excursion reminded me of my many trips from Boston to P’town; a beautiful sunny day going somewhere to spend time on the water in a beautiful and charming setting with nothing to do.

Hamilton Cove

We arrived in just enough time to hop on a golf cart, which I later learned is the primary source of transportation in Catalina. Lunch was found at a place called Lua Larry’s that sits only steps from the port. I imagine it has all types wandering about getting lit and sunburned. I had two of my most guilty pleasures, cheese sticks and beer, while meeting the parents and little sister.

The throng of tourists cruising mindlessly through the shell shops, candy stores and clothing spots was soon left behind when we made our way to the condo on the side of a hill. It sits at the top of one of two really nice, serious developments on the island. Catalina is mostly a nature preserve and no further growth is permitted there. I was so glad to hear that a place still existed that was admired so much for its beauty that not even money could pave it over. The view from the condo was reminiscent of something one might see in “Traveler” covering Greece or Spain; huge squares of Spanish tile atop grand white structures that exude a timeless, confident beauty.

Our first activity was snorkeling. This was my first time, but it was a secret I kept from the marine family. The idea of putting my mouth below water and drawing air through a tube was a bit of a mind fuck and I had a hard time adjusting. I got it, but by then I was nervously breathing very hard and trying almost as hard to settle my breath and calm down enough to enjoy the aquatic scenery. All I could do was hear my heart pounding and suddenly the air flow stopped and I panicked. It reminded me of the several times I choked on water as a boy while swimming and terrified, tried very hard to catch my breath. One time left me so scared that for months I had severe difficulty swallowing food and water. I swam back to shore where I confessed my secret and told them of the faulty equipment. After a cursory inspection his father determined that it was because I had dipped my head down too far, which engaged a safety feature to keep water from entering the tube and drowning me; the equipment was not faulty, it was me.

Lobster Boat

After dinner let up, the bets were placed on how long the two of us were going to last in the boat. The last time I slept on a boat was about 20 years ago and this would be his first time ever. We boarded the small dinghy to take us from the dock to the boat, it was only then he confessed to me that this was his first time operating such a machine. It was a great weekend for secrets and firsts. Without warning I had visions of “Open Water” going through my head. Thankfully it was not a vision and we arrived dry as a bone and experienced the best sleep of our lives.

The next day turned out to be the highlight. We took the boat to find a secluded beach for lunch and during our search we found ourselves surrounded by a pod of dolphins 200 strong. They played with us for a while jumping alongside the boat and chattering excitedly. It was SO unbelievable to watch them glide effortlessly through the water as if they hadn’t a care in the world. At that moment I just wanted to jump in the water and play with them, but I was too busy operating the camera. Besides, they were clearly going places and could not spare the time. Still it was so great for me that they joined us for a bit to wish us well. Dolphins really do have it all!

A friend of mine, Dave, recently treated me to dinner at an oyster house called Pacifica Del Mar. El Paseo is the Rodeo Drive of Palm Springs, but at this time of year the sounds and sights of credit card swipes and 3 Series are replaced with the dull click of traffic lights changing.

With this in mind the restaurant was surprisingly busy. We walked upstairs where the sun was beginning to set behind the mountains at bar level so perfectly that the glasses of wine and colored martinis sparkled on the bar like pieces of beach glass. I started with a glass of Pinot from Carneros while I studied and weighed the many options. The menu was packed with interesting and creative items such as Fanny Bay oysters Rockafeller and seared Sea Bass with a Miso Orange Marmalade. When Dave asked me if I liked oysters I was shocked to realize that I had never had any.

As the comment resonated I thought how absurd it was since I have spent every summer since I left home on the shores of Cape Cod. I could not believe it and asked him to order a dozen of his favorite; he chose Fanny Bays hold the Rockefeller which were baked with spinach (hence, not true Rockefeller anyway). I wanted to try them with no bells or whistles since it was my first time. So the first course was on, a dozen oysters and a seared salmon ceviche, which seemed rather appealing.

While we waited for the first tastes of Pacifica to arrive I scanned the room in my customary inspection of the clientèle. Everybody and when I say everybody, I mean with an exception of maybe 20 people out of more than 300, had on a color that matched the banquettes or a pattern resembling that of the carpet. There is a uniform of sorts that you see with the 50 to 80 something crowd of Palm Springs. When the first course arrived and the dishes were placed in front of us I gave this crowd a name, The Desert WASPS; I already started to design the logo in my head.

Something that I did pick up from living among the fisherman and having served quite a few oysters myself is that the experience is mostly the result of mixing together in one bite the shellfish and the mignonette, a flavorful little array of accoutrement like capers and fresh horseradish that accompany the gelatinous alleged aphrodisiac. I dressed my oyster and slid it into my mouth, gave it two light chews to mingle the flavors and swallowed it. I liked it, a lot.

The ceviche was a bit disappointing, not in quality but execution. Ceviche should be a light and tantalizing mixture of tomato, onion, avocado and cilantro presented cleanly and diced just at the right size where a spoon might be needed. Although this dish seemed to contain those ingredients they were very coarse making it more difficult to manage. Lastly, the salmon was cooked to about a medium rare. Hello? Ceviche is not seared! The point is the citric acid “cooks” the fish by denaturing the proteins. It would have been more accurately described as “Country Style Seared Salmon Ceviche” - but that’s just me.

For the big choice of dinner I vacillated between the Whitefish with parsnip puree and julienne veggies or the Sea Bass with the miso and orange marmalade. Dave was a bit bummed that there was no Surf and Turf. When our server began to clear the plates from course one he asked her why was there no Surf and Turf. He was hanging on the verge of sobbing. She happily put Dave back in happy land when she said that they did offer it in its traditional presentation of Fillet and Lobster Tail with drawn butter and mashed potatoes. I then thought to myself as I watched Dave’s eyes glimmer that the last time I had lobster was when I was at about 12; I ordered the Surf and Turf just for that reason. I was happy. I did although come to the conclusion that I find lobster to be quite boring and probably will not order it again in that way.

One detail I found to be quite amusing about our evening happened when Dave was on the phone making our reservation. The full extent on the humor was not fully experienced until I sat down.

Dave’s parents know the proprietor so when he called he said, “……and I am a friend of Dick’s”. I immediately thought of all those times I would take a reservation and the party on the other end would include at the end of our conversation “….and I know ____.” “Sure ya do pal, everybody does!” is the immediate response in my head and on two occasions seemed to vocalize itself.

When we arrived at the top of the stairs the man at the front asked our name and then turned to his Micros screen to look us up. He turned around almost immediately and said to us “Who’s Dave? I’m Dick’s partner Mitch.”

The way he said it, based on my years in the restaurant biz, led me to believe that this might not have been received well. Dave then explained that it was not him but his parents that had the friendship with his partner. Mitch shook his hand and said condescendingly “Here. Right here you see?….pointing at the screen, VIP” - not the best sign.

We were led to the main dining room to a two top. I took the inside seat and sat down on what seemed to be a large crack that aligned perfectly with my own. We had been seated where two banquettes merged together creating a rather uncomfortable gap of space. I began to move the table to the right when I bumped into something. It was a party of two sitting next to us; their outfits camouflaged so well that I was not able to distinguish them from the floor or upholstery. I only had to hang my crack above the crack for about 20 minutes until the party to the left departed and gave me the chance to realign my gluteus maximus. It’s good to be a VIP!

Last weekend I was back in Boston for my friend Saya’s birthday. We spent Saturday with her folks in Peterborough, NH. I love her family and I love where they live. The backdrop is green, lush and secluded with lots of lakes. This is where Stoneybrook Yogurt was founded, born out of one man’s desire to create something beneficial for the consumer and kind to the animals. We all joined forces to create a Mexican inspired feast; tacos with lime chicken, rice, beans, roasted veggies and an impromptu cilantro sauce that Saya whipped up.

Getting Goofy!

Our friend, JD, on his first trip to meet the family.

The next morning was the highlight of the trip, Montreal. We dropped JD at the train station and headed north. I love, love Montreal. I’ve always thought of it as a little Europe in my backyard, the city smells of the continent. It is in the attitudes, looks and general disposition of the people who call this lovely metropolis home. Saya knows her way around the city since she lived there for many years. It was such a nice way to see something new; through the eyes of somebody who knows it and loves it just as much as you.

Hearing the native language of French spoken was also a treat. Such a beautiful language and Saya speaks it with finesse and confidence. As we walked around I would ask how to say something in French, I would study it in my head before proudly exclaiming my new word. It usually would become “the word” until something else caught my eye.

Saya reached a break in a grueling week of sewing, cutting and more sewing. She, like me is a little arty and crafty. She makes extraordinary bags of all sizes that she sells to the boutiques around town. Fun fabrics, some from Senegal, they are original, whimsical yet remain functional and sturdy. You can see some of here work here.

Needless to say she was looking forward to some no obligation existing. I was all too happy to oblige. We took naps, ate, saw her friends from the old days and just hung out with no where to be and no where to go. The weather was not the greatest; it was gray and chilly with a very shy sun. It was that way all weekend until the morning we left; it was bright and clear all the way back home to Beantown.

It’s good to be home after a fun-filled weekend far away. I will be here for 12 days before I have to go to Vancouver on the 17th for a dance gig. Looking at the calendar I realize that I have not been home for more than 7 days in about a month or so. No complaints from me. That is definitely one of the perks of my job!

It was tax day eve and I was dancing again with Chi Chi spinning at Bolt in Minnesota. It was cute, it was Midwest and it happens to be her hometown. That colorful drag queen was voted #36 in the 50 Most Powerful Gay People in America in the latest issue of Out Magazine. You might not associate a personality such as Chi Chi’s with a place like Minnesota, but you should.

The night we arrived we had dinner with one of her best friends and his boyfriend. I have to say that it was very special and highly entertaining to listen to conversations and hear stories about this diva’s roots. I love hanging out with my dear friends’ friends, the people that have been there so long that their personalities overlap and they echo one another with the same gestures and little quirks. It’s a real honor to be able to see someone you care about in the personal light found in their inner circle.

The dinner was nice. I had walleye. It is a native fish found in the Great Lakes. When I was a kid my parents had a summer place on Catawba Island on Lake Erie. It was a large trailer complete with a kick ass boat that was docked down the dirt road at the end of the marina. We used to take the boat out to fish and sometimes we would spend the night on the water. My father would fish from this boat all day and bring home the catch, clean it and fry it in a matter of thirty minutes. I remember it like it was yesterday: A loaf of fresh Italian bread, some onion, tomato and basil salad dressed in olive oil and balsamic, a dozen ears of corn purchased from the stand down the road. That was dinner on those summer nights of my childhood and well into my early teens before my dad died and the fishing trips sadly come to an end. It’s funny how your opinion of a period of your life changes over time.

Saturday morning we all woke early for breakfast before visiting a clothing shop called Ragstocks in downtown Minneapolis. Chi Chi and her pals were so excited for me to go because “I would just die”. Well, I did not die, but I very nearly had to bust out the Kleenex! Ragstocks is an upscale thrift shop, which is just my thing. And with no sales tax on clothes in MN I went just a little crazy. I found some great scores, but my real finds were the hot, velour pullovers. These were the old school kind. You would see them paired with matching pants creating the leisure suit of the 70’s. This was the uniform of relaxation and card games that I would see my dad wearing along with all of his Italian steel worker paisans growing up. The pullovers reminded me of a special time in my life, not to mention that velour feels really good.

The club was cute, they served Blue Moon and a local brew called Summit that tasted much like a Bass Ale; I was very happy. The only thing that could have been different was the time I had to be there, 8:30; the earliest call time I’ve ever had for a dance gig. It’s kind of embarrassing when the entertainment shows up ahead of most of the patrons, doncha think? So I sat around playing with my camera - for quite a while.

There was a “Health Fair” event at the bar that night. The officials lined the main walkway of the bar with their booths and posters depicting safe sex practices and the consequences one might encounter if those practices are not taken seriously. They also offered HIV testing, on site with results in 10 minutes. The accuracy of this test concerned me. My last test, which was a 20 min swab, was the most accurate on the market as explained to me by the technician at the hospital in West Hollywood. That aside, what a buzz kill! Yeah! Let’s go to get an HIV test, grab a pint of Summit and then head downstairs to get our results. What if somebody turned up positive? I had to wonder if there was a trained professional on hand for counseling in such a case. You go out for a brew and some dancing I think the last thing you expect is life altering news! The health people packed up their portable information city and left at 10:30.

I did my dance, ripped my jeans on a creative, impromptu dip and was off the box by 1 AM craving the chicken fingers that were waiting for me back at the hotel room. As gigs go, this was standard issue, except for the rip. By the way, I’m a light packer - that was my only pair of jeans so luckily I had a pair of cherry print boxers to wear to the airport.