As a young gay in Texas, my first brush with Fire Island was the 1989 Oscar-nominated movie Longtime Companion about the early days of the AIDS epidemic.  The movie’s powerful last scene of three surviving friends walking on a deserted Fire Island beach was (and still is) breathtaking.  At the time, I assumed the idyllic homo holiday community was a Hollywood story telling invention.

That changed the sophomore summer of my New York sitcom life when I found myself dating a doctor with a house in The Pines.  During the drive in his Saab convertible with his Corgie sitting in my lap, I fretted that I had been cast as some boy toy and was expected to put out in exchange for my weekend accommodations.  I wasn’t necessarily averse to that, just wanted to be clear on the expectations.

Doc put my mind at ease when he showed me to my own room, and then gave me a tour up and down the boardwalk dotted with charming red wagons (no cars allowed).  He provided a brief tutorial over the rules of engagement on the island—cocktails and dancing at something called Low Tea ended promptly at 7pm with a mass migration to High Tea and depending on day of the week ending hours later at Middle Tea.  If you still hadn’t successfully hooked up after all that, a trip through the wooded Meat Rack was in order.

Although those rules have changed much over time, I have been lucky enough to get to know Fire Island much better and understand the not-so-subtle differences between the two gay communities of The Pines and Cherry Grove.  My doctor friend was the perfect specimen of life in The Pines—fantastically decorated house, impossibly toned abs, finely tuned regimen.  In the Grove, things are more shabby chic, anything goes and devil may care.  Everything’s just a little looser—in so many ways, including bathing suit tops and bottoms that seem to loose themselves on the beach.  Turns out, I’m pretty much a Grove Boy who enjoys an occasional Meat Rack meander to drink in some Low Tea.

Neighbors on the left, with party hosts Chris and Tom on the right

Lucky for me, dear friends Chris and Tom purchased a home in the Grove nearly seven-years ago and began welcoming their city friends with open arms.  Over the years, they’ve renovated the original pillbox house into a charming cottage perfect for Coastal Living.  The couple met at the very first Condé Nast Traveler Hot List party, and I suppose as a sign of appreciation they let me steal out to the house and pound out pages on Alphabet City.

So this weekend was a homecoming of sorts for the book when they hosted the Fire Island stop on the book tour.  Frankly, I was a little nervous given my recent experience with self-professed non-reading gays at a NYC event.  But it turns out summering folk appreciate when the perfect beach read comes to them.  The guests listened to my reading with rapt attention and an audible gasp was heard during the excerpt about meeting Tyra Banks.  Two-dozen sales later and it was the most successful home book party yet.

JP with Chris

The next morning, Chef and I continued our Cherry Grove tradition of walking around the “town” taking in the new seasonal stores—last year’s ice cream shop, this year’s liquor store—as well as the perennial standbys—Floyd’s muffins, the everything-is-$5-grocery store.  We play the game “Where Would You Work” followed by “What’s Missing?”  Usually we debate the merits of starting a fine dining establishment.  But this year, given the voracious reading appetite of Chris and Tom’s friends, we’re thinking maybe a summer Book Nook.  That means I need to get cranking on 40, Love to have it in stock for Summer 2011.

Even Edie enjoys Alphabet City

Frida, on the other hand...

Chef with his parents

Barely two minutes after my arrival at Chef’s home in Mexico City and already I had lost a bet thanks to his mother.  In the taxi on the way from the airport, Chef and I laid down our wagers.

“I’m thinking she might wait to ask until lunch,” I said.

“Nope, sooner,” Chef replied confidently.

A half hour later, on a sweet street just steps away from Chapultepec Park, my Mexican mother-in-law Susannah embraced me warmly, then eyed me seriously.

“Ay, mi hijo, how come you aren’t staying longer?  5 days isn’t enough for a proper visit!  Now come inside and eat.”

Chef laughed as I handed him 200 pesos.

We’ve come a long way, Susannah and I.  Our first meeting nearly eight years ago filled me with terror.  Chef came out to his Catholic parents when we fell in love and decided to live together.  At first, his mother refused to meet me, but over time as I got to know other members of the family, her defensive barriers wore down.  Chef’s parents make an annual visit to New York City and stay with their son.  Now that we were living together, that meant me, too.

My nerves were fried during the weeks leading up to the encounter.  And my Condé Nast Traveler boss Publisher wasn’t making it any easier.  We were on week-long cross-country trip, traveling back from Los Angeles, when she asked about my apparent agitation.  I gave her the background, and told her that by the time we arrived in New York City, my in-laws would be asleep in my apartment and the first time I would meet them would be in the morning.

“Oh that’s a big deal.  Big, big deal.  What’s your plan?” Publisher asked.

“What do you mean plan?” I replied sheepishly.

“It’s the first time you’re meeting them.  You have to have your game face on.  You don’t want to meet them in your robe and bed head!  Gotta beat them to the punch.  Get up, get ready, get the upper hand.”  She advised ominously.

There was a reason this woman was one of the most successful executives in magazines.  So far, she hadn’t steered me wrong.  Seemed like this was shaping up to be a showdown at the Alphabet City corral.

All was quiet on the East Village front when I arrived home at 1am.  Chef roused from his sleep to say his parents liked the apartment and were looking forward to meeting me.

“What kind of under handed attack is that?  Thanks for making me even more nervous,” I complained.

He rolled over and started to snore.  I laid down and stared at the ceiling, plotting my counter attack.

By 5am, I couldn’t stand it anymore.  Publisher was right—get my game face on.  I showered, got dressed, made coffee, and settled into a seat at the dining room table with a clear view of the guest room door.  I couldn’t hear anything.  6am.  7am.  8am.  I was in full panic.

Chef appeared dressed and ready for work.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.  You’re leaving me here with the enemy?” I whispered loudly.

“Look, there’s no way my mother is getting up before 9.  Just go to work.  You’ll meet her later,” he laughed.

He gave me a peck on the cheek.  But there was no way I was leaving now—I was prepped for battle.

I piddled around the apartment, but by 9:30am, I realized that I couldn’t be late for a morning meeting.  I rushed back downstairs to change my shirt—having nervously sweated through the previous one—and when I re-emerged, there she was.  My mother in law nemesis was barely 5 feet tall, in a house dress, with mussed up hair, sitting at the dining room table—in my spot.

“Buenos dias,” she offered, not moving from the table.  “Is there coffee?  And maybe some cereal with fruit?”

“Absolutely!  Of course!”

I sprung into action bringing to her all the breakfast fixings.  She smiled as I placed the coffee cups, bowls, cut up fruit—the works.  Wait a minute.  What was I doing?  I didn’t do this for my family or Chef for that matter, let alone an enemy combatant.  She touched my hand and smiled.

“You’re going to fit in just fine,” she said.

All together at Chef's citizenship ceremony

In that moment, I knew she had the upper hand and held all the cards.  If my own mother was the unassuming Miss Ellie/Barbara Bel Geddes of TV’s Dallas, my mother-in-law was more Angela Channing/Jane Wyman of Falcon Crest—the undeniable matriarch of her clan.  She wasn’t going to be just an occasional guest star in my sitcom life, I was auditioning to be a regular in her telenovella—and I had just gotten the part.

Over time, we’ve developed an easy rhythm.  While at first I felt like the quirky Gringo character, now I’m just like my fellow sisters-in-law married into this tight knit clan.  I bring her hotel shampoos and soaps from all my travels for her guest bathroom.  She brings me elaborate mirrors, pewter trays and a dramatic Arbol de la Vida on display in my Mexican-themed living room.

This year, we even conspired to throw a 40^th birthday fiesta for Chef at the family vacation home outside Mexico City.  Unlike me, Chef prefers to ignore his birthday.  But Susannah and I weren’t having any of that.  And when the two of team up for battle, there’s nothing we can’t do.

Kindle edition of Alphabet City with a Tanqueray cocktail at Little Dix Bay

A few weeks ago, maybe closer to a month now, my Kindle broke.  My lackadaisical memory of the exact date of Kindle’s passing should be a telling clue that I’m not all that torn up about the loss.  The Kindle and I always had an awkward relationship.  Angela gave it to me as a present for my 40^th birthday dragging me into the modern era of e-books.  At first, I found Kindle useful in some situations—last minute instant purchase of Kathy Griffin’s autobiography was the perfect poolside vacation read.

But slowly, Kindle started making me nervous.  I eyed flight attendants suspiciously hoping they wouldn’t make me switch it off on the runway, forced to flip through the SkyMall catalogue again.  Sometimes, I wouldn’t even display Kindle on my subway commute because someone invariably asked me, “Do you LOVE your Kindle?”  That’s an awfully strong verb to use for an inanimate object.

Over time, I purchased certain types of books for Kindle—ones like Andre Agassi’s memoir, not likely to be shared with, or even interest, Chef.  Or runaway bestsellers that I happily hid on the Kindle, not wanting to broadcast that I’m a sucker for good marketing.  The Help comes to mind—although I’ve now recommended that book widely.

“If the Kindle breaks do you lose your library?” Chef asked early on—not because he’s a Technology Chicken Little, but because he’s spilled coffee cups near laptops enough times to make us both nervous.

“The books exist not just on the Kindle, but in Amazon land somewhere.  Like a back-up,” I replied nonchalantly.

I wasn’t too worried about what would happen should the technology fail because I purchased Kindle books to which I didn’t have a strong emotional connection.  And then it happened—Kindle went on the fritz while visiting Angela in Woodstock.  One quick call to Amazon confirmed the device was beyond repair—and a week out of warranty, of course—and that it could be replaced for $150+.  I shrugged it off, said I would give it some thought, and shoved the Kindle into a drawer filled with techno paraphenalia that time forgot—old Blackberry chargers, a now vintage Palm device, some Apple cords for laptops gone by.

“Real books don’t suffer technology failures,” I told Chef, as I packed for the Alphabet City tour.  Since I would be visiting indie bookstores around the country, I vowed to support them by purchasing printed books while on the road.

In Philadelphia, at the famed Giovanni’s Room, I picked up a copy of Eric Poole’s funny memoir Where’s My Wand? about his life as a kid believing he had the magical powers of Bewitched.  In San Jose, I finally had a moment to crack open the spine and chuckled through the first 24 pages.  Then on page 25, I thought the grueling nature of book tour was really getting to me.  Was that the title page repeating where page 25 should be?  Next page was the library of Congress info.  Flipping several more pages and it hit me—the entire first 24 pages of the book repeated—in the middle of a chapter.  Don’t panic.  These things happen.  I’m sure it just picks up again with page 25 after the misprint.  Nope.  Page 57.  The book was missing what seemed to be a critical 30+ pages.  I couldn’t go on.

No quick call was going to solve this dilemma.  I wasn’t planning on heading back to Philadelphia anytime soon.  And I didn’t think it fair to lie to Borders to score a replacement.  Not really the author’s fault.  And the title page offered little help with an undecipherable mishmash of companies listed: Amy Einhorn Books published by G.P. Putnam’s Sons a member of Penguin Group.  Hmmm.  After tooling around online, I finally registered a note on the Penguin website and opened “Incident #100624-000251.”  We’ll see how that works out for me.  With all the drama unfolding in the publishing world, somehow I’m not convinced my misprint will make the top-of-the-list.

For a few days, Where’s My Wand? has been eyeing me longingly from the bedside table. I wish I could just twinkle my nose and fix a technical glitch I never expected from a printed book.  But unlike my brokeback e-reader, there’s something about the book’s hiccup that makes me love it even more.  It won’t be joining Kindle in the land of the technology misfits anytime soon.

UPDATE 6/29/10 3:00PM: The helpful folks at Penguin’s online trouble-shooting department emailed me to say that a new complimentary version of Where’s My Wand? is on the way.  There’s hope for printed books after all!

This just in: Kimpton Hotel‘s sponsorship of the Alphabet City Book Tour landed us in the Gray Lady’s Media Decoder column written by influential journalist (and die hard Mets fan) Stuart Elliott.  In addition to efforts by the Las Vegas Convention and Visitors Bureau and Macy’s, Alphabet City gets a nice shout out:

As part of its pride marketing, Kimpton Hotels and Resorts is sponsoring a book tour by Jon Paul Buchmeyer, the author of the memoir “Alphabet City.”

Mr. Buchmeyer is appearing during the guest wine hour events at many Kimpton properties this month. And customers who have booked the “Summer of Pride” discount deal at the hotels or resorts will receive a 32-page excerpt from the book as part of a welcome package.

The Alphabet City Book Tour picks up again in August and continues through the Fall.  Check out the Book Tour schedule for information on upcoming appearances in cities including Austin, Lubbock, Chicago, Madison, Atlanta, Baltimore, San Diego, Denver, Portland, Seattle and of course—New York City!

The JP's tag-teaming an event

Not to get all hot pants about it—but I’m starting to get concerned about literacy in Gay Boy America.  Appearing at a recent men-centric networking event where I was billed as a “celebrity,” here are some rather worrisome nuggets thrown at me after guys willingly approached the Alphabet City display table:

“Oh, I’ve stopped reading.”

Each time I heard this line, I just nodded and grinned my fake PR smile.  I’m not sure I’ve ever met anyone who made a conscious choice to be illiterate.

“Don’t want to go into too much detail, but I’ve recently had surgery and am not up to reading.”

Already, that’s too much info.  Gone are the days when post-op recovery meant catching up on a pile of trashy novels.

“Maybe I’ll buy it on Amazon.”

It seems online buying habits have so altered consumer behavior that we’re unable to appreciate the beauty of buying something directly from the artist.  The author is standing right there.  Begging for a sale.  Offering to personalize it.

“I’m only into audio books now.  If you recorded one, I might buy it.”

Clever use of a conditional tense—even if I laid down a voice track, I still might not be good enough.

Thankfully, Chef was working the room to bolster my sales.  As a Demo Specialist for Whole Foods, he knows a thing or two about getting customers to sample the goods.  Chef has his own tales of woe about customers taking a bite of his cooking and saying in a deadpan voice, “Not bad, actually.”  As if he’s really going to serve them shit on a stick.  Using the word “actually” indicates that they anticipated the food would be disgusting.  So why did they even try it?

As my personal coach, Chef observed my initial pitch to a couple of gays.

“Hi, I’m the author of Alphabet City, a funny memoir about my life as a gay Mary Tyler Moore.  I moved from Texas to New York, and fell into a job as a publicist for celebrities like Tyra and Whoopi and later at magazine publisher Condé Nast.  It’s a little bit Sex and the City and a little bit Will and Grace.”

Chef offered some hard earned demo strategy tips.

“Good, but watch your audience.  Young guys and immigrants have no idea who Mary Tyler Moore is.  Go right to the celebrities. Also, after the basic pitch, as they look at the book, fill in the silence with a question.”

My next potential victim fan was young hottie, the kind of boy who had a Fire Island summer share.  Per Chef’s advice, I played up Tyra and asked what I thought was a genius question.

“Are you looking for a great beach read?”

“I hate the beach.”

Alrighty, then.  Before I could even deliver my pitch to the next guy, he slammed the book down and yelled.

“Why would I need a guide book to Alphabet City?!  I live in Grammercy just a hop, skip and jump away for God sakes!”

Well of course, how silly of me not to know that.

When I finally did make a sale, it was  like pulling teeth.  Some guys came back to the table multiple times, fondling the book—as if they were purchasing diamonds at Neiman-Marcus.  At $15, the book was less than the Tanqueray and Tonic they’d ordered at the bar.  When a fag finally forked over the cash, I was willing to do anything they asked—including personalizing the book to “Golden Finger Fister.”  Scrawling that gem with my Sharpie, I sealed the door shut on any future political career.

Back in May, when I found myself in a Miami gay bar selling books barstool-to-barstool, I didn’t run into any uncomfortable excuses.  My stereotypical view of those boys had always been they were more interested in working their biceps than brains.  But those hunky Latinos couldn’t have been more welcoming—and I wasn’t even a “celebrity” there.

Maybe Manhattan breeds a quirky, competitive kind of gay accustomed to building defensive coping mechanisms to survive this urban jungle.  Rather than honestly saying, “Good luck with the book, it’s not for me,” they concoct a convoluted excuse like, “My attention span is too short to read anymore.”

But I’m not discouraged.  In Joan Rivers: A Piece of Work, the famous comedienne advises never to turn down an opportunity—and I ended up selling 15 books and learning a load.  Who knows, maybe I’ll take Joan’s cue and sign-on to some reality show to raise my profile.  America’s Next Top Novelist, anyone?

My biggest lesson so far on book tour is that WOMEN are my biggest readers and most supportive fans—by far.  From the straight sorority sisters of Texas to the lesbian moms of DC, they all have some nurturing gene that encourages literary endeavors from an emerging artist like me.  Better still, they buy multiple books for friends—no hemming and hawing, no excuses.  Once again, Goddess bless the girls who love the gays.  Gary Tyler Moore would be no where without you.

OneFoodGuy likes to remain anonymous

Much has been made of Twitter as a virtual tool that can connect people in real life.  But I hadn’t experienced that until a new online friend @onefoodguy in Boston popped up at my Alphabet City Book Party event in Beantown.  A few months ago, I’d delved into the wonderful world of tweets to get a handle on how I could put cyberspace to use on tour, and began using a program called ReFollow— a “twitter relationship manager.”  Sounds like a title someone would have on The Office.

ReFollow allows you to see all the followers of a person or company and then you can choose ones to follow yourself.  Pretty genius way for me to see who is interested in my book tour sponsor Kimpton Hotels (@kimpton).  I figured if people were already fans of Kimpton, then they would be open to hearing about Kimpton’s support of my book.   That’s how I found @onefoodguy.  I could tell from the moment I linked to his blog from his Twitter account, that this was a guy who could be useful to know in Boston—he was heralding the Extra Funky Sandwich at the All Star Sandwich Bar.

A few 140 character messages later and we were tweet friends.  He even indulged me when I asked, “Where should I eat in Boston?”  Not the best open-ended question to ask a foodie.  It’s like when people ask me, a travelista, “Where should I go on vacation?”  If I don’t really know you, it’s hard to offer advice.  He managed to not let a smirk show through his reply, and I decided he’d be a great addition to the Peek-A-Blog series.

After Kimpton’s Nine Zero Hotel reception for Alphabet City, I was planning on grabbing some nibbles with @onefoodguy at the K.O. restaurant onsite.  Closed on Mondays.  That’s when my foodie hero had to jump into action.  Alas, the first three places he tried to take me were also closed.  What’s up with that Boston?  My Urbanspoon iPhone app road to the rescue—we headed to The Paramount in Beacon Hill. As we walked through Boston Commons, we got down to Peek-A-Blog business.

Your post today is about using a Vita-Mix for Strawberry Watermelon Juice.  My own Chef is obsessed with his.  What is it about you foodie’s and Vita-Mix?

It’s amazing, right?  I’m very lucky to have received it as a gift from parents.  They asked what they could purchase for me that was special—and I knew it had to be the Vita-Mix.

Well, I do love the fresh peanut butter he makes.

I need to try that.

On your blog, you work at maintaining your anonymity, unlike me who puts it all out there.  You call your wife “J” and you hide part of your face in your profile picture.  Why?

I never wanted to be in a situation where my passion and hobby got in the way of my professional life.  My time with my wife is special to me, and I didn’t want to intrude on that.

Have you always been a food guy?

I have always been an eater—I grew up in a kosher kitchen in Boston eating favorites like tuna noodle casserole.  My wife J and I would often spend anniversaries going to expensive, well-regarded restaurants together instead of buying expensive gifts for each other.  At one point, I was a consultant and traveled to New York City all the time for work. I lived at the Grand Hyatt and went to the same place in Hell’s Kitchen almost every week.  They started treating me like a regular and I thought, “I could get used to this.”  On my expense account, I went to many terrific New York spots—that’s when I realized I wanted to share my experience through a blog.

What was your goal when you started onefoodguy.blogspot.com?

In my very first post, I stated my goal very clearly—“I plan on recapping my New York dining experiences and reviewing my favorite restaurants here in Greater Boston. I’m also going to try to convince myself in writing that my career should be in the kitchen, not in a suburban office. We’ll see how successful I am.” Like many bloggers, I was hoping to be able to pay a mortgage with it.  But that didn’t happen, so it evolved into a hobby.  I still enjoy sharing with people my passion for food and cooking.

Has your content changed over time?

When I first started, the site was mainly recipes, but now it includes restaurant reviews.  My first post was about how to grill a steak well, not well done. Later, I did was a post about a dinner party for my wife’s work colleagues.  It was a really big deal with 6 people coming.  I decided to make a rack of lamb, tuna tartar, and angel food cake from scratch. I didn’t really know things like how to time it out correctly, so I reached out to a food blogger Chef Scott Youkilis, owner of Maverick in San Francisco. And Scott was very helpful and wrote a response to my question.  I figured I could help people out by sharing information like that as they followed me.  Over time, with work and wanting to spend more time with my wife, I just didn’t have time to do the cooking.  So I started weaving in restaurant reviews.

Do you pay attention to your statistics to see what drives traffic to your site?

I use Google Analytics to track my site, and about half of the way people find my blog is through Google searches.  My most popular posts are a recipe for Whole Wheat Oatmeal Pancakes and a story about French Street Food when I was on layover at Charles de Gaulle and went in search of this banana Nutella crepe near Notre Dame.  Also popular, the second most active keywords landing users on my site are “homemade turkey burgers.”

Do you like getting feedback from readers?

I respond to everything.  I think it’s courtesy.  If someone has taken the time to come to your blog and spend time with you and leave a comment, it’s the right thing to respond.  Early on, I emailed Zesty Cook a question about a recipe, and I never heard back.  He could have missed it or been busy with other things, but still it affected me.  So I stopped reading his site.

That sounds a little tough.

But I got into this to be part of a community.  I got to know a lot of terrific food bloggers   like EatDrinkNBMerry and Oishiieats.  They took me on a tour of Mexican taco carts in LA’s Silverlake and Echo Park neighborhoods.  When they came to Boston earlier this year, I went down to Island Creek Oyster Farm in Duxbury with them, and introduced them to Flour Bakery, Neptune Oyster, Myers and Chang, and Toro – four of my favorite places in Boston.  It’s cool to be part of that community.

That positive attitude definitely comes through on your blog.  Like other food blogs, do you get requests from PR people to cover products?

Many publicity people contact me, and whether I am interested in the product or not, I always respond.  My goal out of this is not to get free products.  So when I do take a product, and I don’t like it, I won’t write about it.  This is a hobby for me.  I’m not looking to destroy a business.  Similarly, if I go to a restaurant and have a bad experience, I won’t write about it.  I’ve worked in restaurants and know sometimes they are just having a bad night.  I’d rather focus on sharing good stuff with my readers, the things I want people to enjoy.

Sounds like maybe you had a bad experience at one point?

For Cinco de Mayo this year, J wanted to go to this restaurant she had been to several times.  It’s not a Mexican restaurant but they have what J said were very good fish tacos.  Unfortunately, I was terribly disappointed and shared my feedback with the restaurant manager and felt like it was well received.  Restaurants can not always please 100% of the people 100% of the time. I understand.

It impressed me how quickly you responded to me on Twitter.

Twitter is fun for me, but I don’t do it all the time.  Definitely not at work.  I have around 1300 followers and I follow 2000.  It’s so frustrating that I’ve hit the limit because of the ratio requirements right now.

How do you manage paying attention to all that?  I still haven’t figured it out.

I use UberTwitter on my BlackBerry.  On my computer, I use TweetDeck and have columns that include a general feed, mentions, 120-130 “friends” that I pay attention to, and a dozen or so private lists that I’m following.

I’m impressed that you’re working hard to not let the blog and Twitter overwhelm your life with your wife.  How do you manage your time?

I get up early in the morning and write.  Sunday morning I also sit on the couch and blog—mostly when my wife is away or busy doing other things.  I’m also kind of a DIY guy, so I often blog sitting in front of the TV watching HGTV’s Yard Crashers.  That’s my guilty pleasure.

What do you want to do more of in the blog?

I wish I could cook more using fancy ingredients, making them accessible to home cooks.  Writing more about technique.

All right, well the next time you’re in New York, you’ll have to come over and you and Chef can collaborate using the Vita-Mix!  If you’re lucky, he’ll make you some peanut butter.

As a kid, I often dreamed of running away to San Francisco—not to be out and proud, but to join the dishy workers at the glamorous St. Gregory Hotel owned by Bette Davis.  When I wasn’t dreaming of life as Mary Tyler Moore, I hatched plots to land recurring roles in TV shows like Hotel, an Aaron Spelling soap opera appearing after Dynasty, starring Josh Brolin as the General Manager and Connie Sellecca as his romantic interest (and assistant general manager).  Although I was a long-time Love Boat fan, something about life on the high seas worried me (as it turns out, I have minor bouts of seasickness), so the land-locked drama about hospitality in the City by the Bay was where I wanted to leave my heart.

Things didn’t turn out so well for me the first trip there with my father.  He booked us into the Stamford Court hotel—not the Fairmont down the road that served as the model for my TV drama.  Forced into sharing a room with my father for the first time in my life, I was bombarded by his earth shattering snoring that must have chased the sea lions away from the wharf.  I called my mother in tears.  Divorced from my father after 25 years of marriage, she sympathized and advised me to ask the concierge for directions to the nearest drug store in order to purchase some earplugs.

“But this is important—don’t let your father find out you are using them,” she warned ominously.

View from my Harbor Court room

While Dad was busy having drinks with a friend, I ducked out of the hotel, snagged some nighttime soundproofing, and popped into the real-life St. Gregory Hotel.  I will never forget traipsing up the large staircase thinking that if I were staying there, Josh and Connie would have taken care of this problem—laughing at the antics, then upgrading us to a suite where I would have my own room.  No surprise that with that kind of imagination, I’d end up with a life on the road.

One thing I’ve learned over the years is that a hotel’s charm and comfort often has less to do with the setting and more to do with the General Manager.  That’s the case at Kimpton’s Harbor Court Hotel, the host of my San Francisco stop on the Alphabet City Book Tour.  From my first conversations with General Manager Jason Stone as we planned my event, I could tell he was honestly interested in me, the book, my tour.  Although we had never met, he was friendly in that genuine Southern way.  His handiwork was on display from the moment I arrived.

My friend Diana first noticed the personal attention.  A fellow alum from Greenhill, Diana was my superstar “handler” for the day— driving me from Cupertino to San Fran via the scenic route through Half Moon Bay, then helped me schlep bags to my room.

Harbor Court's personal touch

“There are framed photos of Juan Pablo and Frida by the bed!” Diana exclaimed. “Is that normal?”

It certainly isn’t normal.  And while it might seem creepy to some that Jason had gone online to download pictures of my loved ones, it didn’t to me—after all, I live my life out there online.  When I called to tell him how touched I was by the gesture, he couldn’t have been more humble.

“You told me that they wouldn’t be coming with you on tour.   And I thought after three weeks on the road, you’d be missing them.”

With GM Jason Stone

That night at the Alphabet City Book Party in the back section of the lobby, he sat with my friends and listened to the reading—and even encouraged other guests to attend whom he thought my enjoy the event.

One sweet family staying in the hotel Googled me, saw that I was from their hometown of Dallas, and joined in on the fun.  Turns out, the mother practiced law before my father at one point.  They ended up purchasing five books as gifts, and I gave them theater tips for their upcoming trip to the Big Apple.

My new fans from Dallas!

With Slaton and Kody

Later, Jason offered to pack up some of the left over sushi for Slaton and Kody—my new Bay Area friends connected to me via my sister Paige and Whole Foods.  That Texas connection just keeps on giving.

That night over dinner at new hotspot Thermidor, I marveled at Jason’s innate sense of hospitality.  He smiled graciously.

“I tell my team to treat the guests like they are welcoming them into their home.  At the end of the day, I want guests to feel comfortable, like it is their home.”

When I depart San Francisco tomorrow, I’ll be leaving my heart behind not at Josh Brolin’s grand St. Gregory, but at Jason Stone’s homey Harbor Court.

Oh, and the earplugs?  My Dad discovered me wearing them at our hotel in Pebble Beach.  Mom was right—he was oddly furious and offended.  If only Jason had been there to handle it.

Clouds of self-doubt would seep into my mind early every morning in Hollywood—like the June gloom enveloping the LA Temple outside my window.  My body wrestled with time zone confusion as my East Coast early-riser syndrome became certified West Coast insomnia.  Why am I here?  What am I accomplishing?  Is the exhaustion worth it?  Can I be successful and make a living as a writer by pursuing this new life storyline?  As the clouds quickly dispersed under the warm California sun, I became energized by reconnections with three friends (re)designing themselves on the West Coast.

Aimee at the Alphabet City book launch

First up, breakfast with Aimee.  Originally from Beverly Hills, Aimee walked onto the Alphabet City set about midway through its original run as Angela’s wisecracking buddy.  She was a terrific audience for my tales of celebrity foibles, always encouraging me to write down the tales.  This real life Funny Girl’s own storyline took a dramatic turn when she decided to follow her true passion for international relations and entered graduate school in Washington DC.  Honestly, the cast of Alphabet City wasn’t accustomed to characters taking such serious roles, and I wondered how it would all play out.

After an internship at the State Department, she began working for an organization that helps rebuild war torn countries and spent many months in Liberia, and now is stationed in Kabul.  Through it all, Aimee’s wit and humor comes through in every missive she sends from abroad—and she’s still a serious pop-culture scholar.  She’s the first to email me a guess on who’s the subject of the latest blind item in PageSix.  It was the makings of a “very special episode” when Aimee happened to be in LA during my book tour stop—she had some time off from Kabul before beginning her next project there.  Over breakfast, after she had presented me with outrageous gifts snagged from the bazaar in Afghanistan including the Funny Cock, I had an opportunity to tell her how inspiring it was to follow the journey of a friend who was taking big risks to follow her passion.  What I am most impressed with is that the work she is doing is so important and crucial, but Aimee does it with a genuine humbleness and a wry observation that will always make her a terrific guest star on Alphabet City.

Mila & Me at Dana's party

Next, lunch with a true designing woman, Mila.  In the tween prequel to Alphabet City set in a suburban prep school, Mila would definitely be the mysterious, artsy character with the enviable fashion flare.  Much like my friend Kathryn who I wrote previously about reconnecting with in DC, Mila and I weren’t close friends in high school but as in a small class, you pretty much know everyone and I like to think we respected each other’s artistic (dramatic?) sensibilities.  When she popped up on last season’s Project Runway, I was instantly intrigued by Mila’s story of using the show as a way to reconnect with her passion of designing clothes—basically reinventing herself as she was approaching 40.  Boy, did that sound familiar to my own journey.  What a treat then to spend time with Mila, see her holiday collection, and share our various paths.  Although we haven’t seen each in other in a decade (or two), we reconnected with the appreciation and understanding of the trials and tribulations that come with following a dream.  Mila is one talented, sincere and generous designing woman whom I can’t wait to have on future Alphabet City episodes.

Last, evening soiree hosted by Dana.  Alphabet City fans will recognize Dana for the critical role she plays in Episode 16—as a real estate impresario with a life-saving referral to therapy.  Dana’s advice, guidance, support and critical eye have played an integral role in the development of this memoir.  She has always encouraged me to be a writer giving me terrific assignments at Condé Nast Traveler and Bon Appétit.  After reading an early draft of Alphabet City I will never forget her telling me that my writing voice was so engaging, like chatting with a best friend.  It was that early encouragement that gave me the confidence to pursue my dream.   When Dana decided to push forward with her own goal of moving to the West Coast, I was quietly distraught but outwardly supportive.  While I would miss Dana’s companionship, I knew that she needed space to grow and LA was where she needed that to happen.  What a thrill then to see and experience and appreciate the beautiful life she has made for her family at the base of the Hollywood Hills.  Her friends turned out for some Alphabet City fun, and to see how an editor at Bon Appétit would entertain in style.

Sides made with Whole Foods 365 brand accompany whole roasted pig

Lucky me, she pulled out all the stops.  The centerpiece was a whole roasted pig—definitely a showstopper and crowd pleaser.  I snapped pictures and sent to Chef who was supremely jealous of the experience.  Dana took her inspiration for the serving of the meal from the serve yourself buffet at Whole Foods Market 3^rd and Fairfax which provided some of the key ingredients.  Grab a Chinese food container—start with a cold soba noodle salad with peanut sauce (both can be made from the affordable WFM 365 brand), add in some of the pork, fresh cilantro—stir together and enjoy.  Dana paired with a crowd-pleasing Moscow Mule vodka concoction whose secret ingredient was fresh squeezed lemons and limes—organic from WFM, ‘natch.

After the guests departed, Dana and I laid down under the backyard lanterns laughing at her dogs desperate for a taste of pork.  And I realized that success of a journey shouldn’t just be measured in tangibles—like number of books sold and amount of money made—but from intangibles like quality connections with readers, and inspiring reconnections with friends.

Funny, the next morning, I opened my windows, and there was no June gloom in the sky, or in my head.

New York and Los Angeles are two cities on opposite coasts that might as well exist in opposite worlds.  New York, the World’s Financial Capital—compact yet tall with the odor of money.  Los Angeles, the World’s Entertainment Capital—sprawling yet short with the smell of celebrity.  But cross-country flights act like an umbilical cord for these city twins separated at birth—remained inexplicably intertwined in ways that can only be comprehended by someone who lives in either, and has cause to frequent the other.  Growing up in Dallas, smack dab in the middle of the country, a three-hour plane ride to Hollywood seemed like a journey to the end of the Earth.  But New Yorkers think nothing of using the dozens of hourly trans-continental airline crossings like a commuter railway.

My own transportation to the West Coast got a little more palatable several years back with the launch of JetBlue—a company I got to know closely in my years of handing out the Condé Nast Traveler Top Airline Award year after year. So they were natural for me to approach for support of the Alphabet City Book Tour, and they nicely sent a few travel vouchers my way.  Alert: that was a full disclosure as required by FCC regulations.  But I don’t think my readers begrudge the support I get from some of my corporate sponsors.  An indie author/blogger girl has to make a living, right?  And I’m going to tell you like it is—including, quite frankly, these vouchers aren’t the easiest to use—a return trip from the West Coast requires 3 stopovers on the way back, ugh.

So here’s my take: having traveled through nearly a hundred airports worldwide, JetBlue has done a genius job of remaking its JFK terminal to look like it belongs more in Scandinavia than America.  The seat back TVs give me a chance to catch episodes of pop culture phenomenons that I have no interest in watching on the ground.  As if my standards plummet at 30,000 feet.   Just ten minutes of watching a painful Bethenny Getting Married? and I completely understood why there’s a question mark at the end of that title.  But give me a Kathy Griffin special and a few episodes of HGTV’s House Hunters International and I’ll forget that I had to pay an additional $60 to snag an Exit Row seat.

My national tour sponsor Kimpton has me staying at Hotel Palomar LA Westwood which earned my love with a just right infusion of ‘70s chic, along with a welcome basil & ginger mojito paired with fresh guacamole and chips.  They even gave me a complimentary ride to the 40^th Anniversary LA Gay Pride Parade to meet up with my Texas friend Larry—who agreed to show me how they party in West Hollywood and round up some friends for a Book Party.

I highly recommend visiting any city during Gay Pride festivities—typically reserved boys turn into welcome wagons, and the gorgeous men at The Abbey were no exception.  Many guys stopped to ask me where they could buy the Aaron Krach original designed Alphabet City t-shirt I was wearing, as well as get a close-up look at my Sydney Opera House tattoo.  But the real stars were the acrobatic performers in AussieBums stretching their legs in ways I haven’t seen since Alphabet City’s Episode 13 at the Bangkok bathhouse.

The Pride spirit definitely continued into the next day as I went about spreading the gospel of Alphabet City.  The Four Seasons Beverly Hills hosted an intimate catch-up luncheon with some celebrity publicist pals.  The restaurant Culina that opened last March is a dramatic makeover of the previous space featuring rich woods and the only certified crudo spot in town.  If you’re in the mood for a celebrity helping with your meal, this spot always delivers—Smokey Robinson was in the house.

Task Force Board Member Vince Wong on right, with friends

More entertainment industry friends showed up for the Hotel Palomar LA hosted event benefitting the National Gay and Lesbian Task Force.  I was honored that Task Force Board Member Vince Wong showed up since he had just finished organizing LA’s Gay Pride Parade.  Thanks to all my friends who showed their support with generous donations to my non-profit sponsor.

Then it was over the mountain and through the traffic to Larry’s Studio City abode, a drive made all that much easier in my very (eco) stylish Hyundai Santa Fe.  Like Goldilocks, I’m usually never happy with my car situation in Hollywood—they’re either too large and garish, or too small and scary.  But thanks to the team at Hyundai (via my great friends at Ketchum), the Hyundai is just right in every sense of the word.  It has great pick up when I need to get past the irritating truck on the 405, and enough quick maneuvering capabilities when I’m about to miss a turn.  It also helpfully flashes a green “eco” sign when you are in the sustainability zone.  This is a great car for a girl on the go schlepping around books, blow-up posters, faux Oscar statues—everything you need to deliver an Alphabet City Book Club Party-in-a-Box!

Affordable party nibbles from Whole Foods Sherman Oaks

Larry and his partner Mike earn extra credit for turning out a crowd on a Monday night, many of whom were still recovering from Pride.  Whole Foods Market Sherman Oaks East helped out with some affordable and delicious party edibles.  As someone who shops pretty much exclusively at WFM thanks to Chef being a Chef there, I know you don’t have to spend your “whole paycheck” if you plan ahead and know where to look for value.  My hosts rounded out their selection of local cheeses with WFM’s 365 brand of crackers and salsa and olives, along with some other party necessities, all for under $100.

The result?  A happy crowd that bought multiple books as gifts for friends!  That’s what I call Happy Pride.

I’m thrilled to see that Alphabet City is resonating on the West Coast.  Maybe it’s like an ambassador really, helping bridge that divide between New York and LA.

My brushes with formal religious education have been fleeting.  As a kid, my family attended a non-denominational Congregationalist church mostly because it was expected of my climbing-the-law-firm-ladder father.  Later, as a 12 year-old, I very reluctantly suffered through confirmation classes at tony Highland Park Methodist at the insistence of my mother who was husband hunting in the over-40s single group.  Then in my teen years filled with personal upheaval, Judaism enamored me during high school at semi-Semitic Greenhill mostly because wholesome families like the Levy’s, Strelitz’s and Frankel’s adopted me into their flocks making sure I was well-fed and loved.

As an adult, I’ve tended not to be interested much in religious dogma, often holding it at arms’ length.  Even Chef’s Catholic upbringing doesn’t seem to pose many issues in our relationship—he left behind any self-loathing baggage back in Mexico.  So when Next Fall by first-time playwright Geoffrey Nauffts opened Off-Broadway last season to resoundingly wonderful reviews, I resisted the allure of a gay treatise on faith, even if Gay Hall of Flamers Elton John and partner David Furnish produced it.  But like a true show queen, a Tony nomination for Best Play after a transfer to the Great White trumps any personal trepidations.  In short order, a one-night NYC opening in my Alphabet City book tour schedule cemented the play on my squeezed itinerary.

My expectation that the show would take a Tony Kushner-like heavy handed and heady approach to questions of religious belief’s impact on the lives of a gay couple was happily dashed.  Instead, the fast-paced play is served up as a frothy living room (cum hospital waiting room) comedy with a steady mix of punch lines sure to please the hardiest Will & Grace fans.

The tightly wound hypochondriac Adam (Patrick Breen) is the latest and gayest incarnation of a familiar curmudgeon previously known as Woody Allen/Jerry Seinfeld/Larry David.  A devout agnostic, the 40 year-old worldly Adam takes every opportunity to poke fun and lay bare the inherent contradictions in the fundamentalist beliefs of his much younger aspiring actor boyfriend Luke (Patrick Heusinger).  The story reveals itself by jumping backwards and forwards in time as a collection of characters gathers in a NYC hospital after an accident.  I don’t want to give away too much here because I think the movement in the story is expertly crafted, as is the cleverly packed-in set design by Wilson Chin.  Suffice it to say there’s a motley storytelling and wise-cracking crew assembled: self-professed fag hag Holly (Maddie Corman), Luke’s Southern divorced parents Arlene (Connie Ray) and Butch (Cotter Smith), and Luke’s fellow fundamentalist friend Brandon (Sean Dugan).

Surprisingly, rather than being turned off by the accept-Jesus-as-your-savior-or-burn-in-Hell beliefs of the Luke, I was actually rather charmed by his deep hope that Adam would convert so they could meet in the afterlife.  Heusinger’s quirky laugh and shoulder shaking body movements as he tries to explain his faith makes what he’s saying palatable and cute.  Adam’s comic reaction to meeting up in the afterlife is what does it really matter—they evidently aren’t allowed to be gay in Heaven.

And herein lies my main problem with the show—while the play teases out Luke’s thoughts, hopes, dreams and background—Adam is presented solely as stand-up comedian.  And no doubt, as played by Patrick Breen, he’s charming in that nebbishy way that I found so attractive in NYC guys when I first moved here.  But there are almost no references to Adam’s background—how he turned into this rather cynical character that we all know from TV, and the real streets of New York.  What’s that about his father dying and feeling bitter that Luke didn’t hold him that night?  What’s that about Adam wanting to be a writer but leaving behind those dreams to be a teacher?  Never mind, we’re onto the next set-up.

Adam was almost too funny all the time, so that when he has some heart breaking moments, it’s hard for us to understand his depth of emotion.  It actually reminded me of the early drafts of Alphabet City that included no background about my previously dashed dreams of living in NYC or complicated relationship with my parents.  My friend, writer and artist Aaron counseled me that in order for readers to root for me to succeed, they need to know something of my background.  In Alphabet City, I can’t just start as a sitcom character with no explanation.  Aaron was right then, and his advice applies here.  I needed to know much more about Adam than just accept him as a gay archetype—especially since we delve so deeply into Luke.

Oddly, most of the other supporting characters are given more of an opportunity to break out of stereotypes than Adam.  Maddie Corman endears her Holly with a terrific blend of pathos and comic timing so I audibly gasped when Adam meanly critiques her new age efforts to find love.  “At least I’m trying,” she replies.  We have to wait deep into Act 2 to get a similar sense from the mysterious Brandon, which Sean Dugan plays expertly with a proverbial bug up his butt.

Connie Ray’s turn as Luke’s on again/off again mother is mesmerizing.  She lights up the stage from her entrance, and gets the richest dialogue—becoming the emotional core of the show.  Unfortunately, that makes Butch, the stiff as a board father, come across as well, stiff as a board.  He doesn’t get to have as nearly as interesting journey as the other characters.

But for a first time Broadway outing by the playwright Nauffts and director Sheryl Kaller, this is a tremendous beginning.  Inspiring, really.  I’m excited to continue to watch and experience their various journies—you made complicated issues of faith palatable to an avowed agnostic like myself.

Luke’s greatest role on stage, as recounted by his mother and Holly, was the Stage Manager in Our Town.  Holly gives a delicious recounting of the plot, reminding us to cherish life and not take others for granted.  To me, those words, from one of America’s greatest stage triumphs, are truly my religion.