The Bear Blog

"What's bear week?" asked a 60 year-old woman dining with her husband in my section last Saturday night.

"Do you know what a bear is," I replied?

"Well I know what a bear is. . ." she answered.

"Do you know what a gay bear is?" I asked.

She looked at me with a blank but curious face. "Bears are large, hairy, bearded guys and this is their week in town. The circuit boys packed up their Louis Vuitton valises and rolled out this morning and the bears took their spot."

"What's a circuit boy?" the two of them asked in unison.

"Oh, well, they're the gays with the perfectly smooth bodies, all sculpted and plucked and tweezed, sporting designer sunglasses and looks of mild disdain."

The both nodded, taking it all in.

I then told them about the Baby Dykes from Memorial weekend, Women of Color week, the leather daddies descending in October, and of course Carnival and (woop woop!) family week.

This week, town is overrun with big, hairy, manly men woofing at each other as they strut down Commercial toward Burger Queen.

Pool filters are working overtime.

A friend witnessed four grapefruit-sized hairballs extracted from the Ptown Inn filters on Monday and Possum snapped this shot earlier today at the Boatslip. We hung on the deck--no way was I getting in that stew.

There's not enough bleach in town to clean that pool. But in a good way.

My friend Addam invited me on the Bear Boat Monday for a sunset dance party. We set off from MacMillan Wharf on the Provincetown II with 900 burly men at 5pm, cruised into the bay then out into open water.

Addam and I are of similar height and build so we had to dance with elbows out, taking up as much space as we could for no other reason but survival. At one point all I saw were the nipples of giant bears towering around me. I could have stared at those for days.

Last night Possum and I turned the tables. He doesn't have any issues in his 6'3" frame but I can easily get lost on the dance floor so we jumped up on go-go boxes at the Paramount and danced the best two hours of our lives. Hundreds of bears thumping in unison to Kelly Rowland's Commander--it was like throwing a teddy bear picnic in a steam room with a massive sound system and $3 Rolling Rocks. You could see the testosterone in the air.

And because we were wearing matching sailor hats from a mariner-themed bear party we attended earlier, some of the revelers assumed we were hired help. Possum left with a sweaty crotch full of cash and I hopped down off that box with a not-so-crisp single.

I don't care if it was a pity dollar, I kept it anyway.

Bears aren't known for their genorous tips so I'll take what I can get.

86 Social Life

I'm glad I got my fun in last weekend.

Fourth of July kicked my ass and most of my coworkers at Patio. I've never heard so much screaming in that kitchen as I did last night around 8pm when it came to a standstill. Every one of the 200 seats in that restaurant was full and order tickets were cascading from the expediting printer to the floor. Roxanna was trying to get food out but the kitchen literally stopped cooking. They were so far behind and had no idea had to dig themselves out.

"If you're not running food get the FUCK out of the kitchen," yelled Joaquim (Mr. Patio) at one point.

Waiters and busboys scattered like roaches. I kept my back to the scene plugging yet another order into the clog jam.

I asked Dwight, working the salad and dessert station, to fire me some bread for a table when Roxanna turned to me and barked,

"Don't fucking talk to the kitchen, I'm the ONLY one talking to the kitchen. I WILL slap you."

I turned on point and retreated.

Then things got better. Before they got worse.

The fireworks were beginning to blast up from the bay creating a mass exodus from the restaurant. Finally allowing the kitchen to dig itself out of the weeds and the waitstaff and support staff to catch its breath. It lasted all of 20 minutes before the masses re-descended. We filled 3/4 again at about 9:45pm then the rain started.

Not enough to even wet the sidewalk but enough to send customers into panic mode, jumping tables to secure a spot under an umbrella to avoid a couple drops of rain. And after already working 12 hours I was mentally and physically spent. Nothing left in the reserves.

I worked straight through yesterday hoping to get an early cut so I could go out and at least have an hour of a social life at the A House. But it didn't happen. Instead servers who only worked the dinner shift were getting cut and cashing out while those working doubles were still taking tables at 11:30pm. I'd had it and the look of disdain on my face screamed it loud and clear.

That's when Possum coined this posts title, "86 Social Life".(86 is resto speak for running out of a menu item). And from that vantage point it looked like we were kissing ours goodbye.

But Possum had a plan and talked me down from the proverbial ledge. We cashed out at 12:45 and raced on our bikes to the A House. Good thing we know a couple of the bartenders; Flabio hooked us up with four Rolling Rocks the minute we crossed the threshold and Eric hooked us up with a couple more on the patio bar after last call.

I've said it before but it pays to know people in this town. Bartenders especially.

We even got two songs on the dance floor. Gaga's Monster and Madge's Like a Prayer, this year's last track of the night. It's played every night just before the lights come on and they kick us all out onto the street.

Next on Possum's agenda was Spiritus pizza, where everyone gathers after last call. When I say everyone I mean every gay man in town who's been out that night. It's not just about pizza, it's about the final chance to scoop up a date for the evening. Literally a couple hundred people gathered in the street and out front of the joint, scarfing down slices and rehashing the nights events.

Nobody, not even us wanted to hear tales from the Patio--that's why I'm telling you.

Okay, finished venting, now off to work.

Blessed are the Few

I just spent two perfect Ptown days.

This past weekend was the Portuguese Festival culminating with the Blessing of the Fleet on Sunday. For more than 50 years boats of all shapes and sizes crowd the harbour and get in cue for the bishop who tosses some holy water on your vessel blessing it (and you, I would think) with prosperity and safety on the high seas. I'm not religious but who couldn't use a little blessing from time to time?

The bishop and his buddy were stationed on the top deck of the slow ferry, the other decks crowded with tourists and well-wishers witnessing hundreds of boats in various stages of party.

Originally meant for the fishing fleets who harvest the waters off the Cape to provide for their families and feed the town, now the BotF is just an excuse to get out on the water and kick off the summer with the first of many nautical hoot nannies.

And boy did we have fun. My friend Rachel invited me to join her and her friends on a pontoon party boat she was renting from Flyers in town. Here's a self portrait with Will and our Bulgarian friend Julia, who's also a Patio employee.

The pic below shows just a hint of all the boats in the harbour with the Pilgrim Monument in the background.

Sunday was hot and hazy and the water in the bay so warm we headed to long point where we anchored, all of us diving off the boat and only coming back to it for beer and other refreshments.

Then on Monday Peter, myself and his friend Ben and Becky headed to Herring Cove beach at the edge of the bay. I muddled us a huge batch of mojitos, packed it in the thermos and we spent the day jumping the waves and lying in the sun.

The battery on my camera died so I don't have any pics of the day but here's a bunch from Dan's Mexican Fiesta Birthday last week.

Here's Lawrence, one of the Eastland lads having a good belly roll while sipping his manly Mexican brew.

And this is Meredith, Dan's beautiful sister presenting the gorgeous tropical fruit platter to the ravenous guests--half of which ended up on the lawn (fruit that is).

And below is Eric and Hunter (a.k.a. Possum) sharing a, um, moment I guess. Eric's excellence in baking created this seven-layer rainbow cake--spectacularly delicious!



And of course, the birthday boy Daniel taking a good whack at his condom and candy-filled pinata. Ole baby!

Beach Weddings and Random Goings On

I'm going to my first social engagement of the season tomorrow evening. My friend Will is marrying my manager from Patio Roxanna. On the beach across the street from Eastland, 7pm. I'm hoping the weather holds out for them--it's going to rain like a bitch tomorrow and I don't know if there's a plan B.

Enough about them. . .

Getting to the beach today was out of the question. The lazy sun decided not to come out on my day off so I hit Commercial St. to find a shirt for the nuptials. First I stopped into Drinks a great new store carrying chic bar ware, drinking vessels and related boozy material, including books. I dropped off a copy of Cooking with Booze and Entertaining with Booze when I first got to town and they've decided to carry them both in the store.

With that good news I decided it necessary to blow the cash in hand on some well-deserved retail therapy. Marc Jacobs, Item and All American Boy, here I come.

Success on a skinny brown leather belt at MJ and a military style navey and white plaid linen shirt from AAB. With 10 bucks left in my pocket and a hole in my stomach I crossed the street to the small wharf food court to Big Daddy Burritos. For all the stuff stuffed into my chicken, black bean, brown rice, homemade salsa, guac, sour cream, hot sauce burrito it still needed S&P at the table. All those things and still not enough flavour?

Bid Daddy might also consider grilling his namesake wraps. A crispy outer tortilla layer and a heated centre is what I want on a Mexicali menu. He did throw in a free iced tea, so that was nice.

Anyway, it's not only cloudy but it's cool today so when I road passed Patio the, um, 100-seat patio was nearly vacant. I waved at Vasile, resident food runner, waiter, bar back, bus boy and default go-to guy whenever you need a question answered or something done. He waved back.

Vasile is one of the gaggle of eastern Euro staff. Roxanna (Romanian) and I counted 15 nationalities on the roster at Patio this summer. Bulgarian, Russian, Macedonian, Moldavian, Kazakhstanian(??), Cuban, Jamaican, Mexican, Canadian, American, Austrian and a few more I can't remember right now. It's pretty cool.

And because this blog is a random mess of silly day-to-day goings on I'm going to leave you with my favourite new musical discovery, country harmonists Ladies of the Canyon. Download Follow Me Down, Haunted Woman, No Deliverance and Every Minute. If you like melodic twang from pretty girls you'll like this Montreal quartet.



And one more bounce. . . to some pics I snapped last week when the weather was gorgeous and I got the better part of an afternoon in at the beach. Nature porn, nature porn, nature porn.

Barking Dogs, Dancing Queens and Delicious Brews

Memorial Day kicked my ass.

What a weekend. I totaled 47 hours schlepping mojitos and lobster mac 'n' cheese at the Patio (funny, it wasn't the Bud Light and Boca Burger weekend I thought it would be). All told, it was long and tiring but for the most part the Baby Dykes were well behaved and decent tippers. I made a month's rent in four days, I ain't complaining.

And even though working 12, 13, 14-hour days is exhausting, going home to bed afterward isn't an option. Being all wired up and needing to blow off steam (and down a few beers, rightfully) myself and co-waiter Hunter headed to the A House each night after our shift.

Last call in this town is 12:45am so it doesn't leave a lot of time to hangout, dance and drink when we'd finish out cash-out at midnight. Ordering two beers at a time is how you get that done quickly.

The Atlantic House is where everyone goes on the weekend to dance, drink and fall in love--an old kindling building that gets really crowded and equally steamy. Good thing its got a sprawling back patio and ice-cold Rolling Rock, which is turning out to be my beer of the summer. From small town Pennsylvania it's a crisp and easy drinking lager--ideal for quaffing in hot situations.

Although, Sam Adams Summer is up there too. A not-too fruity wheat beer from Boston's famous brewery. Were serving it at Patio and I've gone through a half-case personally since I've been in town.

For something a little more bitter and hoppy I picked up 12 Harpoon IPA. I'm still on the fence a little about this one. It definitely fills a moment but it does have a robust bitter finish and I'm not always in the mood for that.

You know how that is.

Bring on the Summer Whites

I'll get back to you Tuesday after I recover from my first Memorial Day weekend but it's shaping up to be a real trip.

I'm working tonight then three doubles in row; Saturday, Sunday and Monday and the Baby Dykes have already descended on Ptown. It's girls weekend here in the Cape and young college-aged lesbians are here to drink, drink, drink--among other things I'm sure.

The weather looks like it'll be warm and sunny for the duration which means we'll be running our butts off at Patio, going through cases of Bud Light and truck loads of veggie burgers.

Earlier in the week I drove an hour down the Cape to Hyannis (Kennedy's anyone?) to stock up on uniform supplies. I left with bags full of white polo shirts, khaki shorts and a blindingly white pair of Converse. I took this picture of them before I wore them to document their condition. I'll take another shot at the end of the summer so you can see just how hard I kicked it here this summer.

Before I left Toronto I took this shot of my Chuck Taylors--the shoes I wore through at Joe Jack's in just three months. And some people think I live a life of leisure. I just choose to live in leisure towns and while most of the time it feels like vacation the reality is these little legs of mine are constantly on the move.

Like now.


I'm off to work but before I sign off here's a few pics of my cottage life this summer. And yes, you should be jealous.

Until Tuesday. . .

Housing: check!

Just back from the beach with a bit of a buzz. The Eastland boys made a picnic with corn on the cob, steamed shrimp and a selection of local beers and we made the two minute trek across the street to the sand then sat ourselves down.

If there's a better way to spend an afternoon I don't know what it is.

I also found a place to live so that's peeking my mood on this pristine Cape day. (The sun is intense, the tide's receding and the air around here smells like a mixture of briny ocean and lilac. One of the most beautiful places I've ever been. It's nature porn everywhere.)

Okay now back to business.

Yesterday, Eastland's Realtor Joe Somethingorother dropped by the house to move some things into storage for the boys. We started talking and he mentioned he still had a one bedroom unit available for rent. I met him at his office on Commercial St. just after lunch and walked a few blocks so I could check out the space. The place would run me $5200 and take me to mid-September. Not cheap. But that's Ptown and finding housing here's a bigger bitch than the local drag queens.

The location was pretty good; a couple blocks from the beach and a few blocks from Eastland. The apartment was simple, in a cheap motel room kinda way, but my options were that or sleep in my car. Besides it's only for a few months, so what the hell.

Joe was going to draw up the contract and I had to go get a cheque so I jumped on my bike and road back to Eastland. Upon my arrival I met Peter, my new room mate.

Him and his friend John were walking past Eastland and got to talking with Kevin in the front yard. Peter is renting a two bedroom cottage about a 3 minute bike ride from Eastland. I keep bringing up Eastland because I really don't want to leave. I mean I sleep in what's called the Princess room--a floral and lace pantry off the dining room, with little space and even less privacy--but this house and it's contents couldn't be better.

Oh, and the woman who used to own this place died in that room.

But it is a big frat house with a constant rotation of guests, visitors, tricks, maids, lawn guys, friends and foe. I need my own thing and so it's time to go. And my new place is fantastic.

Before I could get back to Joe Realtor and pay for the shack he was hawking I thought I would check out what Peter's place was all about. I walked in and changed my mind immediately.

A gorgeous cottage, not fancy but spacious and adorable and filled with original art. And while the other place came complete with nothing but a dingy bathroom and two single beds my new place has it all: washer/dryer, dishwasher, cable, internet, BBQ, a large deck, parking. And the best part? A queen size bed free of lace and frills.

I'm home.

Brace yourself Ptown: Here I Come

"Your imagination is your preview of life's coming attractions." Albert Einstein

I came across this gem of wisdom last night while reading my weekly horoscope. I consider Georgia Nicols (www.georgianicols.com) my personal astrologist and look to her Sunday email blast as the barometer for my week, month and year ahead.

The Einstein quote rings true. How do you imagine yourself and what do you see in your future? (Sorry if this is sounding a little like The Secret.)

A little back story to get you up to speed. While working and playing in Mexico this past winter I got the idea that a purely hedonistic lifestyle is not just a helluva good time but also entirely achievable. You don't get any closer to hedonism than living in a vacation town, where everyone is relaxed and happy and in search of the "best night ever!". So, in four days time I'm setting off for Provincetown, Massachusetts and another season by the sea. And all I really have is my imagination.

No job and no bed. Yet. Nothing for sure except the great unknown. And how much fun is that? It's the greatest stew of feelings: fear, excitement and anticipation all bundled up in a few suitcases and my Mazda 3. But to tell the truth I'm not going into this without a couple pages of crib notes in my pocket. I'm staying with a friend until I find a roof of my own and I have at least some lukewarm leads on jobs. I'm not worried.

People often ask how I was able to spend four months in Vallarta. My answer, "If you want something bad enough you make it happen." Sounds simple and it is. Or can be. It was in Mexico and I'm hopeful my lucky streak will continue.

At least that's my tone now. We'll all know soon enough how simple it is for me to land a job in a restaurant or bar. A winery maybe? Hell, hauling lobster traps even. Who knows? At this point I've only imagined myself dancing around a beach fire, roasting corn, slurping back fresh oysters and downing a few micro brews. That's not a bad start.