Yes, I was wearing a flannel shirt.
W and I were in Atlantic City for the weekend.
We spent about five minutes in the Hard Rock Hotel & Casino before we were overwhelmed by the grandness of it all. The lights, the bling, the music, the noise. We stood there in the lobby like a pair of lesbian Country Mice lost in the big city.
After checking in, we retired to our fancy room, splurged on room service and then headed out to a Fleetwood Mac concert. That’s why we were in town. Fleetwood Mac was the last band on my concert bucket list.
The OG (Original Gypsy).
At 70, Stevie Nicks still has it. She was decked out in a raven black dress and black fringed shaw, clutched a tambourine in one hand and even executed her trademark triple twirl at the end of “Gypsy.”
The band was in fine form and played all its hits.
Mike Campbell from Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers and Neil Finn from Crowded House stood in for Lindsey Buckingham, who is not touring with the rest of the band. Fleetwood Mac celebrated Tom Petty in one of its encore songs by playing “Freefall” while a montage of Petty photographs, many of which showed him playing alongside Nicks, played on the big screen.
After the concert, W and I went out for a nice pasta dinner. We ended the night by grabbing some gelato and heading back up to our hotel room. A.C. was just starting to heat up, but what can I say? It was past our bedtime.
The next morning, W found a nice spot for breakfast, and we ate eggs by the bay before heading home.
It was a short getaway, but I feel rested and rejuvenated and in love with my wife.
Posted in Gay & Lesbian, Relationships, Uncategorized
Tagged Atlantic City, concert, fun, gay, getaway, hotel, humor, lesbian, love, music, room service, Stevie Nicks, weekend, wife
I had forgotten how much I love books.
It’s not that I haven’t been reading. I read every night for at least 20 minutes or so. I try to sneak in reading wherever I can — at the doctor’s office, in the car waiting to pick up my son, sprawled out on the couch for a quick work break.
Lately, I have been reading a lot of nonfiction: a book on introverts, books on gender, an essay collection. Nonfiction seems substantial and important. Worthy of my precious time. They are books that say look at me, look at the important things I’m reading.
And then I spotted a hardcover copy of Gillian Flynn’s Gone Girl on a rack in a thrift store for $2.25. I bought it. I had heard from another writer that the writing was good, exceptional even. Besides, the book only cost as much as an 8 ounce can of Red Bull. What did I have to lose?
I knew Gone Girl had appeared on various best seller lists a few years ago. I didn’t let this stop me. I’m usually not a fan of mainstream books. My name is Middle-age Butch, and I am a book snob.
Gone Girl isn’t even the genre that I typically read. I’m not big into mysteries or thrillers. Sorry, Agatha Christie.
But Flynn had me in the palm of her at the get go.
Gone Girl is about a suburban wife who goes missing. That’s where the story starts. Is the husband the killer? I found my allegiance switching from the wife to the husband and back again a whole bunch of times.
Flynn writes beautifully. I couldn’t put this book down. I started to pace myself near the end, because I didn’t want the ride to end.
Thank you, Gillian Flynn for reminding me that books don’t have to be heavy and serious to be worthy. They can be fun.
* * *
Have you read Gone Girl? What are you reading right now?