"First Lady of Burlesque, The Memoirs of April March", Chronicaling a Life and Career

Over the past few months, I've been working furiously on finishing "First Lady of Burlesque, The Memoirs of April March." This is a project that began about two years ago. My original intention was to assist another writer in chronicling the life and career of my friend, April March.


Somewhere along the way, the original writer dropped out and I took over the project.

Assisting in the writing of April March's autobiography has been a fascinating experience. It’s also been a pretty daunting experience. How does one chronicle a life of seventy-six years and a career of over thirty? With a lot of time and effort. I spent hours interviewing April, trying to record her personal life, the things that one doesn’t hear about during her public appearances. In the process I discovered that April March is a woman full of contradictions.

On one hand is the woman who, while still a teenager, left home and set out on a career in show business. Independently traveling the country, learning the business of burlesque and somehow avoiding the pitfalls that many women in burlesque succumbed to, April March built her career and eventually set her place in burlesque history. Covered in rhinestones, furs and extravagant costumes, April March displayed grace and confidence in her act. On stage April March was the epitome of sophisticated sensuality, the ultimate tease, smiling, taunting and drawing in her audience. April March was romanced by Mel Torme, Joe DiMaggio, gansters, billionares and even a king. Men adored her and wanted her. Women wanted to be her.
The other side of the story is the woman behind the performer, the one that the audiences didn’t know. Off stage April March dealt with doubt and fear of failure that caused her to turn down opportunities that any other person would have jumped at. Her life consisted of feelings of abandonment, self doubt, failed marriages and doomed romances.

After hours of conversations, recording and taking notes, I was faced with the task of editing. April March’s stories and adventures could easily fill two books. The task facing me was to decide what to edit out and what to leave in. Any burlesque fan would likely find every story, every adventure and every misadventure a joy to read. However, this would result in a book of a thousand pages.

As I read through notes and listened to hours of recordings I began to pick up on a theme in the life and career of April March. At a young age her father walked away and forgot about her. Later when she had contact with him, he disapproved of her choice to be a burlesque stripper. April’s mother was woman who constantly looked for something more from life, but never seemed to have found it. Focusing on this, I could begin to see how April March was affected. The men she chose to marry, the opportunities she turned down and those she pursued, even her desire to be famous and successful in show business all stemmed from early childhood events. This became the theme threaded throughout the memoir.

"First Lady of Burlesque" goes beyond the sequins and feathered boas to tell the real story behind the legendary burlesque stripper. In “First lady of Burlesque” April March speaks candidly about her absent father and alcoholic mother, a nine year marriage to a sociopath whom she considered having killed, emotional and physical abuse and a two year romance with a married man that eventually destroyed him and his family.

The book isn’t all tears and emotional upheaval. Throughout are the career highlights and first hand accounts of the early days of burlesque from the 50’s to the 70’s. Stories of life on the road, backstage catfights and sabotage and some of the personalities that made burlesque history are told in the words of someone who experienced it.


“First Lady of Burlesque” is full of never before published photographs and history that give the reader a personal peek behind the scenes of the early days of burlesque. In going through dozens of scrapbooks and photo albums, I realized that they were in themselves, a chronicle of burlesque history. Clippings and advertisements from some of the historical burlesque theaters and clubs which are long gone, April’s personal photographs taken backstage and on the road show some of the most famous burlesque performers in candid shots, Ann Corio dressing for a show and being caught by surprise in her dressing room, the great Rose La Rose cooking dinner in her kitchen, musicians and comics playing cards between shows and show girls posing backstage in costume.


“First Lady of Burlesque, The Memoirs of April March” will be available in November at Lulu Publishing and on Amazon. Actual publication date and purchasing information will be posted as soon as it is finalized.

untitled story

Since I was a child, I have loved horror movies. I would spend Saturday nights with the lights turned off watching werewolves and vampires wreak havoc on Eastern Europe. I thrilled at seeing alien invaders attack the Mid West. I was relieved to know that all the giant reptiles who stomped through cities were in Japan.




The movies terrified me. They gave me nightmares. They sent me clamoring under my bed at every nighttime sound. I loved the thrill of being frightened.



When I started attending school, I realized that no Hollywood production could ever compete with the nightmarish depictions of torture and torment that the nuns considered appropriate school décor.



No movie studio could ever match the artistry and skill of the Catholic religion in creating visions of horror. When it came to intimidating children through fear, the nuns of The Saint Anthony School were true virtuosos. Statues and paintings depicting blood seeping wounds, burning bodies and demonic creatures were as integral a part of our education as our Dick and Jane readers. Throughout the gloomy corridors and in each classroom, images of violence, death and torment occupied every corner and every wall.



Visitors who entered the front door of the school and went no further than the administration area, were greeted by the kind and handsome, Saint Anthony, holding the child Jesus in his arms. There was no hint that beyond the big double doors that separated the administration from the rest of the school, there was a house of horrors. If the school charged admission during Halloween season, they would have raised more money than what they raised in the annual candy sales drive.



The Sisters, themselves, were an important part of the atmosphere. In their shapeless brown habits and black veils, nothing of the person underneath was visible except for the hands and face. They all had developed the same way of walking which made them appear to be hovering inches above the floor like ghostly apparitions.



Sister Mary Gemma was known among the students as Bela because of her resemblance to Bela Lugosi. She was exceptionally tall, had a fixed grimace and eyes that bore right through you. She also was the most feared of the sisters because of her penchant for beating a student for any minor rule infraction.

Sister Mary Bartholomew was believed to be part bulldog. She had a massive head, small pointy teeth and a growling voice. She even drooled from the sides of her mouth when she yelled. Sister Mary Linus was known for being able to swing yardstick like Joe DiMaggio hitting a line drive up center field. Had she not entered the convent, she may have been drafted onto a major league baseball team.



I imagined that when the school was founded, Mother Superior had personally picked out the statues and artwork. She had probably gone to the martyr’s section of some religious department store and asked the clerk, "Don't you have anything bloodier?"

"I need more gore,” she would have explained. “Perhaps something in a nice decapitation or maybe a snazzy little disembowelment. After all, this is for an elementary school."



No matter how hard the clerk tried, nothing would have been horrifying enough to satisfy the Sisters of Saint Anthony. They had surely decided to repaint each statue before setting it out. The statues were likely brought to the art room where Mary Gemma, Mary Linus, Mary Bartholomew, Mary Peter, Mary Mary, participated in an all night faux blood orgy of enamel paint.



Mother Superior would walk around the art room critiquing each sister's work.

"Mary Peter, the blood is not dark enough, use more vermillion."

"Very nice, Mary Linus, I especially love the detailing around the gaping chest wound."

"Mary Gemma, this is absolutely brilliant. The leg in the jackal’s mouth is so lifelike. It truly does look like it's been ripped from the body. I especially love the texturing effect you added to the torn ligaments and exposed bone. "



The end result of their work was a vast collection of horrific masterpieces.

A large painting dominating one corridor depicted a severed head presented on a platter. The dead eyes were almost completely rolled back into the skull and blood dripped over the edge of the platter. The mouth, slightly agape, was frozen in one final scream before death.

In dimly lit corners warrior angels in gold breast plates swung their swords at the throats of winged demons. In an alcove at the end of a hallway, a saint stood with a foot on the chest of a man while pressing a spear into his throat. A fat little cherub looked on, apparently delighted by the site of the bubbling neck wound.



Even the Virgin Mary, that paragon of gentile womanhood, was not immune to displays of violence. In the back of our classroom, Mary stood with her arms outstretched in a welcoming gesture, a look of peaceful serenity on her lovely face and the heel of her bare foot digging into the throat of a half man, half snake creature, strangling the life out of it.



It seemed that the throat was the preferred area of attack for both the Catholics and their enemies. I suppose this was for this reason that the Sister's of Saint Anthony made it mandatory that on the feast day of Saint Blaise, every student attend mass and have their throat blessed.



New students learning to navigate the maze of corridors and stairways would, at every turn, find themselves face to face with a woman proudly showing the puncture wounds in her hands, a man tied to a post with arrows shot into every inch of his body or a painting of Jesus bound and tortured by Roman soldiers. Crucifixes were plentiful and each displayed a blood soaked Jesus with spikes through his hands and feet and a wide gash across the side of his torso. On a life sized crucifix in the main corridor, internal organs seeped out of the torso wound and a piece of rib bone could be seen underneath.



There were also stories to go along with the visual images. During story time, Sister Mary Gemma regaled us with happy tales of missionaries boiled and eaten by tribesmen in the Congo and Amazon, Christians torn apart by lions in early Rome, martyrs who were burned at the stake or had their tongues cut out as a punishment for preaching. Flesh was flayed from the body, heads were cut off and bodies were seared with scalding hot irons. The message was clear; the life of a Catholic was a violent one. In order to prove your faith and devotion, you were required to either be a soldier in God's army and destroy your enemies in bloody battle or be a martyr and face horrible torture.



One of the most intriguing of the saints was Lucy.

The bathrooms were located in the basement of the school. As you descended further down the long stairway toward the basement, the lighting became dimmer and corners were obscured in deep shadows. It was at the foot of the stairway, in a dark alcove between the bathrooms and the auditorium, that Saint Lucy stood. Lucy was a beautiful young woman who cried tears of deep red blood and held what looked like a desert plate with two eyeballs on it. Tendons were still attached to the eyes and the blood dripped over the edge of the plate.



The legend of Saint Lucy had been passed down over the years from class to class. It was a story the nuns would never tell. My friend Dominic's sister, Josephine, was in her fourth year at Saint Anthony. Josephine had told Dominic and I the legend.



"Saint Lucy was a nut job" Josephine said. "She was this beautiful woman who was normal until she was tortured for believing in Jesus. They beat her, burned her with branding irons and finally ripped her eyes out of her head."

"But she has her own eyes" I said. "They even cry blood."

"Let me finish," Josephine said with an exasperated sigh. "God gave her a pair of eyes as a reward, but you know how he likes to play mean tricks on people. He gave her eyes that cried blood constantly. After all that torture and then being forced to cry blood, she lost her mind. She started wandering the streets late at night, peeking into windows to look at the eyes of children as they slept. If she saw a pair she liked, she would tear them out put them on her plate and eat them."

"Wait a minute," I protested. "If the kids were asleep, how could see their eyes? They would be closed."

"God, you are so stupid. Saints have x-ray vision, like superman. They can see through closed eyelids."

That made perfect sense to me. According to all the stories we had been told by the nuns, it seemed that saints did have super powers.



"So, be careful when you are going to the bathroom," Josephine continued. "When you pass by Saint Lucy, make sure to keep your eyes covered with your hands so she can't see them. Otherwise, she might take them and eat them off her desert plate."





"If she can see through eyelids, can't she see through your hands?" I asked.

"Don't you know anything? The statues don't have as much power as the real saints. How could a statue have x-ray vision? "

It made perfect sense to me, although I couldn't be sure. Josephine had a knack for making any of her lies sound believable.

We had heard Sister Mary Gemma’s stories of miraculous statues that cried, bled and levitated. So, a tale of an eye obsessed saint seemed plausible.



Josephine taught us the prayer to saint Lucy and said that we should recite whenever we had to pass by her.



"Saint Lucy, please, these eyes are mine.

On these eyes, you shall not dine.

Dear, Saint Lucy, hear my plea,

leave these eyes so I may see."



"By the way," Josephine said, "they say Sister Mary Gemma is in league with Lucy and she'll try to get her whole class trapped down in the basement so that Lucy can feast on their eyeballs. Be careful."



The story spread quickly and everyone was cautious about going to the bathrooms.

Phillip Marconi was so afraid of Saint Lucy, that he occasionally wet his pants instead of going into the basement alone. Phillip had unruly hair which refused to lat flat. His shirt was frequently wrinkled and untucked and his thick glasses were constantly smudged with finger prints. He always smelled of macaroni and cheese that had begun to go bad. The mere sight of him drove Sister Mary Gemma into a rage. His wetting himself was just one more thing that she use as an excuse to beat him.



The fear of Saint Lucy became the cause of numerous accidents among students. Kids would walked through the basement with one hand over their eyes and the other extended, trying to feel their way to and from the bathrooms.

If you listened for the voices mumbling the prayer to Saint Lucy, you could often zero in on how close you were to someone and avoid a collision. Still, at least once a week a multi student pile up would occur outside the bathrooms. Students would try to detangle themselves from one another, one hand still firmly over their eyes and muttering a plea to Saint Lucy.



One morning, Sister Mary Gemma informed us that we were would be learning the emergency drill for evacuation to a fallout shelter. We were well aware of the war in Viet Nam and the communist threats from Russia and Cuba. We lived in constant fear that at any moment an atomic bomb could be dropped on our school. To protect ourselves we had been taught the “Duck and Cover” method against nuclear bombs and had practiced it frequently. The idea was to crouch under our desks, which apparently were impervious to radioactive fallout and falling debris. If we were not near our desks, we were to employ the Duck and Cover method by dropping to the ground and placing our hands over our heads. I failed to understand how my hands would provide resistance to flying bricks, cement chunks and pieces of steel girder.



"This morning,” Sister said, “we are going to practice filing into the fallout shelter in an orderly fashion. At exactly nine o’clock, when you hear the alarm, you will line up and follow me, quickly and quietly.”



Claudia Dente raised her hand and asked, “Where is the emergency shelter?”

Sister Mary Gemma rolled her eyes in exasperation. “You should all know where the closest shelter is at all times. There are signs all over the school pointing the way. It’s beyond the storage rooms, in the basement.”



The basement.



So, this was the day we had been warned about. I realized we would not only have to pass by the eye coveting Lucy, but would have to go further into the depths of the basement. I don’t think anyone, but Paolo, the janitor, had ever gone beyond the bathrooms, past the storage and boiler rooms, into the darkest, most desolate part of the building. Down there, we would be trapped, easy targets for Lucy. She would have all the eyes she wanted.



For the next half hour, while waiting for the alarm, we were to take out our reading books and practice silently. I was too scared to focus on the words “See Jane run. Run, Jane, run.” In my head, Sister Mary Gemma’s voice was repeating over and over, “See Lucy kill. Kill, Lucy, kill.”



Nobody seemed able to focus. Fingers were tapping on desks, feet shuffled on the floor and bodies shifted in seats. We glanced at one another, each with the same look of terror on our faces. Eyes darting up at the clock watching the time inch closer to nine.



When the alarm rang, we raised ourselves from our seats, slowly we marched single file down the corridor, through the large double doors that led to the stairway and we began our descent into the basement.

I felt sweat trickle down my back and my knees felt a bit wobbly.

At the bottom of the stairs, over a hundred sets of eyes were covered, almost simultaneously. A domino effect occurred, students fell over one another and a few minutes of chaos ensued. I stumbled around in the dark, still covering my eyes and trying to recite the prayer to Saint Lucy. Someone banged into me and I was knocked off balance. I landed on my butt on the cement floor.

Nuns were yelling. There was a loud crashing sound as something was knocked over. I hoped it was Lucy. I could hear Phillip screaming and thought for sure his eyes were being torn out from under his thick glasses.



Then I heard something else. Amidst all the panic, fear, crying and threats of violence form the nuns, I heard laughter. I spread my fingers and peered out between them. Across the basement, Sister Mary Gemma had a handful of Phillip Marconi’s unruly hair and was pulling him up off the floor. Over by the stairway was the source of the laughter I had heard. It was the older students, the ones who had spread the story of Lucy. They were laughing at us. I took my hand away from my eyes. Slowly, one by one, so did the other kids. I saw Josephine and two other girls standing against the far wall. She was doubled over, laughing.



It took a few minutes more for the nuns to restore order. Sister Mary Gemma gathered up her class over to one side of the basement.

"Back upstairs to your desks" she said in an oddly controlled voice. Once we were in the classroom, she sat at her desk, looking us over, giving each one of us that cold, icy stare.



After a while she asked, "Who would like to tell me what was going on down there?"

When she got no reply and no volunteers, she chose the weakest link in the classroom chain.

"Mr. Marconi, come to the front of the class," she commanded.

Phillip crept up to the front of the room on legs that were visibly shaking and threatening to give out under him. He stood there facing the class and I saw that his face had a pale green tint. He looked like he like he couldn’t decide if he was going to cry, faint or throw up.

I hoped that by some miracle, he would have the strength to hold out and not tell her anything. I also knew that he would have no choice.

"Mr. Marconi, why did you cover your eyes while walking down the stairs?" Sister asked. Phillip started to cry.

"Stop that infernal blubbering," Sister hissed at him, "or I will beat you so badly, you'll be begging Jesus to let you die."

Through tears and sniffles, Phillip told the whole story, including the prayer to Saint Lucy. Nobody could blame him. Phillip, more than anyone in the class, knew the pain of a yardstick across the palm of the hands or kneeling for hours on Sister Mary Gemma’s special mat with the stones glued to it.

Any one of would have broken down and told the truth. Most of us may have endured longer, but eventually, just knowing what lay ahead would be enough to crack the toughest of us. Sister Mary Gemma had studied the techniques used to make the martyred saints renounce their faith. Roman soldiers and winged demons would have dissolved under one of her intense, icy stares.



I just wished he had left out some of the details, especially the prayer.



As I sat there listening to Phillip relating every detail of the Saint Lucy legend, I wondered how we all could have been so stupid as to believe such a thing.



Phillip had managed to tell the entire story without passing out or throwing upand was allowed to return to his desk. Sister Mary Gemma got up and left the class without a word. It seemed like hours had passed before she returned. We were all dreading the punishment she would inflict on us, but instead, the class went on as normal. The rest of the day went by with no mention of the incident.



The next morning, when it was time for morning prayers, Sister announced that we would all be downstairs to the auditorium. When we got downstairs we saw that the entire school was there and Saint Lucy had been moved from her pedestal in the hallway and been brought into the auditorium. Lucy's bloody tears were fresh and wet, streaked further down her face than usual. Mother Superior stepped onto the small stage and raised a hand that had vermillion red smudges on the finger tips.

"As you can all see," she announced, "Saint Lucy has been crying all night over your disgraceful behavior. The Baby Jesus has also been crying all night and the Blessed Virgin Mary is disgusted with each and every one of you."

Mother Superior continued, telling us about each saint and apostle that had been insulted by our behavior. The list of who we had disappointed seemed endless.



"Some of you started this outrageous story about a lovely saint. Some of you were stupid enough to believe it. So everyone in this school will be punished."

For the next two hours, we were made to kneel on the wood floor and pray the rosary over and over while the nuns walked up and down the rows of kids with their yardsticks hitting each one of across the back of the hands.



After school, Dominic and I walked home with Josephine. I took some small satisfaction in seeing that her hands were as raw and red as mine and that they obviously hurt.

"Look at the trouble you caused," I said to her.

"Me? Why are you blaming me? That story has been going around for years. I didn't make it up. It’s a tradition to tell it to all the new kids."

"Well I'll never to listen to anything you say, ever."

We walked in silence for a while, me sulking and rubbing my sore hands.

After a few minutes Josephine said to me, "Come over after you change out your uniform and I'll you guys about Saint Agatha."

Neither Dominic nor I said a word. I was determined not to give in.

Josephine was undeterred by our silence and continued talking.

"Yeah, she used to be in the basement across from Lucy. Where that empty pedestal is now."

Curiosity was pulling at me. I could feel the question trying to escape my mouth. I bit down hard and resisted the urge to give in.

"They finally had to move the statue into the storage room and lock it up after some of the weird things that happened."

That was it, I couldn't resist anymore. "Who is Saint Agatha," I blurted out.

A wide, satisfied grin crossed Josephine’s face. "She's the saint whose boobs were cut off. Come over later and I'll you all about her."

I rushed off down the street eager to get home and get to Dominic and Josephine’s house.

Halfway down the block I heard Josephine call out, "Wait til you hear the prayer to Saint Agatha."

My Art: Who I Am, What I Am, And How It Influences Creation

I was recently involved in an interesting online discussion in an art website. The subject was how much art reveals about the artist who creates it. Does the photograph reveal more about the photographer than the subject?

When I first started to show my paintings about fifteen years ago, this question never entered my mind. I had given no thought to the process by which I developed ideas and inspiration. I hadn't considered whether the ideas were coming from deep, dark place in my psyche and if the act of putting them on canvas or film was in some cathartic.

After a couple of successful showings in New York City, I was interviewed by an online art magazine. One of the questions centered on the symbolism in my work and the stories I was telling. The interviewer wanted to know if these stories and symbols related to my life. I had no idea. Without realizing it, I had been trying to create visual stories full symbolism and, yes, they were directly related to who I was, what had shaped the person I had become and how I viewed the world. I didn't realize at the time that my art was also shaping the person I was yet to be.

The first thing that was pointed out to me was the overwhelming theme of watching and being watched. Windows figured prominently in my work. Subjects would be looking out from them or the viewer of the work was looking in. In some cases, the viewer and the subject were watching one another. In thinking about this theme and where it had come from, it wasn't difficult to understand. I had always been a voyeur. Not necessarily in the sense of a sexual voyeur, but in general. There has always been a certain thrill for me to be able to watch people who do not realize they are being watched. In public I will watch, observe and eavesdrop, even on the most boring of conversations. I can stand at a window for the longest time looking out at other buildings and into the windows of neighbors. I watch them go through their normal routines, interacting with one another, cooking dinner or flipping through the channels on their TV. I learn something about the person by the body language they use, the way they coordinate and carry out a task such as cooking or what captures their interest on the TV and makes them briefly stop.


I don't know why or how this voyeuristic instinct began, but I did know it existed. Until it had been pointed out to me, I did not know that I was showing it to the world. In some sense, I suppose most, if not all artists have some degree of voyeurism. It's our nature to watch, observe and draw inspiration. It made perfect sense once I thought about it. Then I started to examine my work closer.


The next thing I noticed was the strong sense of sensuality in my work. As far back as I can remember sensuality has always intrigued me. Sex, itself doesn't but, the art of seduction, tease and people who exude sensuality fascinate me. In Catholic school I found myself more interested in the characters of the Bible who were not pure and chaste. Jezebel, Lilith and Salome became far better subjects for art than the Virgin Mary. I also developed an interest in burlesque and the art of strip tease and I began my lifelong crushes on Julie Newmar and Raquel Welch, two women who, beyond being physically beautiful, exuded sensuality in every movement and every look.

In my paintings and photography there is almost always, regardless of the subject, a sense of seduction and sensuality.


So there it was, everything about me laid out for the world to see and analyze. Look deeply enough into an artist's work and you were getting a glimse inside the person who created it. One would think that was enough but, apparently, the inner workings of my mind wanted to reveal more than my voyeurism and fascination with seduction. As I continued to look closely and analyze what the themes and commonalities, I realized that some of my deep rooted fears and anxieties were being played out.



I have never been a popular person nor have I ever maintained close friendships for long periods of time. Somewhere in the course of life I got the impression that people would not like me and would not be interested in having me as friend. I realize that I have so many positive qualities, but I've never trusted that anyone else would see that. I developed a tendency to avoid getting close. I maintained distance between myself and people I met. I gave them the impression that I was cold and aloof, disinterested in having them as part of my life. Now, in looking at my art, I saw people who were alone and lonely. Even when they are with others, there is a distance. Rarely do my photographs display emotional closeness between people. Rarely do you see people touching or showing acts of love. Like the photographer who creates them, they left alone wanting friendship and closeness but keeping it at arm’s length.



Events in my past life, such as poverty, homelessness and the early influence of Catholicism are themes that are much more obvious. They figure strongly in my work and it doesn't take any deep probing for a viewer to see these themes and figure where they may have come from.



In analyzing my work, it's clear that everything that lives deep within me comes out in my art. Many artists feel that this is what makes art interesting to the viewer. Whether the viewer is aware of it or not, they are getting a glimpse into the inner workings of the artist's psyche, they are being allowed to share in it and it is affecting them. I wonder if this is what we mean when we say a piece of art "speaks to us." Maybe we are feeling a connection, a common bond and seeing some of our own psychological make up in the art.



Even in some of my darkest themed paintings and photos, one thing that many people note is the use of vibrant color. In my paintings, color has become an integral part of my style. Powerful colors, brilliant colors, colors that we normally associate with strength, happiness and hopefulness. These are also a part of who I am as a person. I have always been someone who can face a challenge and get around obstacles. In my mind, there is always something wonderful waiting to happen and some positive lesson to be drawn from every event. Like me, my characters have power and strength.



This type of analysis of one’s own work is not unique to me. I know that others have looked at their work and thought about how their personalities, their life experiences and what they are and what they hope to be has played a part in what they create.

I would love to hear from people who have done this and what they have discovered about themselves and their art, whatever forms their art takes. For those artists who have not done this, I encourage you to do so. It's amazing what you can learn about yourself and how you bring that out in your work to make it more powerful and make it "speak" to others.

Weekend In Saratoga

Jim and I went to Saratoga Springs, NY this past weekend to visit a friend. I've never been there and only vaguely knew about it because of the racetrack. Although the racetrack doesn't officially open until next week, there was an open house going on this past weekend. So, we did get to visit and see the famous Saratoga Racetrack. I've never had an interest in horse racing, but it was fascinating to see this historic track and learn a bit about the history of it.

The town itself has managed to maintain all of it's Victorian charm and, in spite of it beinga rather large twon, has the feel of small town intimacy.  

A scenic drive to beautiful Lake George was a highlight of the weekend. The lake is just gorgeous. Beautiful crystal water surounded by lush green mountains.

Of course, teh best part of the weekend was being able to spend time with the lovely April March, her daughter Cyrese whose birthday we celebrated and April's husband, jeff and their adorable litte dogs, Heidie and Tyler

Some Of My Recent Photography

At The Edge

When I get too close to the edge my muscles tense, my breathing becomes shallow, I tremble and I know that it’s not always the fear of falling off, but the fear of wanting to jump over.

We Are All Broken

Black Ribbon

Pose 1

Merchandise to Benefit Animal Protection Groups

I recently put together a bunch of my animal photography and created some products on Zazzle such as a 2011 calendar, coffee mugs, magnets, greeting cards and U.S postage stamps. My comission on the sale of these items wil be donated to The World Wildlife Fund and the Humane Society of the US

Take a look at the Zazle items for sale and feel free to forward the information on.


http://www.zazzle.com/dperez725/gifts?cg=196225132316433641

Annual Ogunquit Visit Trip Report

Anyone who knows me, knows that I have an associaction with the state of Maine going back to childhood when I was forced to leave the city and spend summers in a lakeside cabin in the Sacco-Biddeford area. As a kid, I had no appreciation for the beauty of Coastal Maine and all it had to offer. As an adult, I had the pleasure of rediscovering the area and being able to view it witha mature set of eyes.

My first trip to Ogunquit, about twenty years ago, sold me on Maine as the perfect vacation spot. For gay travelers, Ogunquit offers many of the same things that attract people to Provincetown, but with more focus on relaxation than partying. Dining options range from casual to fine gourmet, an art community thrives in the town and Ogunquit can boast having one of the best beaches in New England.

This past week, over Independence Day weekend, we vacationed in Ogunquit as we do every July. Below is a little trip report that includes dining, enteratinment etc.

We stayed at the Ogunquit Beach Inn, which is where we have been staying for the eight or nine years. The owners, Greg and Mike, have perfected the art of guest service. While Greg keeps up with feedback on restaurants and entertainment and is able to make informed suggestions to guests, Mike oversees the details that make staying at OBI so comfortable.

I quit smoking three months ago and, due to a change in metabolism, started to gain weight. So, for weeks prior to the Ogunquit trip I had been on a pretty strict diet to loose a few pounds before stepping out onto a beach in a bathing suit. That's why it should be no surprise that much of my vacation was focused on food and being able to eat some real food again.  So let's talk dining in Ogunquit.

Gypsy Sweetheart is one of my favorite restaurants. The rich color palette of the walls and decor reflects the food that you'll get there. The dishes are a masterful blend of flavors and textures. This year I opted for a pork shank. The fact that the waiter brought me a steak knife was laughable because the meat practically melts away from the bone when touched by a fork. At one point, I picked up one of the shanks by the bone and a few inches off the plate was left with a perfectly clean, meatless bone in my hand. That's how moist and delicate this meat was. The accompanying wedges of fried polenta were delicious and this is coming from someone who grew up eating polenta long before it became a trendy side dish, back when it was still considered a staple of Italian country peasant cuisine. Gypsy's also has an extensive wine list so finding the perfect wine for any meal is not at all difficult whether by the glass or full bottle, the selection is great.

The Front Porch maintains its reputation for great food and service. Get there early if you want one of their most popular dishes, the chicken under a brick. It seems to go quickly. I was fortunate enough to get the last order the night we were there. Maybe some tourists expect that the plate will actually be served with a brick sitting the food and the novelty attracts them to the dish. Maybe it's just that they have tried it in the past and know that the lightly encrusted chicken is the moistest and juiciest that you are likely to find anywhere in town. I have to say I was disappointed by the Sangria. I love a well made Sangria with a summer meal and was pleased to see it on the beverage list. Unfortunately, what I got was more a red wine spritzer. It seemed more like wine with a splash of one of those fruit infused sparking waters.

There's a new place in town, Gourmet Express, which is filling a niche, inexpensive tasty takeout food at a reasonable price. It's located down by Frills. If you get a little tired of the crowds and want something have a private dinner on the deck of your room or need something substantial for lunch on the beach, check this place out. They will also deliver to the guest houses and hotels in the area.

Another great, light meal alternative in a informal atmosphere is Cafe Prego. While seating us, the owner, Donato, informed us that this year the pizza was even better than it has been in the past. Hard to believe, as Cafe Prego has consistently set the bar high for great food and atmosphere year after year since it's opening. We ordered pizza with plum tomatoes and arugula. As always, it was cooked to perfection with a thin, crispy crust and toppings that had a fresh from the garden taste. The perfect ending for any meal there is their rich, robust espresso and some of the outstanding gelato. The only problem at Cafe Prego is trying to decide which flavor of gelato to have. Of course, you can always stop in night after night to try a new flavor or two. Fortunately for me, as someone who is constantly battling the waist line, this season they did have two of my favorite flavors. So the choice was easy, half chocolate orange and half chocolate chili. The chocolate in the chocolate chili flavor has a wonderful undertone of real cocoa and the tangy aftertaste of chili pepper. If you've never tried it, it may sound odd but it's fantastic. Mexican cuisine has been combing the two flavors for centuries and now it's been brought to a creamy, rich summer treat. The chocolate orange is a rich, flavorful chocolate with a slightly bitter sweet after taste of orange rind.

Speaking of Mexican cuisine, two things that don't seem to go together are Ogunquit and gourmet Mexican food. In the land of the lobster roll, clam chowder and broiled lobster tail with drawn butter, another newcomer to Ogunquit, O Dos (so named because it is located above Club Oxygen) has managed to provide a great alternative to those of us (or maybe just me) who are seafood challenged, Seriously, I detest the taste of anything that ever existed in water. This restaurant is not the Americanized Mexican of Taco Bell or even Border Cafe. This is real Mexican cooking. I had my doubts, especially since the owners are not Mexican and neither, I believe, is the chef. However, I was pleasantly surprised by food that rivals my favorite Mexican owned restaurant, La Siesta, in my home town. One of the starters on the menu is chips with a choice of salsas. We went for the salsa fresca (fresh salsa), which lived up to its name. Hot chips and salsa made from fresh garden tomatoes, onion and cilantro made me eager to see how the main course would live up to the appetizer. My chicken enchilada was a perfectly cooked enchilada shell loaded with fresh, perfectly seasoned chicken and topped with lots of melted queso and accompanied by a flavorful rice and beans. When you've been satiated on the crustaceans and mollusks and are ready to try some home style Mexican cooking, head on upstairs to O Dos. By the way, They also got the Sangria right, a perfect blending of sweet sangria wine, fruit juice and slices of lemon and lime for a bit of tartness.

A warning to a certain restaurant:

The one disturbing incident during this trip occurred during dinner at O Dos. Three young people were seated at the table right next to us. Since they were only inches away, we were able to hear every word of their conversation. For the most part, I ignored it. The rambling of teens doesn't much interest me until they started talking about work. They apparently work in a restaurant in town. Amid the usual complaints about work and gossip about co-workers, the conversation turned to what they do to the food of customers who they feel are being rude or overly demanding. Keep in mind that what a twenty year old deems rude and demanding may be quite different than what many of the rest of would consider such.

I was appalled by the admission of this little queen that he dislikes the vegetarian customer who eats there once or twice a week and, therefore, always slips some chicken into her food just for spite.

Being a person who has a few severe food allergies, I wonder what would happen if I ate at this restaurant and made a request that certain ingredients such as egg and mayonnaise be left out of my food. Might he consider this overly demanding and slip some in just to have the pleasure of watching me go into severe abdominal convulsions? Would this be just pay back for having insulted his twenty year old sensibilities?

If you are one of the establishments that are too cheap to hire adults and instead opt for staff who feel the movie "Waiting" is a cinematic masterpiece destined for a future slot among the great film classics, do have a serious talk with your staff and do keep a close eye on them.

Entertainment:

The Ogunquit Playhouse has a pretty good season. Unfortunately, while we there the show happened to be The Sound of Mucous. I can't tink of a worse way to spend an evening than children sing. The playhouse was a pass this time around. however, if you happen to be in town at a time that a show is playing that would interest you, do go to the playhouse

By far the best entertainment in Ogunquit is the Kris Francis Show. This year Kris has moved his act to Oxygen. We have been going to Kris' show for years and it has become as much a part of our Ogunquit visits as the man is a part of the town’s entertainment scene and entertainment history. The great thing about Kris Francis is that you can see his show hundreds of times and no two will be exactly the same. The reason is that he has an amazing ability to size up and audience within seconds of taking the stage and come up with jokes aimed at every person off the top of his head.

Anyone who has seen Kris knows what I mean. When you walk out of his show, sides hurting from the amount of laughter you've just experienced, you find yourself amazed at how fast and furiously the unrehearsed lines shoot out. For those of you who have never seen Kris' show, be warned, the audience is the target of his humor. He is foul mouthed and not the least bit politically correct. No ethnic group, gender, sexual orientation, age group or sexual practice is taboo. Everything is made fun of and no member of the audience, no matter how much they try to shrink back into the dark shadows of a corner, will be immune from being tormented. Everything from your appearance to your sex life will be the subject of Kris Francis humor. Everyone in the club will get their turn at being the butt of his jokes and, if you can laugh at yourself as much as other can laugh at you, you have a great time.

Aside from being one of the funniest men alive, Kris is also a wonderful singer and accomplished pianist; both talents are worked into his show.

Go with an open mind, take the stick out of your butt before going in and enjoy an hour of nonstop laughter. And, if you're daring enough or drunk enough, just try to heckle the man. I always love seeing how quickly hecklers are left speechless.

A new entertainer to Ogunquit is Michael Holmes who is performing The Judy Show at The Front Porch. I wish I could give an accurate review of this show. Unfortunately, The Front Porch is not set up correctly for shows. We went one night to catch the Judy Show in which Michael Holmes impersonates Judy Garland, as the of a live stage show with guests Pearl Bailey and Bette Davis, both impersonated by Homes after quick costume changes. The first attempt was immediately following dinner at The Front Porch. We headed upstairs to the show and found that there were no tables available, very common at TFP, but while trying to find a place to stand and view the show, we felt we were blocking wait staff, whose jobs are difficult enough in that environment, and were being bitched at by other audience members that we were blocking their view. We ended up leaving and coming back another night. The second time we arrived at the club an hour and a half before show time. When the show started, there were so many people standing that you could only occasionally get a glimpse of Mr. Holmes' head above the crowd. , given the set up and the fact that people in the back can neither see nor hear adequately, people in the back of the club are usually talking to be heard above the entertainer. Add to that the people who really want to hear and, from the front are yelling at the people in back to shut up and you get the picture. The Front Porch may be making good money from the five dollar cover charge, but they are doing the performer a disservice. What I did see and hear of The Judy Show, above the trailer park woman who were fighting a few feet away from us, seemed wonderful.

What The Front Porch needs to do is find a better way to set up for shows. It may be time consuming, but a better system would be to have tables set in the area of the stage with standing room only area toward the back. Those arriving early get a table. Those arriving late will know that they may be standing. If a table opens, a list of names is kept by the host and tables are given on a first come first serve basis. Tables of seating for four or more are to be shared if being used by a party of two. On the first attempt at seeing the show we approached a table set for four which had two people sitting at it. They had been sitting alone for the half hour we had been standing and it was obvious they were alone. However, when we asked if we could sit at their table, they blatantly lied and said they had friends with them. Mentioning this to the woman at the front door got us the reply, "So, if they don't want you sit, they don't want you sit with them. There's nothing we can do about it."

Oh yes Front Porch, there is something you can do about it.

I have been going to The Front Porch for about two decades now and have seen it rapidly decline. A business that was built on the a clientele made up mostly of gay tourists and locals now seems to be catering to a different clientele at the expense of others. That clientele being the over aged Sex In The City wannabes from the suburbs. The middle aged women who have gotten a weekend away from suburban America and looking for a spot where they can hoist their cosmos in the air, let out their high pitched squeal and do the drunk girl dance.



The Front Porch should stop doing shows until it can find a way to accommodate a performer in a manner that shows respect for the performers craft and allows them to be adequately seen, heard and enjoyed. Sorry Front Porch, I love you, but you're getting wrong, in my opinion. You've enhanced the dining experience downstairs by expanding the seating, the menu and bringing the service to higher level. Now you should focus on the upstairs. Nothing is more degrading to a performer than an establishment that uses them to collect a cover charge and does nothing to allow them to showcase their talent.