Let's chat about childhood idols for a moment or two, shall we? I've certainly had my stereotypical share that which lined the walls of my pre and post pubescent bedroom. There was Lynda Carter (as both Wonder Woman and her ego-tastic, 70's Vegas crooning self), Miss Piggy (shut up), C. Thomas Howell (although now, as an adult, I realize that was probably more of a crush than idolization).
But then there was "Half-Pint". Laura Ingalls, herself. Melissa Gilbert.
Oh, how I loved "Little House on the Prairie." So much so that, long before I knew marriage to a girl was not for me, I--like so many little boys do...right???--envisioned my wedding day and the attire my, ahem, bride and I would wear. The theme would be, "Little House" and I would dress like Almonzo in dressy, yet still dirty, farming pants and some kickin' boots (although secretly I really wanted to slip into one of those fancy, only worn on Sunday dresses sold at The Oleson's Mercantile. The pretty, simple and tasteful Holly Hobby kind that was certainly not as garish as one Nellie would wear).
As you can see, I gave lots of thought to it.
Then, I got gay and my tastes got, well, a tad bit more Nellie and the marriage fantasy blew away with the prairie dust. However, Melissa stayed put as an "idol." It's a tough job getting through years of mediocre Lifetime movies---and I'm talking about watching them, not actually acting in them. But hey, work is work and I was thrilled that during the last twenty years at any time of day or night there was a Missy fix to be had whether it was a "Prairie" rerun, a guest spot on "Nip/Tick" or some odd, late-night infomercial for a miracle shampoo that's not really a shampoo. Go figure.
So needless to say, when I heard that "Little House: The Musical" starring Melissa as--get this--Ma, was headed to Naples (just a straight, er, gayly forward, two-hour arrow across the state) I scooped me up two front row tickets the second they went on sale and set the countdown clock. Tick tock. Tick tock.
I know. Dork.
To pass the time I began scoping out restaurants for my and Billiam's mini 24-hour vaca. I put out the feelers and Googled my fingers to the bone. It was up to two dining choices in the city of what I'd come to realize as being the place where Italian food is king and chain restaurants go to retire. However, there were two standouts, USS Nemo's (recommended to us prior to the trip by two kind locals...thanks!) with its unique Asian spin on typical seafood and my find, located in the "trendy" district of 5th Avenue South, Bistro 821. Although Nemo's menu looked damned enticing, we chose the latter for its culinary diversity and close proximity to what we had hoped was the pulse of the city.
We quickly found out the city is sort of like being in a nursing home full of Republicans. The pulse is weak and uptight.
Take notice of Ebenezer staring grumpily at us.
At 5:30 PM the wait for a table at most every restaurant we passed appeared to be the same as ours: 40 minutes. And there wasn't even any Early Bird specials going on! Surprising as this was to us, it apparently was the hoppin' time of night for folks on the West coast and from the looks of the ones strolling the streets at that hour they might think twice about hopping for fear of breaking a hip. Billiam and I certainly got a look or thirty seven while waiting for our table--in broad daylight of all things, something new for us.
When I poked his belly like one would the Pillsbury Doughboy to muster up a smile, he snapped under his breath at me, "Don't touch me like that here!"
What did he think? The fogies would gaybash us with their walkers?
So in awkward silence we sat and sipped our sweating martinis on a street side bench where, no lie, it was the "drop off spot" for all the cotton-headed ladies exiting Cadillacs driven by their husbands who undoubtedly searched for the most convenient (and cheapest) parking available. Ever the button pushing rebel that I am, I did however make quite sure to perch myself just a tad closer to him than these folks might have been used to seeing two guys. On his lap.
One good thing that should be mentioned about downtown Naples: the FREE parking garage. What a concept! Mind you, free means one could be circling to the rooftop and back down again with no luck of finding any available spots as there are no cubicle manning employees shouting, "All full!" But, what the hell? We found one, the people behind us didn't, and that's all that mattered.
On to the food.
As we were now in a rush because of the unexpected wait and I was catching my usual hell from Billiam for not preparing as much as I should for these moments of stress, blah blah blah (I mean really, who knew the nursing homes released THAT many patients for early dinner breaks?) we sadly opted for no usual "K and F" appetizers. Although, had we the time (and my trainer I hired to shed the 19 pounds gained from a year and a half of food reviewing did not fill my head with guilt hours before the trip) I would have chosen the Earth and Sea Chile Relleno ($12.95) typically prepared with a fresh poblano pepper and here stuffed with garlic shrimp, spiced beef and mozarella cheese, wrapped in puff pasty and drizzled with a roasted tomato and chipotle pepper sauce. Mmm good.
I assumed.
While we munched on complimentary samples from our favorite part of the meal (and my caloric downfall): the bread basket, we awaited on our entrees and patiently scanned the disappointingly pseudo 80's decor complete with mauve sponged walls and copper bursts of sunshine wall hangings.
"Finally!" I could hear his thought bubble exclaim, before it exploded all over our plates as they were set before us.
It was a little dark in there.
For Billiam a Veal Scaloppini with lemon and Pecorino Crust ($27.95) came a calling and for yours truly it was a tossup between the Seafood Risotto in either small or large plate size ($15.95/$28.95) or the Seafood Paella ($24.95) with its intriguing Italian spin on the traditional Spanish recipe. I pinched one of my love handles with disgust and went for the lesser evil that was bounteous with clams, mussels, Gulf shrimp, sea scallops and tender medallions of fish which I do believe was salmon. Fighting for what little room was left in the bowl were grilled summer squash and saffron rice making for a quite melodious concoction to fill my belly for the few hours of entertainment soon to come.
Not a fan of the baby cow, I had to entrust Billiam's word that the sauteed, thinly sliced veal was moist and flavorful and complimented by the accompanying al dente penne pasta that was smothered in a rich, Sun Dried tomato Alfredo sauce. Sounds delightful, but I just can't get past the baby cow thing. Call me a hypocrite when I chow down at Thanksgiving but slam on my brakes for a pigeon in the road, I don't care.
No dessert, sadly. But a few passed our table on their way to less rushed (and non weight conscientious) customers. All in all it was an enjoyable, unfussy joint with pretty good service and quite decent food.
I shan't critique "Little House" as I am so completely biased, but let me just say that there are a few cast members who, besides being most appealing to the eye, can belt out a number in the best way and the staging was superb. I do however feel horrible that in order to drum up word of mouth for its potential interest in Broadway producers they must deal with audiences such as ours who may as well be hooked up to life support. (I mean, you know what you're in for when the announcement to turn off cell phones prior to the curtain rising also includes a note about hard candy wrappers!....gee, do I sound ageist?). And finally, Melissa Gilbert!
I had a smile clear across my face for two hours and when I met her after the show she was everything I knew she would be.
Don't we look adorable?
Now after the show we felt like taking in some of the local, gay nightlife. If we could find it. We had heard of only two (yes, TWO!) gay bars in the city and one was supposedly on the same hustle and bustle street as our restaurant from earlier. Though at 11PM I could do cartwheels (if I knew how to do a cartwheel) down the middle of the street for blocks and worry not an inkling about being mowed down by foot, nor wheel. Plus, the address where the fictional bar was to reside was no longer a gay bar.
Drats.
So, on to the other side of the city to a strip mall hole in the wall called, Snappers.
I know, sounds oddly lesbian only, doesn't it? Of which there were quite a few...well, to be honest, there were only about ten people in this (almost) scary establishment that which we questioned the patron's sexuality and the possibility that, were they not friendly to "our kind" how quickly could we make our escape through the cluster of hallways which may or may not lead to the freedom of the parking lot. (We even backed our car in to the spot for a swift exit, if need be. Call us paranoid.)
While sitting atop our bar stools, trying to avoid the stares of the locals (who obviously don't get too many tourists stumbling in), we scanned the cavernous room with its three sad looking disco balls missing chunks of mirror chips hanging from the ceiling above an empty and darkened dance floor where tucked in corners--for that homey feel--assorted plastic plants are surrounded by more ashtrays than I've seen in one place in a looong time, we felt a wave of gay guilt wash over us. We suddenly felt so lucky to live in Ft Lauderdale where we had our pick of any number of bars, with a selection of vibes varying even if ever so slightly to make it seems completely different than another in which to park our kiesters and knock a few back with other fags comfortably.
We swore to never, ever take for granted again the freedom and diversity we have where we live. Those queens don't know what they're missing. Pity.
But what the hell, I got to meet an idol and to me it was worth it. But, damn, if we won't be headed back to Naples anytime soon. Billiam will make sure of that.
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