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On the road to glory

It was Forth of July weekend, 2017, and I prepared to travel to Setauket, Long Island – the historic location where the spy ring formed so many centuries ago.

I had been working with Nicholas Dalrymple – a young reenactor who’d been portraying Joseph McCracken since he was but a boy – on historical projects of my own, and it just so happened he had been chosen to portray the great Alexander Hamilton in a full-length feature film called, “One Life to Give.” Before I knew it, because of my proximity to the lad, Michael Tessler, the film’s writer, had invited me to partake in the festivities.

The heat took a heavy toll on me that evening as I left the comforts of New Jersey for the Long Island shores, but my spirits were high. After all, I’d always wanted to be in a live action movie, and the opportunity had presented itself… I wasn’t going to turn it down by any means. It took approximately three hours to get to the farm, the filming location and historic battleground where part of the Battle of Long Island actually took place. But weeks before, historians found a cannonball that dated back to the 18th century. Talk about authenticity…

As I pulled into Setauket, ghostly fifes and drums banged around in my head, as if my soul had recognized the area and had been there before. The sky drew darker and a local radio station blared factoids regarding Washington’s and Jefferson’s love and obsession for ice cream. Then approximately twenty minutes later, I arrived at the mouth of the farm; I took a deep breath, as if preparing to meet the Commander in Chief himself, and climbed the dusty winding road.

Three men greeted me upon arrival – Sam, a privateer reenactor, a glorious young man we called “Nugget,” and Jeff, a makeup artist. We exchanged introductions and salutations, as unwritten plotlines unraveled in our mind’s eyes as to how the rest of the weekend was to play out. Then, Master Tessler greeted me with a strong handshake, bear hug and a big “thank you” for quite literally taking part in history. Shortly after that, those still filming wandered from behind the scenes to join the rest of the cast and crew at home base.

One member of the cast, Laura, portraying a nurse, was the first face I’d recognized, as we’d met unofficially on Instagram, and the second was Nicholas Dalrymple. He sure was hot and sweaty, but his face lit up the moment he saw me. We formally introduced each other, as we’d only met over the phone, and he gave me a big hug. It was comforting to be surrounded by those I knew, even of they were friends from the internet.

I grabbed a quick bite to eat, then had to get kitted up shortly after. Nicholas wasn’t messing around and I was anxiously awaiting to head back to the 18th century. Now, as intricately as a man may have dressed back then, it was no easy feat actually putting the clothes on, and, to a modern man, the process was a bit risqué, especially in such heat, to say the least…

First came the stockings then the shirt. The shirt served as yes, a shirt, but also as a man’s underwear, covering the buttock and genitals. It tucked into the breeches, which came next. Honestly, it’s best to tuck the boys in comfortably, if you know what I’m saying. After you’re snug in your breeches, the cravat was put on next, then your vest. Nick assisted me and with each piece that was placed on my person, the modern world melted away quicker and quicker. Unfortunately, the more dandy-esque vest was too small for me, but what I had on did the trick nicely. I buttoned the buttons on my breaches by the leg openings and popped on the tricorne hat. That was the last piece of clothing that made the transformation complete. Everybody around me was quite impressed and I not only felt like a movie star on location, but also like a true soldier about the fight for liberty.

I then made my way over to some unfamiliar cast and crew members to get acquainted with them, as the rest of the crew prepared to film a scene in George Washington’s tent. Actor David Gianopoulos was there that night, too, playing the Commander in Chief.

The rest of the night consisted of watching Nicholas, Mike, David and other men film said scene, which was pretty wild, and catching up with extras by candlelight. Essentially, it was night number one of a very specific adult summer camp.

Several hours later, the scene finally wrapped and I was off to a local college with Nicholas and his crew. Although the shower had been locked, it was heavenly to have a bed all to myself, running water and air conditioning. What a treat it was and quite the respite that was needed in order to gear up for the following day.

By, let’s say, 10:00AM that next morning, it was time to get back on set. Now, I won’t bore you with the gory details, but here are some of the highlights I found most memorable: 1. Watching the fort come together out of thin air. 2. Listening to the Declaration of Independence being read on Fourth of July weekend. 3. Singing “Drunken Sailor” at the top of my lungs during tavern night.

Now, what I didn’t quite enjoy, however, was sporting a wool overcoat, wool cap and a million pound musket throughout the day on Saturday. Jesus, I must have lost my weight in sweat that day, but I will say, that as a historian, it gave me a much deeper appreciation for what those soldiers and founding fathers went through for many moons ago, fighting or freedom. And hell, I did look pretty authentic so, it wasn’t all that bad.

After tavern night, I was beyond exhausted and my eyes literally were popping out of my skull due to extreme exhaustion. The pup tents were set up by the cars, so I immediately grabbed one and set my belongings inside. I disrobed, peeling off all my historical garb, then changed into lighter sleepwear.

The weather was balmy and sticky, so I got into my sleeping bag and prayed to General Washington that I’d make it through the night. Approximately several hundred ants then decided to hatch under my tent, so I had to battle with God’s beasts for another hour, getting nowhere, of course. Those bastards bit every inch of me, as I threw feet and fists their way just to attempt to get somewhat decent shut eye. Alas, to no avail… I passed out in frustration and deeper exhaustion, while visions of fireworks blurred through my head.

I awoke somewhat unscathed from the battle I was thrust into the night before. I really did have the best intentions of muddling through the day and partaking in the big battle scene, but I just couldn’t take it. I ran to the John almost immediately after waking up, then went back to camp to try to salvage what was left of the morning. Mother Nature had other plans for me, though, and decided to allow a tick to crawl up the back of my leg… I had to scrape the thing off my skin and throw it back into the dirt where it came from.

Needless to say, that was the last straw for this soldier. I gave the garb back to Nicholas, passed out business cards to my connections, hugged Mike, threw my shit into the car without so much as even packing it up neatly and headed for the hills! I’m a city boy who likes creature comforts and was just done.

As I headed back to society, I stopped at a local bagel place and fueled up for the ride home. About ten minutes later, I attacked a plain bagel and cream cheese and had slop running down my cheeks. I yelled lyrics to a familiar reggae song that came in from one of the only stations on the island.

To say I had a revolutionary experience that weekend would be an understatement. I learned what it was like to finally be in a movie, got a newfound appreciation for 18th century history and met some interesting people along the way. I most likely won’t become a reenactor anytime soon, but may wind up being a historical interpreter as a permanent fixture in years to come, teaching passersby about book binding and the printing press.

To those I’d met on set last summer, Huzzah! May “One Life to Give” bring you all great success.

It started with an obsession

When I was in high school, not to date myself or anything, but a substantial amount of years ago, is when my obsession – LITERAL obsession with America’s south – began.

My family and I had taken my then-next door neighbors up on their offer to vacation at their condominium on Kiawah Island. We lived in Ridgewood, New Jersey at the time, and had only vacationed in Florida up until that point. We’d taken the quintessential family trips to see Mickey Mouse and live fantastically but for weeks at a time.

Other family trips included, but weren’t limited to taking weeks off during the summer and living on our now-semi estate in Margaretville, New York. But, the times I had up there, the wild freedom I’d come to love and appreciate later in life, must be saved for another story.

We had rented a van – aqua green, I believe – mom made a shit load of chicken cutlets, and we packed up and left in the middle of the night. I vaguely recall the lead up to this because I had been hanging out at one of my friend’s houses in a neighboring town, drinking like a rebellious teen. Also, back then, my metabolism was SMOKING, so I could’ve been drinking one minute, then driving to the southland the next without skipping a beat.

The absolute most memorable parts of that road trip, obviously, were mom’s homemade cutlets… and it was one of my first times driving on a highway, so that was fun. I was cruising down I-95 to “The Dark Side of the Moon” which was pretty badass at the time.

And then, as we hit the deep south, I had just awoken from a dreary nap… we hit a back road and I suddenly perked up for some reason. Old oaks were lined on both sides of the streets with the most fascinating Spanish moss. I had only seen it on the covers of old, rotting books or in horror movies, but shit, I’ll never forget that sight. It was the early afternoon and the moss-covered trees cast the most curious shadows between the beating sun’s rays.

And, just because it’s hilarious, I recall passing my first Piggly Wiggly. That Porky Pig-esque head smiled down, welcoming me to a place that no longer resembled Kansas anymore.

Nothing particularly extraordinary happened that week in Kiawah, except my own personal realization awaking in me saying that I had a thing for beautiful young men – blue eyes and blond hair with perfectly tanned skin – a “phase” I’d not soon outgrow. But really, though, I fell in love with the south – namely Charleston.

It wouldn’t be until years later, that my parents would decide to invest in a timeshare at Ocean Creek Plantation and Resort in North Myrtle Beach, South Carolina. The first few years, they ventured down there with my sister. I’d be home from college and didn’t want any part of that place. You’d catch me, instead, hosting Tiki parties and playing host to (not so wild) soirees. Besides, I thought my job at the town pool, flipping burgers, was like, the absolute shit, and I had to “earn money” for the upcoming semester. Yeah, I regret not spending more time in my beloved south in retrospect, a place I’d like to move to much sooner than later.

I started dating my now-boyfriend and future husband. We’d only been dating, oh, five months, and in hindsight, we were crazy for planning such an extensive trip so early on in our relationship. I remember it like it was yesterday; we studied articles out of then-Details magazine that offered up tips and advice on how to survive a road trip with a significant other, and he and I discussed our likes and dislikes when it came to music and vacation musts, etc. Yes, we drove down that year and only used to stay one full week. We grew wise and now, we go down south in class – we fly – and stay two weeks.

That year, though, I was released… something in my soul clicked and I was hooked. I was hooked on Spanish moss, southern cooking, affordable real estate and just the literal “Southern charm” of it all. The obsession grew year after year.

Then, in 2012, that’s the year the south – the charm, the history, the ritualistic undertones – crept into my writing, Folklore and religion were what I was after, so my man and I went on local ghost tours, attended local plays at Brookgreen Gardens – ones held under spooky live oaks – and I’d grab local authors’ books just before returning to the northeast.

I’d try to emulate  the southern dialect at home and attempted to scare myself by writing short fiction with southern gothic undertones. Actually, one of my first short stories actually would wind up being the grandfather to my soon-to-be breakout novella, VOUDOU JUICE.

So, right, summer of 2012… that was the summer I started to write VOUDOU JUICE. Oy, the time I spent speculating and mapping out plot and characters’ names… and yes, the book, in fact, was named after one of the drinks from the beach club at the plantation.

The book originally was set in South Carolina, based around a hot, young southern boy I’d met at Ghosts and Legends Theatre at Barefoot Landing that summer. You know the type – a little pudgy but not fat by any means… with frosted man bangs and a southern drawl you could listen to all day and allowed your mind to wander in the most glorious ways. Yeah, he was the basis for my main character.

VOUDOU JUICE would be a summer-specific project for the next two years; I’d only bring the handwritten manuscript out at the beach or by the pool if I had a couple of adult beverages bubbling through my system. That all changed, though, in 2014… I finally made it down to New Orleans with my best friend, Melinda.

One night, completely blitzed at Oz nightclub, the gay watering hole, I received an otherworldly vision that would change the course of writing VOUDOU JUICE forever. The inner courtyard, flashing lights, gay thumpa and wrought iron balconies called out to me. And, as a person who believes in signs, I wasn’t one to ignore the message.

The night I came home, after literally spending hours sadly bellowing over the fact I was no longer on Bourbon Street and obsessively reviewing the minute details of my trip, I got to writing, changing scenes and creating newfound characters that begged me to make an appearance in the new and improved VOUDOU JUICE.

The manuscript came out more frequently than a mere few weeks during the summer, and the story began to take shape – something big was brewing. Something was happening on the pages I wrote but also to me, the author; my literal blood, sweat and tears were being weaved together.

A year later, in Myrtle Beach, I had taken more of my recent memories and fun surroundings, i.e. the view of the gorgeous southern lifeguards that patrolled the beaches, with their tight asses and million dollar smiles, and weaved them into the story, too. A book doesn’t write itself overnight, and this one in particular, my first novella, took time to speak to me.

Finally, at the beginning of 2017, I made a conscientious decision that it would be the year the public would get to meet Riley Clarke, Cody Shrine, III, and my Voodoo priestess, the infamous Mama Julia Brown. Their stories were almost completed, but, night after night, they’d visit me. With some help from Spotify playlists and one Mr. Christopher Rice’s words of wisdom, I managed to get through it.

Mid-April of 2017 was when I received my first copies of VOUDOU JUICE and I was floored. My fantastical journey through South Carolina, several mixed drinks, nightclubs, New Orleans and well, the 18th century, was finally sitting in my greasy little palms. I was a proud papa, wanting to share the news with the world. And, the rest, they say, is history.

I’m still promoting the book and, thanks to my trusty assistant, am working on preparing VOUDOU JUICE for its second printing as well as taking it on the road to New Orleans in October 2018.

It truly was a labor of love that all started with a small obsession with my now-favorite place, America’s south.