October 3, 1990.

The phone rang in my parents house at about 4 in the afternoon.

"Hello?"

"What are you doing?" It was my friend Chuck, who now lives in Scottsdale, Arizona. The Arizona gays renamed him Sal. I have no idea why, but when Chuck hung out with us during Phoenix pride, they all insisted his name was Sal. That's his Gay Name, apparently.

"Nothing," I answered. It was the truth. I had been watching Dance Party USA.

"Wanna go to New York?"

I didn't think twice. It was approximately an 8 hour drive. "Sure."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes."

"Aight."

"Bye."

I hung up the phone, turned to my mom, who was standing in the dining room, and said, "I'm going to New York."

"When?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"20 minutes," I replied.

"Who the hell are you going to New York with?"

"Chuck."

"Oh." She liked Chuck. We'd come home from dancing at the Nine of Clubs at 3 in the morning, maybe slightly a bit inebriated, and start cooking chicken parmesan and pasta. When she'd sleepily shuffle into the kitchen to ask what the hell we were doing at 3 am cooking (and drinking wine on occasion) we'd wordlessly hand her a forkful, which made her forget any reason why she'd be annoyed we'd be filling the house with the aroma of chicken and marinara in the middle of the night. Chuck was, and continues to be, an amazing chef.

I picked up the phone and called my boss at the shoe store. I was only scheduled to work on the following Sunday, and I asked him if it was okay if I took it off because I needed to run to New York. He gave me his blessing, astonishingly enough. I felt bad, but I really needed to get the hell out of Cleveland at that particular moment. I was feeling intense wanderlust and wanting to expand my world. Besides, it was less than 2 weeks after my 20th birthday, and I figured if I was ever going to just irresponsibly just pack a bag and go to New York, this was the time in my life to do so. Besides, I had a feeling some very large changes were soon to come in my life. I was right. Less than a year later I would be in Air Force basic training in San Antonio, Texas.

"Carpe diem," I whispered to myself, recalling the movie Dead Poet's Society, which had come out a year earlier. "Seize the day."

And seize it I did.

Nineteen minutes later, Chuck pulled into the driveway in his forest-green 1981 Chevrolet Citation. I grabbed my bag, ran out the front door, and tossed my bag into the hatchback. I got in, looked at Chuck, and said, "Let's go." I loved roadtrips, and was ready to get the hell out of town.

We hit the road.



Fast forward a few days.

Before going to New York, we made two pit stops. First, we drove to Manchester, New Hampshire, then to Boston the next day. Finally, 2 days later, we pulled into New York and dropped off our bags at Chuck's friend's dorm room at the Parson's School of Design in Manhattan.


We goofed around New York for a bit, shopping at street kiosks and eating street meat (hot dogs), walking through Little Italy and Chinatown, and just posing for goofy pictures. Somewhere, there's a picture of my lying in front of the entrance to Bloomingdales (don't ask). I was having a blast.

Finally, I said to Chuck, "I want to go to the World Trade Center."

"Yeah, me too," he replied.

When we got there, I was floored at how friggin BIG the towers were. To my 20 year-old Cleveland eyes, they were the most magnificent structures I had ever seen. Beautiful? No, but definitely magnificent.


"Dude, these are HYOOOGE. I mean, god damn."

"They look like they're gonna fall on me."


The lobby was really stunning to me. In fact, I was so busy gawking at the place it didn't dawn on me to take photos of it. "Next time," I thought to myself. "Next time I'm here, I'll take a whole roll of film in here.

Unfortunately, the next time I was in New York was July, 2002.

When we got to the top, all Chuck and I could do was stare. We were a quarter mile in the air, and New York was laid out in front of us in all its glory. The Hudson was sparkling.

I stared at the Empire State Building.


Chuck was equally mesmerized.


I took the camera and started taking pictures...vowing to myself to return someday. I only wish I hadn't put it off for so long.







I was thinking about writing something about how I felt on September 11, 2001. But honestly, when I think about that morning, the old horrible feelings come rushing back. I've never really gotten over it, and I doubt I never will. I started crying when the first tower fell, but my emotions suddenly shut off like a tap, and I sat there, zombie-like, emotionless. That tap didn't reopen until that July, 2002 trip to New York when my plane flew past Manhattan and I saw a huge hole in the ground where those two magnificent towers, along with two other office buildings, once stood proudly.

Up until then, it was inconceiveable to me that two structures as immense as those were really gone. But they were. Then it became real. The scab that had formed over my heart was ripped away. And the tears finally resumed so I could begin healing.

Sitting there on that plane, I remembered that amazing roadtrip I took with my best friend that day in 1990. I remembered what I thought the afternoon Chuck called me and asked if I wanted to go in the first place.

Carpe diem.

I vowed never to forget that.

And I won't.

Special thanks to my good friends and neighbors at RE/Search Publications who were kind enough to scan my old vacation photos for my yesterday morning before I left for the airport. You guys rock. :-)