I’m writing from a laptop in bed. I have not had a bed day in many months. I have had about one day off per month in the last three. It’s my bed, and I’ll lie in it. And do nothing for today except write. Writing has been neglected as have all other creative and intellectual pursuits, but it’s for the greater good in this great nation of ours – making money - the standard by which many of us are measured. I’ll measure my success in the end by how much of it I can give away without feeling any pain.
Peter and I were in cruise mode. We had a start-up business that was doing fine. We had good staff in place. We were able to go to Mexico in February and have Valentine’s dinner on the beach. We went again in May, and to Vegas as well. We even went to England to play a show – both Peter and I with our joint and respective bands. We could feel the pangs of longing for civilized European life as we waited in the train station in London to go back to the airport - National Health System, People who speak English and not American. But we could not leave well enough alone.
We moved out to Colorado to have a bar in Old Town Fort Collins, and were determined to reach our goal. An opportunity seemed to fall into our lap. In fact, it was right across the street from the bar we moved out here to buy. We haggled over price. I got in touch with my inner forensic accountant and had to reconstruct 3 quarters worth of finances. The books were a mess and so was the bar, but what’s not to like? I’ve always been up for a challenge. My therapist used the word “masochist”. And maybe I’m the reincarnation of the Saint of Lost Causes. By Jude, I think we have ourselves a deal. All I have to do is raise the cash. And write a business plan with projections and solid concept.
I’m betting the farm on this one. Quite literally. We were driving to our bar in Brighton, which is a 45 mile trip each way, and I said to Peter, “I think it’s time to sell the Manhattan apartment”. Peter was stunned. It was my “I could always go back” card, but I realized that I’m not going back any time in the near future to live. That would mean an office job, which I can’t do anymore. I also hated being a landlord – collecting rent, arranging to fix toilets and leaky radiators long distance, and any other monthly monkey business that goes along with a sublet. So, last Christmas when I was in New York, I signed up with an agent, and started the long and grueling process of selling a Manhattan co-op.
Tenants don’t like when you list your apartment for sale. Though my tenants were fine, they were twenty-something girls with IKEA furniture and no motivation to help me sell the place, as a buyer would force their eventual eviction. After three months on the market with no action and the girls moving out, I stepped it up and hired a stager. Stagers are professionals with good taste that you pay to make a place look like one you would WANT to live in, but no one really lives that way. Think hotel decorating. I had the place patched and painted, and then stager works her magic with a dummy flat screen and well-appointed inflatables. I posted a link to Facebook, and The Social Network did its thing. Friends of a friend came to look at the place and put an offer in 10 days later.
I’m thinking it’s a done deal, so I go ahead and do my deal, thinking, how long can it take to close? Famous last words. I had six months to get the money from the sale to close the deal on the new bar. As the six month mark approached, I felt I was doomed – not again! I could see the whole thing falling apart in one way or another as I’ve never been lucky. I may be fortunate, but none of my native talents could help me now. It was watch and wait. And wait. And sweat. And fret. How many times this year did I say to myself, “I wish Daddy were alive!”. He’d know what to do. As the deadline approached, I called my lawyer instead of using the ouija board. His interpretation of the contract said I was AOK and he didn’t think that I’d once again go be shut out of the Old Town nightlife scene. The deadline passed, the money came two weeks later, and we took over the bar at the end of September, and our lives have not been the same since.
But wait! There’s more! The building is a beautiful historic former bank that was built in 1905 that had been beaten up pretty badly over the last two decades. I had a vision of restoring it to its former glory, or even a new glory that was somewhere in between a bistro and a brothel. I got this Paris/New York/London jazz age concept in my head and would not let go. In order to qualify for certain tax breaks and incentives, we have to use a particular contractor, work with the historical society and the city buildings office. When I called a few places, and told them my ideal timing was two weeks and my budget, half of my calls were not even returned. We closed November 13th, and will open this week before New Year’s so let’s just say my expectations were optimistic.
So here we are, on the eve of our grand opening and excitement is in the air. The local newspaper has already published a little article on our business – The Astoria. It’s a little New York and a little London, so Peter and I are bringing our heritage to Main Street USA. We’re trying to bring our urbane sensibility to the Wild West, but small town life has rubbed off on us a bit, too. I bought my first new car, a Subaru Outback, which may be the official car of Fort Collins, if not all of Colorado. Somehow another winter in a four-door sedan with front-wheel drive when I have a 100-mile-a-day drive to work was not very appealing. Two snowstorms in a row and a hairy late-night drive set my mind to it.
The other acquisition we made to camouflage ourselves into small-town life was a dog. A veterinarian friend had a rescue dog at her office, a German Shepherd, that needed a home. The dog was a bit skinny and had a bad haircut. Further evidence of the dog’s abuse was her name: Seven Daze. We had fostered another dog, which was not successful, so I wasn’t sure about trying another one. The challenge was making sure that the dog got along with our six cats. You can see this could be a recipe for disaster. When we brought the dog home, she immediately understood that the cats were boss and she was on their turf. We also gave her a new name: Lucy. She had been in a crate 16 hours a day, so she didn’t know how to play or fetch. She learned how to sit immediately. Now she loves to run and play. She turned 1 year old December 17th. She’s still learning the difference about what’s OK to chew and what is not, and she definitely responds to BAD DOG. She’s gotten over the previous trauma of being crated and sleeps in our bedroom in a kennel without complaint.
I finally finished a recording project we started last year: an album of KISS covers. It’s a long story a couple of years in the making, but it’s DONE! Working a minimum of 10-hour days, seven days a week has left me neglectful of my creative endeavors – no writing, no music. Once the new business gets up and running, I may have one or two days off a week and flex the other side of my brain that does not involve mixing cocktails or balancing books. The last three months have been brutal, with this very day being one of three I have had off in three months. That’s what I signed up for, and I hope my hard work pays off. Instead of running around in my down parka and shearling boots, I’d rather be wearing a few ounces of material by a pool eating ceviche and sipping an unnaturally-colored beverage. That will be my motivation to make this new venture a success.
Come visit us out here, as I’m not going anywhere for a while. Dog sitters are easier to find than bar sitters.
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