What a to-do to die today at a minute or two to two,
A thing distinctly hard to say but harder still to do.
For they'll beat a tattoo at a quarter to two:
A rat-ta tat-tat, a tat-tat-tat-to.
And the dragon will come
when he hears the drum.
At a minute or two to two today,
at a minute or two to two.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Widowered
"When a man is a widower why do we say he was widowed? Why don't we say he was widowered?"
-Annie Reed (Meg Ryan),
Sleepless in Seattle
Well, apparently they do say 'widowered."
..................................................................
I had no intention of a big night out last night. And the night wasn't all that big, but it was out. I had hoped to join Jennings at the 3-D IMAX Superman show, but it was sold out. Gordon was in town and invited Kevin (and me) to dinner at Firewood. I was kept late at work and so got to Firewood about 20 minutes late, but still in time for dinner, where I met two new friends (new to me, old friends of Gordon's).
In true six-degrees fashion, one of my new friends is the housemate of the Anonymous Public Figure (and this) Truth be told, I would be much more romantically inclined towards the housemate than to the APF.
I needed a little outing, some good company, and a beer, but really needed to head home afterwards to GSD. Such would not come to pass. The new guys were much fun, and Gordon was ready for a Night Out, so we went across the street to Sadlands, even though we had just missed the 2-4-1 by about ten minutes. The plan was to stay for one drink. But there were four of us, and then everyone would buy a round so on we went. And when Oscar found out the greyhounds were for me, he was pouring them so strong it tasted more like a class of iced vodka that had just been shown to a greyhound.
The guys were much fun, and I had a great time getting to know Stephen (Steven?). This was one of Stephen's first forays Out since his partner died fourth months ago. Leukemia. Very sudden. Very tragic. I have had my own experience of caring for someone dying, although not the love of my life, and am comfortable talking of death and dying, the caring and the grieving and the dealing. Not that that was all we talked about, but I was happy to engage on the topic and I got the sense he was happy to talk casually about it with someone who wasn't awkward about it. I suppose it builds a sense of normalcy and living to the experience of dying.
We didn't dwell or anything, we just stood around drinking cocktails, telling stories, scamming the hotties, and mocking the videos. The topics of illness and blogging merged and I told him about my Caring Bridge experience, and then we started in on blogging. I confessed that I haven't kept this up as well as I would like (and I STILL haven't debriefed from the Swan Ball yet!), but with work and other parts of my life being so crazy busy I have't had time to write anything lengthy or particularly crafted. Just bits and pieces of fun fluff.
Me: "Like last night there was a Laser Tag reference at dinner and I felt the need to share that."
S: "OHMYGOD! I grew up in [red state] and there was a Laser Tag place in the mall!"
Me: "A Laser Maze! I remember those!"
G: "What's that?"
S: "Oh my God. It's like the Power Exchange without the sex!"
Oh my. That is so true. The lights, the music, the smoke machines, the dark corners and cubby holes. They might as well turn laser mazes into sex clubs after hours.
Of course, that got us talking about playing laser tag in the Power Exchange, which would be hilarious.
International Laser Tag Association
As is getting to be my habit when out drinking, I had scrawled that comment on a cocktial napkin so I could remember to blog about it later. I have another word scrawled on the same napkin. A term I could just as soon not have added to my personal lexicon, but it is as funny as it is gross.
Kevin and I mentioned out recent outing to the Martina McBride concert at the Oakland Arena. Shilpa was the only person of color, and the crowd was high on the red neck meter. We wondered what was up with the trashy (but kinda hot in a way) skinny white-trash guys with the bleached dip circles in their back pockets and their young obese girlfriends in glitter. (Oh my-- did you hear someone scream? No, that was just the buttons of her shirt.)
Stephen countered with his own red-state/red-neck story. One of his friends works for Wal-Mart corporate, and has to go to Arkansas every so often. "He says that red-neck sex is the best. And the closeted country boys get really into it." The word that stopped me cold was the redneck term for one's rear entry: turd box.
I know. I've gone one too far for the blog. But for Heaven's sakes. Turd box? Like, (insert farm accent) "Heh heh heh. I'm gonna do you in the turd box."? That is so foul that I could not stop laughing. Clearly, one beer and four greyhounds make me 12 years old.
Too nasty to tell, but too funny not to share. Now it's in your lexicon. Deal with it. And maybe one day you'll slip and tell someone they can shove it up their turd box.
Then let me know. I'll write it here.
-Annie Reed (Meg Ryan),
Sleepless in Seattle
Well, apparently they do say 'widowered."
..................................................................
I had no intention of a big night out last night. And the night wasn't all that big, but it was out. I had hoped to join Jennings at the 3-D IMAX Superman show, but it was sold out. Gordon was in town and invited Kevin (and me) to dinner at Firewood. I was kept late at work and so got to Firewood about 20 minutes late, but still in time for dinner, where I met two new friends (new to me, old friends of Gordon's).
In true six-degrees fashion, one of my new friends is the housemate of the Anonymous Public Figure (and this) Truth be told, I would be much more romantically inclined towards the housemate than to the APF.
I needed a little outing, some good company, and a beer, but really needed to head home afterwards to GSD. Such would not come to pass. The new guys were much fun, and Gordon was ready for a Night Out, so we went across the street to Sadlands, even though we had just missed the 2-4-1 by about ten minutes. The plan was to stay for one drink. But there were four of us, and then everyone would buy a round so on we went. And when Oscar found out the greyhounds were for me, he was pouring them so strong it tasted more like a class of iced vodka that had just been shown to a greyhound.
The guys were much fun, and I had a great time getting to know Stephen (Steven?). This was one of Stephen's first forays Out since his partner died fourth months ago. Leukemia. Very sudden. Very tragic. I have had my own experience of caring for someone dying, although not the love of my life, and am comfortable talking of death and dying, the caring and the grieving and the dealing. Not that that was all we talked about, but I was happy to engage on the topic and I got the sense he was happy to talk casually about it with someone who wasn't awkward about it. I suppose it builds a sense of normalcy and living to the experience of dying.
We didn't dwell or anything, we just stood around drinking cocktails, telling stories, scamming the hotties, and mocking the videos. The topics of illness and blogging merged and I told him about my Caring Bridge experience, and then we started in on blogging. I confessed that I haven't kept this up as well as I would like (and I STILL haven't debriefed from the Swan Ball yet!), but with work and other parts of my life being so crazy busy I have't had time to write anything lengthy or particularly crafted. Just bits and pieces of fun fluff.
Me: "Like last night there was a Laser Tag reference at dinner and I felt the need to share that."
S: "OHMYGOD! I grew up in [red state] and there was a Laser Tag place in the mall!"
Me: "A Laser Maze! I remember those!"
G: "What's that?"
S: "Oh my God. It's like the Power Exchange without the sex!"
Oh my. That is so true. The lights, the music, the smoke machines, the dark corners and cubby holes. They might as well turn laser mazes into sex clubs after hours.
Of course, that got us talking about playing laser tag in the Power Exchange, which would be hilarious.
International Laser Tag Association
As is getting to be my habit when out drinking, I had scrawled that comment on a cocktial napkin so I could remember to blog about it later. I have another word scrawled on the same napkin. A term I could just as soon not have added to my personal lexicon, but it is as funny as it is gross.
Kevin and I mentioned out recent outing to the Martina McBride concert at the Oakland Arena. Shilpa was the only person of color, and the crowd was high on the red neck meter. We wondered what was up with the trashy (but kinda hot in a way) skinny white-trash guys with the bleached dip circles in their back pockets and their young obese girlfriends in glitter. (Oh my-- did you hear someone scream? No, that was just the buttons of her shirt.)
Stephen countered with his own red-state/red-neck story. One of his friends works for Wal-Mart corporate, and has to go to Arkansas every so often. "He says that red-neck sex is the best. And the closeted country boys get really into it." The word that stopped me cold was the redneck term for one's rear entry: turd box.
I know. I've gone one too far for the blog. But for Heaven's sakes. Turd box? Like, (insert farm accent) "Heh heh heh. I'm gonna do you in the turd box."? That is so foul that I could not stop laughing. Clearly, one beer and four greyhounds make me 12 years old.
Too nasty to tell, but too funny not to share. Now it's in your lexicon. Deal with it. And maybe one day you'll slip and tell someone they can shove it up their turd box.
Then let me know. I'll write it here.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Dynamic Drinking Duo
Fabulous, and fighting crime.
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
I can't believe I overheard this
Two girls who grew up together, talking excitedly across the dinner table:
"In high school you were the Laser Tag Dominatrix!"
"A Doma-what?"
"You asked me what a dominatrix was then. I told you it meant that you were on top and caused pain."
Dominatrix topic aside, there was a freakin' Laser Tag reference at dinner! You gotta gawk at that.
"In high school you were the Laser Tag Dominatrix!"
"A Doma-what?"
"You asked me what a dominatrix was then. I told you it meant that you were on top and caused pain."
Dominatrix topic aside, there was a freakin' Laser Tag reference at dinner! You gotta gawk at that.
testy testy
I knew a guy back in Nashville who had a sort of litmus test/barometer for dates. He'd casually ask, "Who's on the ten?" That, I thought, was a pretty interesting indicator.
Later, my aptitude test was to ask if someone could recite the theme song to "Alice." (About half or fewer could wrangle the chorus from the recesses of memory. Only an impressive few could recite the opening lines. I'm just sayin'.)
Today I determined a new measurement. Shilpa and I took the new intern to lunch. He is young and flamboyantly gay. And unlike modern coffee machines, he has no filter. When he said, "He... no... I shouldn't say that..." before voicing a comment, Shilpa and I said "sure, go ahead," as we are pretty loose and difficult-to-offend people. We learned that his inappropriate line and our inappropriate line were miles apart. And ours is way the hell out there. He has since been advised to listen to that little voice in his head that says "that might be too far."
Today's conversation was OTT, and very much the sort of super-queen bitchy of the very young and very out. I was able to hold my own with the pop culture and sub-culture refrences. But when Shilpa and I had the following exchange he looked at us blankly.
Shilps: "Don't leave me. If you leave...Don't leave yet..."
Me: "If you leave. Don't leave now. Please don't take your heart away?"
Shilpa and I, having once recovered from speechlessness to his not getting the reference, were again dumbfounded when he said he had never heard of the citation. I thought, "My God... how young are you?" By which I suppose I was really wondering how far removed was he from our mutual frame of reference.
New test for the babies: "Who is John Hughes?"
Later, my aptitude test was to ask if someone could recite the theme song to "Alice." (About half or fewer could wrangle the chorus from the recesses of memory. Only an impressive few could recite the opening lines. I'm just sayin'.)
Today I determined a new measurement. Shilpa and I took the new intern to lunch. He is young and flamboyantly gay. And unlike modern coffee machines, he has no filter. When he said, "He... no... I shouldn't say that..." before voicing a comment, Shilpa and I said "sure, go ahead," as we are pretty loose and difficult-to-offend people. We learned that his inappropriate line and our inappropriate line were miles apart. And ours is way the hell out there. He has since been advised to listen to that little voice in his head that says "that might be too far."
Today's conversation was OTT, and very much the sort of super-queen bitchy of the very young and very out. I was able to hold my own with the pop culture and sub-culture refrences. But when Shilpa and I had the following exchange he looked at us blankly.
Shilps: "Don't leave me. If you leave...Don't leave yet..."
Me: "If you leave. Don't leave now. Please don't take your heart away?"
Shilpa and I, having once recovered from speechlessness to his not getting the reference, were again dumbfounded when he said he had never heard of the citation. I thought, "My God... how young are you?" By which I suppose I was really wondering how far removed was he from our mutual frame of reference.
New test for the babies: "Who is John Hughes?"
Spidey is more super
Superman Returns opens tomorrow/late tonight, and to less-than-super reviews. I imagine it is no coincidence that the teaser trailer for Spider-Man 3 was released today. Very cool. We know which superhero is really a super hero.
And there are enough iconic images that those who read the comics can piece together a lot of the storyline. The Sandman and the Hobgoblin will be flashy diversions to be sure, but the real story is in the black costume.
And there are enough iconic images that those who read the comics can piece together a lot of the storyline. The Sandman and the Hobgoblin will be flashy diversions to be sure, but the real story is in the black costume.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Overheard on the N-Judah
"Maybe they can't fire her...there's an ADA provision for mental disorders like bi-polar."
"Are you telling me that 'batshit crazy' is a protected category?"
"Are you telling me that 'batshit crazy' is a protected category?"
Pride Sunday brief recap
As much as I love Pink Saturday, I forgot how much fun Pride Sunday can be. I declined my invitations to march in the parade this year, although it is really cool to be a part of the parade and not just a spectator. I had the chance to participate with the Barbary Coast Cloggers (as a monitor, not performer), the Golden State gay Rodeo Association, or Old First Presbyterian Church. I have danced through the parade with Sundance Saloon in the past and dancing in boots, on concrete, for miles really, really hurts. I couldn't walk after. And I recalled too well the waiting and the baking before actually getting underway. So this year I was a free agent.
And as we each over-indulged in the Bacchanal of Pink Saturday, getting up early on Sunday wasn't anything we could manage. The calls went around in the morning that brunch was canceled and we could just watch it on TV from home and meet up later. Ultimately I made it downtown around 1:00 and regretted not being there sooner. I usually volunteer at the book check for the Sundance stage, but forgot to sign up for a specific time. I asked when I could be helpful and showed up to work with one of my favorite sexy cowboys for a couple of hours.
I love working boot check because then everyone comes to you. And you have ready access to a porta potty and a place to change pants/shoes. A couple of hours later I got to get in a few dances.
And run into some of my non-country boys strutting by for a look-see:
Jennings and Keith
Decorum permitting, I'll keep you posted.
And as we each over-indulged in the Bacchanal of Pink Saturday, getting up early on Sunday wasn't anything we could manage. The calls went around in the morning that brunch was canceled and we could just watch it on TV from home and meet up later. Ultimately I made it downtown around 1:00 and regretted not being there sooner. I usually volunteer at the book check for the Sundance stage, but forgot to sign up for a specific time. I asked when I could be helpful and showed up to work with one of my favorite sexy cowboys for a couple of hours.
I love working boot check because then everyone comes to you. And you have ready access to a porta potty and a place to change pants/shoes. A couple of hours later I got to get in a few dances.
And run into some of my non-country boys strutting by for a look-see:
Decorum permitting, I'll keep you posted.
Gays often come with a tongue twister
I came across this today, and I suppose only by its temporal adjacency I felt it could be a Pride-relevant sort of toast:
Whether the weather is cold
Or whether the weather is hot,
We'll weather the weather whatever the weather
Whether we like it or not!
Just a trifle I found amusing.
Whether the weather is cold
Or whether the weather is hot,
We'll weather the weather whatever the weather
Whether we like it or not!
Just a trifle I found amusing.
Amidst the bad puns, some happy news
Two officers of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police are getting married. Gay marriage is not only legal in Canada, but widely supported, even in the small towns and rural wilderness where these men patrol. Amidst all the news coverage, usually featuring plays on "Brokeback Mounties" or "The Mounty always gets his man," the two are planning their officer's wedding. Or rather, officers'.
Some of the better articles (if not repetitive):
CTV Canada
Washington Post
Seattle Times
Monday, June 26, 2006
Pink Saturday
I LOVE Pink Saturday. In some ways, it's better than Pride Sunday. The pre-parties are a love fest, of friends new and old, and of the journeys we've taken. And a good excuse for some quality time with old friends.
Then there is the massive mingling in the streets. You see everyone. It is unscripted revelry at its best.
Here I found Derek Speck, who moved to Seattle a couple of years ago and just happened to be in town for a conference.
Here are some other pics:
Kevin and Kelly who joined us at Sean and Matt's.
Kevin sneezing so hard we all thought he blew something in his brain.
My checking his pulse to be sure he was okay.
Pink Party Posers: NZ Kevin, Javits, and Wilson
By the way, I took a page out of the Papa John Easter Egg Hunt guidebook. I'd guess about seven years ago, Papa John started to have a "grown up" Easter egg hunt for the parents (my generation) as well as the one for the kiddies. Instead of eggs, he would hide little airline bottles of liquor in the yard or in the house (weather depending, and not the same garden or room as the kiddie hunt). One Christmas my friends and I ended up chatting late night at my parents' house, and someone found a miniature bottle of vodka between the sofa cushions. She looked very worried and asked if my Dad "had a problem." "No," I assured her, "that's just left over from Easter." Which of course, was not reassuring at all and sounded insane enough to indicate that perhaps we had bigger problems than bottles in our upholstery.
My point being this: Pink Saturday is about boys and booze in the street. But it gets nigh near impossible to get a beverage in that throng. So earlier in the day I decanted vodka and mixers into water bottles and hid them in various spots around the Castro like some sort of deranged Easter Bunny. Should anyone's cup run dry, I was able to reach into the nearest tree, shrub, bush, or other hiding place and serve another round. Even outside I was hosting.
I was treated like a God.
(But I am just his humble waiter, er, servant.)
Then there is the massive mingling in the streets. You see everyone. It is unscripted revelry at its best.
Here I found Derek Speck, who moved to Seattle a couple of years ago and just happened to be in town for a conference.
Here are some other pics:
Kevin and Kelly who joined us at Sean and Matt's.
Kevin sneezing so hard we all thought he blew something in his brain.
My checking his pulse to be sure he was okay.
Pink Party Posers: NZ Kevin, Javits, and Wilson
By the way, I took a page out of the Papa John Easter Egg Hunt guidebook. I'd guess about seven years ago, Papa John started to have a "grown up" Easter egg hunt for the parents (my generation) as well as the one for the kiddies. Instead of eggs, he would hide little airline bottles of liquor in the yard or in the house (weather depending, and not the same garden or room as the kiddie hunt). One Christmas my friends and I ended up chatting late night at my parents' house, and someone found a miniature bottle of vodka between the sofa cushions. She looked very worried and asked if my Dad "had a problem." "No," I assured her, "that's just left over from Easter." Which of course, was not reassuring at all and sounded insane enough to indicate that perhaps we had bigger problems than bottles in our upholstery.
My point being this: Pink Saturday is about boys and booze in the street. But it gets nigh near impossible to get a beverage in that throng. So earlier in the day I decanted vodka and mixers into water bottles and hid them in various spots around the Castro like some sort of deranged Easter Bunny. Should anyone's cup run dry, I was able to reach into the nearest tree, shrub, bush, or other hiding place and serve another round. Even outside I was hosting.
I was treated like a God.
(But I am just his humble waiter, er, servant.)
Awww
Debbie Sue Linda sent me some pics from the other weekend's lunch at Perpetua's.
Honestly, you can't say who is cuter—me or Roman:
Perpetua, however, has her own version of "baby's bottles."
Honestly, you can't say who is cuter—me or Roman:
Perpetua, however, has her own version of "baby's bottles."
Out on the Front Page
My buddies in the Barbary Coast Cloggers made the front page/image on Google News today, and the AP photo is also on the front page of the San Diego Union-Tribune Web site today (or it was when I clicked through).
Barbary Coast Cloggers
I haven't been to clogging class since I screwed up my ankle, but these guys are so much fun!
Story page.
I haven't been to clogging class since I screwed up my ankle, but these guys are so much fun!
Story page.
Friday, June 23, 2006
boobies
On talking to Amy about men's penchant for squeezing breasts:
You're more of a 'honk-honk,' where she's more of an 'AhOOOOGah!'
You're more of a 'honk-honk,' where she's more of an 'AhOOOOGah!'
gay ol' time
We all know that the orginal primary meaning of "gay" was "happy." Fred and Wilma had a gay old time. Christmas revelers don their gay apparel before they fa la la.
Although being gay makes us (gays) happy (in the self-acceptance and enjoying each other sort of way), I don't imagine the period when "gay" started to mean "homosexual" was a particularly happy time for gays and lesbians.
But here we are. Here and queer. Gay is gay (but not gay like a ten-year-old would slur). And gay is happy. And yet to refer to a bunch of "happy gays" is not redundant.
And gays, at least my gays--the mo's and the ho's--drink. And are happy drinking. And are gay drinking.
Last night I suggested that just as "gay" meaning "happy" linguistically evolved into "gay" meaning "homo," we should start pushing the transition the other way too.
The period with drink specials at the bar is no longer happy hour. It's gay hour.
C'mon. Get happy.
(Speaking of which, how coded was this? Was the artist really saying "get gay!"? Rainbow birds of a feather flocking (ahem) together.)
Although being gay makes us (gays) happy (in the self-acceptance and enjoying each other sort of way), I don't imagine the period when "gay" started to mean "homosexual" was a particularly happy time for gays and lesbians.
But here we are. Here and queer. Gay is gay (but not gay like a ten-year-old would slur). And gay is happy. And yet to refer to a bunch of "happy gays" is not redundant.
And gays, at least my gays--the mo's and the ho's--drink. And are happy drinking. And are gay drinking.
Last night I suggested that just as "gay" meaning "happy" linguistically evolved into "gay" meaning "homo," we should start pushing the transition the other way too.
The period with drink specials at the bar is no longer happy hour. It's gay hour.
C'mon. Get happy.
(Speaking of which, how coded was this? Was the artist really saying "get gay!"? Rainbow birds of a feather flocking (ahem) together.)
the 411 on 511
In the Bay Area, dialing 511 connects you to a voice-navigated transit computer that can give traffic reports, directions, and schedules and arrival times for public transit agencies.
We've started calling the computer voice at 511 Shilpa's boyfriend.
She's in a dependent relationship. She relies on him for her social life. She calls him constantly but he never calls back, and he lies to her often.*
Clearly boyfriend material.
-------------------------------------------------------------
*"Next N arriving in 4 minutes my ass. Where's my train?!"
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
lovely lunch
Just had a wonderful UCSF Pride lunch. From my hall, we were the gay men and the straight women who love us. Or in other words:
The mo's and the ho's.
(And anyone saying "the fags and the hags" is gonna get bitch slapped.)
The mo's and the ho's.
(And anyone saying "the fags and the hags" is gonna get bitch slapped.)
Schrabble
I just heard from Drinkie that after a night of imbibing, she ended up playing drunken Scrabble with a friend into the wee hours of the morning. I asked if they were slurring the words on the board as well as in conversation. Or did they spell out things like "pizza" and "calling old boyfriends."
New intoxicated danger: drunken tiling.
BOOZE
E
ENUTHERROUND
R
lazy man's joke
Only because I am me I suppose, I find this really interesting.
But I know there are more like me out there.
Cunning linguists.
But I know there are more like me out there.
Cunning linguists.
misattrubution
I first learned of the whole "eskimos have a 100 words for snow" hoax in one of my linguistic classes at Davidson.
The oft-heard Churchill quote along the lines of "This is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put." appears to be equally fallacious.
My favorite copy editor (how huge a nerd am I that I have a favorite among copy editors?) has an interesting roundup today regarding books on language, which references her earlier clarification of the "up with which I will not put" misattrubution.
So now you know.
The oft-heard Churchill quote along the lines of "This is the sort of nonsense up with which I will not put." appears to be equally fallacious.
My favorite copy editor (how huge a nerd am I that I have a favorite among copy editors?) has an interesting roundup today regarding books on language, which references her earlier clarification of the "up with which I will not put" misattrubution.
So now you know.
sick leave
Apologies for the lack of interesing posts these past few days. I have been busy with work and wretchedly sick. Silly reports to amuse and divert you to resume shortly.
Monday, June 19, 2006
Overheard at the bar
You're wearing "pre-stressed" jeans and a "factory trashy" shirt.
You're not slutty. You're faux ho.
You're not slutty. You're faux ho.
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Lyrical low
Okay, here't the sitch. Happy fun home visits notwithstanding, this has been a really difficult time for me. Elements at work beyond my, or clearly anyone's, control have been having a seriously deleterious effect on my life and my health. I don't know how much longer I can handle it.
And to that stress, that I need a new home and a new car and I am ripe for an ulcer, a breakdown, or just a fit. For years Kate has been saying I have the worst luck of anyone she knows. I gotta catch a break here sometime. And one of these days having a date with more excitement than anxiety wouldn't hurt things either.
But as I deal with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I am reminded of a song and its lyrics which were dear to me when I first considered coming out-- out from the closet and out to California. A summer ditty from Voice of the Beehive: Scary Kisses.
The chorus went something like this:
I wanted Hell and I wanted bliss. And all that soars between them. Be careful what you wish for and all of that.
I've got the Hell part now. No regrets. I will accept it as part and parcel of the whole "rich life" deal. I've taken my chances, and I've stumbled on obstacles in the path. But I will rise stronger from the fall, and so will have fallen not badly. (There's the echo of one of Mr. Gaither's Latin aphorisms in there somewhere.)
Shake it off. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Onward. Upward.
And to that stress, that I need a new home and a new car and I am ripe for an ulcer, a breakdown, or just a fit. For years Kate has been saying I have the worst luck of anyone she knows. I gotta catch a break here sometime. And one of these days having a date with more excitement than anxiety wouldn't hurt things either.
But as I deal with the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, I am reminded of a song and its lyrics which were dear to me when I first considered coming out-- out from the closet and out to California. A summer ditty from Voice of the Beehive: Scary Kisses.
The chorus went something like this:
Baby, I want scary kisses.I was inspired by that verse then, and I have to accept the lines now. I have never let myself fail for lack of trying, and I am not going to start now.
I want hits and I want misses.
I want hell I want bliss - and all that soars between them.
And if you give me safety in a short time I'll be driven crazy.
I would rather run and fall than take no chance at all.
I wanted Hell and I wanted bliss. And all that soars between them. Be careful what you wish for and all of that.
I've got the Hell part now. No regrets. I will accept it as part and parcel of the whole "rich life" deal. I've taken my chances, and I've stumbled on obstacles in the path. But I will rise stronger from the fall, and so will have fallen not badly. (There's the echo of one of Mr. Gaither's Latin aphorisms in there somewhere.)
Shake it off. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Onward. Upward.
Friday, June 16, 2006
Auto update
Here's the latest sitch on the car. Pretty much everything about this sucks. But there may yet be a light at the end of a tunnel. And with my luck, it's an oncoming train.
As I may have mentioned earlier, by chance my neice Ellen was on my flight back to the Bay Area to visit her good friend and former next-door neighbor Morgan. On the flight back I was sandwiched between Ellen and Morgan's grandmother. (Side note, Ellen is waaay to cute for reality. She had her stuffed animals for company, played me songs on her Nano, then curled into my shoulder to watch a movie with me on my laptop. She is so sweet I just melt.)
Anyhoo, Morgan's Dad, Trig, and the two girls (Morgan and Madison) were waiting for us just past security. The traffic on the east side of the Bay was so bad, Trig planned to cross the bridge and head south to Saratoga via 101 or 280-- and as he was crossing the bridge into the City anyway, he offered me a lift home. On the way back, we were talking cars and such (we were in his super-nice, super-big pick up truck he uses for the horse trade) and he mentioned that he had a car he never drove and was thinking of selling. And here I am needing to get a new car. He has an old convertible volvo, which is what I went shopping for when the transmission went on the Saturn. Said it was a 2001 with about 54k miles and he paid $14,000 for it. Could be a match made in heaven.
Then I get home and open my mail: There is a notice from DPT that they towed my car and I owe them fees. Reason for towing: stolen auto. No one called me. No notice from the police, just a bill for towing and storage. This was Tuesday of this week. Wednesday I get another notice of lien and pending sale of my car in 30 days from the third-party "Auto Recovery" company with a City contract. So I call. Even though the car was stolen, and towed into the impound because the police recovered the stolen car, I have to pay over $700 for towing fees, processing fees, and $35 a day storage fees.
Under the department of ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? My car is stolen. The police find it. The police/city are charging me to get it back. And charging almost half of what the insurance company is valuing the car. AND, in order to get it back, I have to go to the skanky 750 Bryan Police station to get a release form, then go to the Auto Recovery office somewhere else for their forms, pay them the ungodly sum for a receipt to get the car out of the storage lot--which is miles away down at Pier 70.
Of course, I can't rush down there because (1) I don't have anyone who can take me (2) I signed the title away to the insurance company and (3) the insurance company has the keys! I finally got to talk to my claims person at the insurance company yesterday, and they will reclaim the car, but I have to go through the hoops to get it released because I am still listed as the owner. I suppose I will have to do that in the morning. Fun.
No word if I can get my stuff out of it or not.
I was kind of looking forward to the ease and fun of buying Trig's convertible. Until I checked online and realised I may have heard wrong. I don't think he paid $14 thousand for it, but rather $40 thousand. Kelly Blue Book puts a 2001 convertible volvo at $18,530. That's a bit out of my price range. Trig has my number and will be contacting me once Ellen and his mother have left. I'm hoping he has a number in mind that is much lower.
I did find a 2000/64k convertible model that looks good from a dealer in Richmond for $14,000. Bad idea? Any opinions?
I hate shopping for cars.
As I may have mentioned earlier, by chance my neice Ellen was on my flight back to the Bay Area to visit her good friend and former next-door neighbor Morgan. On the flight back I was sandwiched between Ellen and Morgan's grandmother. (Side note, Ellen is waaay to cute for reality. She had her stuffed animals for company, played me songs on her Nano, then curled into my shoulder to watch a movie with me on my laptop. She is so sweet I just melt.)
Anyhoo, Morgan's Dad, Trig, and the two girls (Morgan and Madison) were waiting for us just past security. The traffic on the east side of the Bay was so bad, Trig planned to cross the bridge and head south to Saratoga via 101 or 280-- and as he was crossing the bridge into the City anyway, he offered me a lift home. On the way back, we were talking cars and such (we were in his super-nice, super-big pick up truck he uses for the horse trade) and he mentioned that he had a car he never drove and was thinking of selling. And here I am needing to get a new car. He has an old convertible volvo, which is what I went shopping for when the transmission went on the Saturn. Said it was a 2001 with about 54k miles and he paid $14,000 for it. Could be a match made in heaven.
Then I get home and open my mail: There is a notice from DPT that they towed my car and I owe them fees. Reason for towing: stolen auto. No one called me. No notice from the police, just a bill for towing and storage. This was Tuesday of this week. Wednesday I get another notice of lien and pending sale of my car in 30 days from the third-party "Auto Recovery" company with a City contract. So I call. Even though the car was stolen, and towed into the impound because the police recovered the stolen car, I have to pay over $700 for towing fees, processing fees, and $35 a day storage fees.
Under the department of ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? My car is stolen. The police find it. The police/city are charging me to get it back. And charging almost half of what the insurance company is valuing the car. AND, in order to get it back, I have to go to the skanky 750 Bryan Police station to get a release form, then go to the Auto Recovery office somewhere else for their forms, pay them the ungodly sum for a receipt to get the car out of the storage lot--which is miles away down at Pier 70.
Of course, I can't rush down there because (1) I don't have anyone who can take me (2) I signed the title away to the insurance company and (3) the insurance company has the keys! I finally got to talk to my claims person at the insurance company yesterday, and they will reclaim the car, but I have to go through the hoops to get it released because I am still listed as the owner. I suppose I will have to do that in the morning. Fun.
No word if I can get my stuff out of it or not.
I was kind of looking forward to the ease and fun of buying Trig's convertible. Until I checked online and realised I may have heard wrong. I don't think he paid $14 thousand for it, but rather $40 thousand. Kelly Blue Book puts a 2001 convertible volvo at $18,530. That's a bit out of my price range. Trig has my number and will be contacting me once Ellen and his mother have left. I'm hoping he has a number in mind that is much lower. I did find a 2000/64k convertible model that looks good from a dealer in Richmond for $14,000. Bad idea? Any opinions?
I hate shopping for cars.
These are the people in your gayborhood.
I'm looking at an apartment tonight after work. It's in the middle of the Castro, which is a good/bad thing. There is no parking which is a painfully bad thing. It's at 18th and Collingwood. I looked it up on Google maps to see it's exact location.
If I take it, my change of address cards will read: "I've Gone Over the Edge."
(The bar on the corner is "The Edge.")
If I take it, my change of address cards will read: "I've Gone Over the Edge."
(The bar on the corner is "The Edge.")
Thursday, June 15, 2006
Look! Up on the Web...
It's a bird/plane/Superman.
For those that can't wait for Superman Returns to open at the end of this month, clips are available online here.
For those that can't wait for Superman Returns to open at the end of this month, clips are available online here.
not a whole lotta shakin' going on
but some.
An earthquake rocked me out of bed at about half past five this morning, making me scramble for shoes and a doorframe. I didn't feel any aftershocks.
According to the report on the daily paper's Web site (posted two hours later), there was a 4.2 quake in Santa Clara County at 5:24 A.M., with the epicenter approximately 10 miles northeast of Gilroy.
Although considered a "light" quake, I'm thinking it was pretty impressive as it woke me up and I could feel my house shake in the middle of the City so far from its origin way the hell over here.
Cool sites from the USGS:
Live map of recent quake activity in California and Nevada.
Detail for Northern California live quake map.
Quake report for this shake.
An earthquake rocked me out of bed at about half past five this morning, making me scramble for shoes and a doorframe. I didn't feel any aftershocks. According to the report on the daily paper's Web site (posted two hours later), there was a 4.2 quake in Santa Clara County at 5:24 A.M., with the epicenter approximately 10 miles northeast of Gilroy.
Although considered a "light" quake, I'm thinking it was pretty impressive as it woke me up and I could feel my house shake in the middle of the City so far from its origin way the hell over here.
Cool sites from the USGS:
Live map of recent quake activity in California and Nevada.
Detail for Northern California live quake map.
Quake report for this shake.
Patsy ain't singing
But it sure is crazy.
My work life continues the descent into madness. But as irrational as things are getting over here, all the crazy shit is going down at the library.
And yet, I still want to work in a library...now who's crazy?
.................................................
extra credit: name the movie-
"Now who's crazy?"
"You are."
My work life continues the descent into madness. But as irrational as things are getting over here, all the crazy shit is going down at the library.
And yet, I still want to work in a library...now who's crazy?
.................................................
extra credit: name the movie-
"Now who's crazy?"
"You are."
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Coming attractions
(okay, I admit it. When I say that, it sounds dirty.)
Yesterday was abysmally bad. This work environment has gotten way too abusive. Business and stress continue, and I will upload Swan Ball weekend stories and photos as soon as I can. I’m thinking of paying for a full Flickr account. Its interface could use some improvement, but it is so much easier than shutterfly/snapfish/ofoto for general party sharing—especially if you already have a Yahoo account.
Back to the grindstone.
Yesterday was abysmally bad. This work environment has gotten way too abusive. Business and stress continue, and I will upload Swan Ball weekend stories and photos as soon as I can. I’m thinking of paying for a full Flickr account. Its interface could use some improvement, but it is so much easier than shutterfly/snapfish/ofoto for general party sharing—especially if you already have a Yahoo account.
Back to the grindstone.
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
Monday, June 12, 2006
Leavin' on a jet plane
and I'll be back again in July.
It's a travel day so no blogging. I leave for BNA to OAK in about an hour and a half and have to pack up. Travel surprise: my neice Ellen will be flying back with me. She is off to Saratoga to visit Morgan (aka Morris by the Uncles) her former next door neighbor and best friend who moved away last year. She is flying with Morgan's grandmother who had already planned a trip, and being on the same flight just happened to be a happy accident.
Swan Ball stories simmering. But I won't have time to get to them until Wednesday. Photo sets will be uploaded tomorrow.
Wilson, Barry, Ginger and Chuck at the pre-party
In the meantime, perhaps this will hold you over:
There is such a thing as enough rope.
It's a travel day so no blogging. I leave for BNA to OAK in about an hour and a half and have to pack up. Travel surprise: my neice Ellen will be flying back with me. She is off to Saratoga to visit Morgan (aka Morris by the Uncles) her former next door neighbor and best friend who moved away last year. She is flying with Morgan's grandmother who had already planned a trip, and being on the same flight just happened to be a happy accident.
Swan Ball stories simmering. But I won't have time to get to them until Wednesday. Photo sets will be uploaded tomorrow.
In the meantime, perhaps this will hold you over:
There is such a thing as enough rope.
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Swan Balls
Some stories to come. Nothing really dramatic, tragic, or comedic happened last night—just a hell of a lot of fun.
This image sort of sums it up. Brace yourself for the photos.
Chuck is very good at holding his liquor.
And pretending to hold someone else's.
This image sort of sums it up. Brace yourself for the photos.
And pretending to hold someone else's.
Saturday, June 10, 2006
take BART past Daly City to Melanoma
Went to Cosmo Nails, but brought greyhounds, for manicures with Ginger, Chuck and cousin Barry (should have brought cosmos, but greyhounds are Ginger's fave, and that grapefruit juice is mighty refreshing on this hot, sunny, southern day). Barry and David are generously hosting a Swan Ball pre-party. I'm SO looking forward to it.
At the salon, Barry looked at my redness, heard my tale, and said, "Honey? Sunscreen. Melanoma is not a cocktail."
Actually, to me, "Melanoma" sounds more like a rural California town...(they can be just as painful).
Disco nap time. I have 90 minutes before I have to be at Barry's.
red state
Oh boy. I went out yesterday from 2:30 to 3:30 and nothin'. Today I went out from 1:10 to 2:30. Only about 30 minutes laying out face up. My face is good, if not a bit red on the forehead. My enormous white torso however, is now beat beet. Ow.
Hmmm. Nothing like a chest burn before wearing a black wool suit in a hot outdoor tent then dancing all night. That'll be good. I'm hoping aloe and a disco nap will put this to short order.
Hmmm. Nothing like a chest burn before wearing a black wool suit in a hot outdoor tent then dancing all night. That'll be good. I'm hoping aloe and a disco nap will put this to short order.
Love from EJ
On my wardrobe to the garden party last night:
"No one knew you threw that together at the last minute. I think you looked amazing. It's a compliment that everyone thought it was Armani. You can't help it that you're fabulous."
Well, being this fabulous is somewhat innate, and somewhat honed. Is it instinct or skill? Sometimes I just can't help being this fabulous...
"No one knew you threw that together at the last minute. I think you looked amazing. It's a compliment that everyone thought it was Armani. You can't help it that you're fabulous."
Well, being this fabulous is somewhat innate, and somewhat honed. Is it instinct or skill? Sometimes I just can't help being this fabulous...
catch a ray
and you're sittin' on top of the world.
Off to the pool to get some color for tonight. This SF foggy pale does not look good with white tie.
Off to the pool to get some color for tonight. This SF foggy pale does not look good with white tie.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
TN off
Anyone get the golf pun? Anyway, it's a busy day prior to departure, so nothing to blog. I'm leaving early tomorrow morning to take Muni to BART to bus Oakland airport for the June Swan Ball trip to Nashville.
Not only do I get lots of EJ this trip, Chuck is flying in from San Diego to be Ginger's escort.
Gay men do make the hottest escorts.
Outcalls. Willing to travel.
Blog ya later.
Not only do I get lots of EJ this trip, Chuck is flying in from San Diego to be Ginger's escort.
Gay men do make the hottest escorts.
Outcalls. Willing to travel.
Blog ya later.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Back to Nashvegas
I'm headed home again this weekend for the Swan Ball.
Pre-parties Thursday and Friday. And an invitation to the farm for swimming on Sunday. Lots of EJ. I should have some stories.
Pre-parties Thursday and Friday. And an invitation to the farm for swimming on Sunday. Lots of EJ. I should have some stories.
Blogger woes
Hey kids. I've been having all sorts of trouble with Blogger for about a week, and it has been down all day today. It seems that posting is back now, but unreliably so and the image upload is not working. Whatever. It is a free service after all (well, they get content). Back when I can.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Sunday sunshine
Just a quick recap of Sunday to give some shouts. Nothing particularly quippy or dishy about it, just notable. And I did not have my camera, so no pics.
The charming Mr. Sikes was back in the Bay Area to present some research over at Berkeley. Rick, formerly of SF, was back from Manhattan to get his stuff out of storage.
Rick and I had done the happy hour thing at Sadlands Friday night and accompanied me to Zack's birthday party. I now have Kevin's brother's Jeep as a loaner, which I was finding difficult to drive. Ironically, it is exactly the model and color of Rick's beloved Jeep he had when he lived here (even so far as to create www.greenjeep.com, now defunct) and he was thrilled to drive it and relive his SF days.
I went to look at an apartment yesterday morning, and called Sikes to meet up for brunch at the Squat and Gobble in the Castro. Rick was just waking up and joined us a little later. Although I had much to do yesterday afternoon, the sunshine and good company were enough to lure me away for a while. I was still hoping to get some work done in the afternoon, but such did not come to pass. Rick still had his rental car--and he had paid for a full tank of gas and wanted to use it, so we took Sikes on a brief driving tour of the City, and headed over to Kelly's Mission Rock for a beer on the Bay. Mission Rock used to be full of partying/drinking/dancing fags on Sundays, but yesterday it was only about a dozen tables, half of which looked like an after-church crowd. But we were happy to have cold beer in the sun on the water. The sun on the Bay though, was brutal. My forearms could be lobster claws.
We cruised around, passed the ballpark, took third down the Embarcadero, gave our local history anecdotes, and stopped at Fort Point under the southern anchor of the Golden Gate Bridge. From there we tried to come up with another good, sunny, outdoor bar venue and we took Sikes back to where we met: The Metro. The Metro is great on sunny Sunday afternoons, and we were not lacking for friends--new and old-- for afternoon delight. (Of course, I also ran into an ex or two. Them's the risks.) Shouts to Michael, Mike, and my new librarian buddies Ray (Stanford) and BlankingOnIt (Berkeley).
I was steering clear of liquor and happy to slowly sip my CB in the sun. However, many margaritas later, my companions were quite jolly. Our crowd was migrating to Moby's, but we needed dinner and stopped in at Fuzio's. As we were leaving Rick saw a friend of his who convinced us to join in the candlelight march/vigil marking the 25 years of AIDS. It was scheduled to start at 8:00, and at five to the sun hadn't set yet so the candles were more symbolic. Maybe they were waiting for sunset as nothing happened for half an hour. It was getting cooler as the evening started, and I ran into the Anonymous Public Figure, who gallantly gave his blazer to Sikes.
On a side note, it was nice to see APF again. We had not talked since our breakfast date, which was fine. But I have the idea that he may not have ever called back because he read the blog and knew I wasn't all that into him. Granted, one breakfast date does not a relationship make, but I can't shake the feeling that I broke up with someone via the blog. That is so two thousand six.
I was still in the t-shirt and shorts I had left the house in at 9:00 to look at the apartment on top of Buena Vista Heights. The sun set behind the hill and I was freezing. I left Sikes with Rick and hopped a cab home, threw on some jeans and put boots in a bag and took the jeep back to the Castro. I was able to get home, back, and park, before Rick and Sikes made it to the end of their march--which was all of one block from Harvey Milk Plaza (aka the Castro Muni station) to the B of A at the corner of Castro and 18th. Not so much a "march" as a "stroll."
Considering how much time we spent at dinner, and now another hour at the vigil with the waiting the walking and the talking, by the time we got to Moby's the crowd was meager and none of our friends were present. We had a beer anyway and hung out, then I pressed them to go for the final hour of Sundance. Hey, 9:30 to 10:30--we could get in a couple of spins. Rick had never seen such a thing, and Sikes had been before, so this seemed like a great idea.
Lots of friends were still there. I got some dances in with some pros and got Sikes and Rick out once or twice. Kevin, Shawn, and others from Friday night were there so there were friends all around. We shut the place down and went to Badlands.
This tale has become a ramble and I should stop. Except that all the crazy shit went down at Badlands. Drinking, dancing, whoring. We closed down Badlands too. Kind of a scary thing to do on a Sunday night. I miss being a student.
We ran into another guy from Friday night at Badlands. Side note: We have a friend (DJ) who is big (like solid, not fat big), tall, around 40 and has a voracious sexual appetite boys for who look 18ish, tall (but shorter than he is) and about as thick around as broomstick. He recently broke up with his 'boyfriend' (whom the rest of us adored this time around) and within two weeks had a new one for this party. I met this person, but it was a good twenty minutes before I clued in that I was talking to a guy. Exceptionally fair with should-length, white-blond hair and delicate features, I thought she was just a lovely girl with a slim figure and no chest. Once I got to know him a little bit I found him to be nice and rather quick. And only 20. For fuck's sake DJ, where do you pick these boys up?
Sure it was catty, but he was so out of place at 20 at a 30th birthday with a bunch of pushing 40s, and so androgynous, and so new, that he quickly earned a nickname. Some guys were referring to him as the ABBA child (if ABBA had a child, that's what he would look like). I about spit out my drink when someone asked me if I had seen Veronica Mars. I will say he is a foot taller than she and about the same weight.
But that was a digression. Badlands Sunday night was summer night fun time. I became the object of attention of a professional psychic. Sikes was grabbed by shirtless muscle guy who planted one on him for a minute or two. Kevin had to fireman's carry his drunk boyfriend home. And Rick got lots of attention and an invitation to breakfast.
Sunday: apartment hunting, brunch, tour, bayside beer, national historic monument, deckside margaritas, dinner, candlelight vigil, three clubs, new friends, dark kisses, country dancing, waltzing, and freak dancing.
To all who make the most of a weekend, I and my sunburned forearms salute you.
The charming Mr. Sikes was back in the Bay Area to present some research over at Berkeley. Rick, formerly of SF, was back from Manhattan to get his stuff out of storage.
Rick and I had done the happy hour thing at Sadlands Friday night and accompanied me to Zack's birthday party. I now have Kevin's brother's Jeep as a loaner, which I was finding difficult to drive. Ironically, it is exactly the model and color of Rick's beloved Jeep he had when he lived here (even so far as to create www.greenjeep.com, now defunct) and he was thrilled to drive it and relive his SF days.
I went to look at an apartment yesterday morning, and called Sikes to meet up for brunch at the Squat and Gobble in the Castro. Rick was just waking up and joined us a little later. Although I had much to do yesterday afternoon, the sunshine and good company were enough to lure me away for a while. I was still hoping to get some work done in the afternoon, but such did not come to pass. Rick still had his rental car--and he had paid for a full tank of gas and wanted to use it, so we took Sikes on a brief driving tour of the City, and headed over to Kelly's Mission Rock for a beer on the Bay. Mission Rock used to be full of partying/drinking/dancing fags on Sundays, but yesterday it was only about a dozen tables, half of which looked like an after-church crowd. But we were happy to have cold beer in the sun on the water. The sun on the Bay though, was brutal. My forearms could be lobster claws.
We cruised around, passed the ballpark, took third down the Embarcadero, gave our local history anecdotes, and stopped at Fort Point under the southern anchor of the Golden Gate Bridge. From there we tried to come up with another good, sunny, outdoor bar venue and we took Sikes back to where we met: The Metro. The Metro is great on sunny Sunday afternoons, and we were not lacking for friends--new and old-- for afternoon delight. (Of course, I also ran into an ex or two. Them's the risks.) Shouts to Michael, Mike, and my new librarian buddies Ray (Stanford) and BlankingOnIt (Berkeley).
I was steering clear of liquor and happy to slowly sip my CB in the sun. However, many margaritas later, my companions were quite jolly. Our crowd was migrating to Moby's, but we needed dinner and stopped in at Fuzio's. As we were leaving Rick saw a friend of his who convinced us to join in the candlelight march/vigil marking the 25 years of AIDS. It was scheduled to start at 8:00, and at five to the sun hadn't set yet so the candles were more symbolic. Maybe they were waiting for sunset as nothing happened for half an hour. It was getting cooler as the evening started, and I ran into the Anonymous Public Figure, who gallantly gave his blazer to Sikes.
On a side note, it was nice to see APF again. We had not talked since our breakfast date, which was fine. But I have the idea that he may not have ever called back because he read the blog and knew I wasn't all that into him. Granted, one breakfast date does not a relationship make, but I can't shake the feeling that I broke up with someone via the blog. That is so two thousand six.
I was still in the t-shirt and shorts I had left the house in at 9:00 to look at the apartment on top of Buena Vista Heights. The sun set behind the hill and I was freezing. I left Sikes with Rick and hopped a cab home, threw on some jeans and put boots in a bag and took the jeep back to the Castro. I was able to get home, back, and park, before Rick and Sikes made it to the end of their march--which was all of one block from Harvey Milk Plaza (aka the Castro Muni station) to the B of A at the corner of Castro and 18th. Not so much a "march" as a "stroll."
Considering how much time we spent at dinner, and now another hour at the vigil with the waiting the walking and the talking, by the time we got to Moby's the crowd was meager and none of our friends were present. We had a beer anyway and hung out, then I pressed them to go for the final hour of Sundance. Hey, 9:30 to 10:30--we could get in a couple of spins. Rick had never seen such a thing, and Sikes had been before, so this seemed like a great idea.
Lots of friends were still there. I got some dances in with some pros and got Sikes and Rick out once or twice. Kevin, Shawn, and others from Friday night were there so there were friends all around. We shut the place down and went to Badlands.
This tale has become a ramble and I should stop. Except that all the crazy shit went down at Badlands. Drinking, dancing, whoring. We closed down Badlands too. Kind of a scary thing to do on a Sunday night. I miss being a student.
We ran into another guy from Friday night at Badlands. Side note: We have a friend (DJ) who is big (like solid, not fat big), tall, around 40 and has a voracious sexual appetite boys for who look 18ish, tall (but shorter than he is) and about as thick around as broomstick. He recently broke up with his 'boyfriend' (whom the rest of us adored this time around) and within two weeks had a new one for this party. I met this person, but it was a good twenty minutes before I clued in that I was talking to a guy. Exceptionally fair with should-length, white-blond hair and delicate features, I thought she was just a lovely girl with a slim figure and no chest. Once I got to know him a little bit I found him to be nice and rather quick. And only 20. For fuck's sake DJ, where do you pick these boys up?Sure it was catty, but he was so out of place at 20 at a 30th birthday with a bunch of pushing 40s, and so androgynous, and so new, that he quickly earned a nickname. Some guys were referring to him as the ABBA child (if ABBA had a child, that's what he would look like). I about spit out my drink when someone asked me if I had seen Veronica Mars. I will say he is a foot taller than she and about the same weight.
But that was a digression. Badlands Sunday night was summer night fun time. I became the object of attention of a professional psychic. Sikes was grabbed by shirtless muscle guy who planted one on him for a minute or two. Kevin had to fireman's carry his drunk boyfriend home. And Rick got lots of attention and an invitation to breakfast.
Sunday: apartment hunting, brunch, tour, bayside beer, national historic monument, deckside margaritas, dinner, candlelight vigil, three clubs, new friends, dark kisses, country dancing, waltzing, and freak dancing.
To all who make the most of a weekend, I and my sunburned forearms salute you.
Shake Shake Shake.
Shake your booty.
Saturday night was Zack's 30th birthday party. Thrown by Shawn, at Shawn and John's house (aka the Winchester Mystery House of Bernal Heights). And with the "Kevin's boyfriend Shawn is throwing a birthday party for his (Shawn's) ex-boyfriend" deal, there was a little drama. Zack has another boyfriend now, a hot Brazilian named Cassio, who brought along some of his 20-something humpy muscled Brazilian friends ("Excuse me, were you stung by a bee? Because you are all swollen.").
I spent the afternoon helping Shawn shop for clothes and decorations for the party. It was a loosely themed 70's party with disco music and vintage clothes and such. It was also a slightly Bi-Centennial party theme, as Zack was born in 1976. Lots of red, white and blue.
Having no 70's clothes myself (how?), I was suitably star-spangled. Kevin got another wearing out of his fabulous 70's outfit from Halloween. And lemme tell you, those pants are tight. Stretch wool I believe. And particularly form-fitting around Kevin's posterior.
And see, this is why I can't move back to Nashville. At least not yet. Crazy shit like this does not happen at Nashville parties:
"Wilson, good. Did you bring your camera?"
"Yessssss"
"C'mon. I have a game." [meeting again downstairs] "Let's see how many pictures we can get of people grabbing my ass in these pants." (Keep in mind, this party is being hosted by his boyfriend, at his boyfriend's, for his boyfriend's ex-boyfriend. Who is turning all of 30. Not that he is competitive.)
"Okay."
See. This does not strike me as at all odd.
And what's more, neither did any of the guests. Men, women, gay, straight. Whatever.
We had just settled on the idea when a handsome Brazilian stranger came in the front door and up the stairs.
Handsome stranger: "Uh, hello."
Me: "Hello. Welcome. Would you like to grab my friend's ass."
Handsome stranger: "Okay."
>snap<
HS: "That was very nice."
We introduced ourselves all around and he went into the main party room.
Me, to Kevin: "I love us."
And that was it. Kevin would talk to people. Their hands would fall to his hip. He would make some comment about the tightness of his pants, and there would be cuppage. No one batted an eye, or hesitated.
Later the game became "try to find out if Kevin is wearing any underwear."
Shake shake shake.
[revised video-sorry that YouTube screws up the transitions]
By the way, that guy at the end... the one who fished in and wedgied Kevin with his thong...that would be the birthday boy.
Saturday night was Zack's 30th birthday party. Thrown by Shawn, at Shawn and John's house (aka the Winchester Mystery House of Bernal Heights). And with the "Kevin's boyfriend Shawn is throwing a birthday party for his (Shawn's) ex-boyfriend" deal, there was a little drama. Zack has another boyfriend now, a hot Brazilian named Cassio, who brought along some of his 20-something humpy muscled Brazilian friends ("Excuse me, were you stung by a bee? Because you are all swollen.").
I spent the afternoon helping Shawn shop for clothes and decorations for the party. It was a loosely themed 70's party with disco music and vintage clothes and such. It was also a slightly Bi-Centennial party theme, as Zack was born in 1976. Lots of red, white and blue.
Having no 70's clothes myself (how?), I was suitably star-spangled. Kevin got another wearing out of his fabulous 70's outfit from Halloween. And lemme tell you, those pants are tight. Stretch wool I believe. And particularly form-fitting around Kevin's posterior.
And see, this is why I can't move back to Nashville. At least not yet. Crazy shit like this does not happen at Nashville parties:
"Wilson, good. Did you bring your camera?"
"Yessssss"
"C'mon. I have a game." [meeting again downstairs] "Let's see how many pictures we can get of people grabbing my ass in these pants." (Keep in mind, this party is being hosted by his boyfriend, at his boyfriend's, for his boyfriend's ex-boyfriend. Who is turning all of 30. Not that he is competitive.)
"Okay."
See. This does not strike me as at all odd.
And what's more, neither did any of the guests. Men, women, gay, straight. Whatever.
We had just settled on the idea when a handsome Brazilian stranger came in the front door and up the stairs.
Handsome stranger: "Uh, hello."
Me: "Hello. Welcome. Would you like to grab my friend's ass."
Handsome stranger: "Okay."
>snap<
HS: "That was very nice."
We introduced ourselves all around and he went into the main party room.
Me, to Kevin: "I love us."
And that was it. Kevin would talk to people. Their hands would fall to his hip. He would make some comment about the tightness of his pants, and there would be cuppage. No one batted an eye, or hesitated.
Later the game became "try to find out if Kevin is wearing any underwear."
Shake shake shake.
[revised video-sorry that YouTube screws up the transitions]
By the way, that guy at the end... the one who fished in and wedgied Kevin with his thong...that would be the birthday boy.
European
Regarding the trough urinal, with facing mirror, at The Edge:
Me: “Yeah, I have to be pretty drunk to use that bathroom.”
Straight Girl: “I was pretty drunk.”
[eyes bug completely out of my head]
Apparently, last week after Lorenzo a Go-Go, while our crowd was waiting in line at Badlands…
SG: “I was dying to pee so I went into that bar next door.”
Me, frightened: “What bar next door?”
SG: “I dunno. The one on the corner.”
“The Edge? You ducked into the Edge to pee?
“I guess so.”
“The dark, cruisy, leather/bear bar?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
Barely above a whisper, “Oh Lord...”
“Exactly. So I make a bee line for the bathroom…”
“The one with the trough?”
“That’s the one. But I didn't know that until I walked up. But I couldn’t process. I started to step in but just stopped and stared. Not starting at. Just unable to process that through and deal with it. Luckily some guy grabbed me by the elbows and spun me around and pointed me to the one-at-a-time saying, “Honey, you want that one.”
Me, with low rumblings of uncontrollable laughter, “Oh my God. You went into the trough urinal at the Edge. You know there’s a mirror facing in that bathroom.”
SG: “I know. I don’t know how you deal with that.”
Me: “Yeah, I have to be pretty drunk to use that bathroom.”
SG: “I was pretty drunk.”
Me: “Oh God, they way you said that makes it sound like you used it.”
Me: “Yeah, I have to be pretty drunk to use that bathroom.”
Straight Girl: “I was pretty drunk.”
[eyes bug completely out of my head]
Apparently, last week after Lorenzo a Go-Go, while our crowd was waiting in line at Badlands…
SG: “I was dying to pee so I went into that bar next door.”
Me, frightened: “What bar next door?”
SG: “I dunno. The one on the corner.”
“The Edge? You ducked into the Edge to pee?
“I guess so.”
“The dark, cruisy, leather/bear bar?”
“Yeah. That’s the one.”
Barely above a whisper, “Oh Lord...”
“Exactly. So I make a bee line for the bathroom…”
“The one with the trough?”
“That’s the one. But I didn't know that until I walked up. But I couldn’t process. I started to step in but just stopped and stared. Not starting at. Just unable to process that through and deal with it. Luckily some guy grabbed me by the elbows and spun me around and pointed me to the one-at-a-time saying, “Honey, you want that one.”
Me, with low rumblings of uncontrollable laughter, “Oh my God. You went into the trough urinal at the Edge. You know there’s a mirror facing in that bathroom.”
SG: “I know. I don’t know how you deal with that.”
Me: “Yeah, I have to be pretty drunk to use that bathroom.”
SG: “I was pretty drunk.”
Me: “Oh God, they way you said that makes it sound like you used it.”
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Two men, A and B, ...
Around the time Carrington and I were filling out college applications, along came a movie which "totally" summed up our emotions and anxieties: How I Got Into College (featuring a young Lara Flynn Boyle as the female lead/love interest, Anthony Edwards as the admissions officer, and Nora Dunn and Phil harman in their prime as SAT coaches.). In retrospect, this is not the greatest summer movie ever made. But at the time, it was golden. Ther right movie at the right time. And we loved it.
To this day, C'ton and I refer to the characters embodying the SAT: A and B. (Two men, A and B, are running a race. A is running at 10 miles an hour...)
That was 1989.
What high school seniors get this year:
Looks "awesome" for juniors/seniors. If I were in high school, I'd pay ten bucks to see it. In fact I'll probably see it with some puerile buddies anyway, but in our case we'll be bringing along some beer.
Trailer - Official Site
To this day, C'ton and I refer to the characters embodying the SAT: A and B. (Two men, A and B, are running a race. A is running at 10 miles an hour...)
That was 1989.
What high school seniors get this year:
Looks "awesome" for juniors/seniors. If I were in high school, I'd pay ten bucks to see it. In fact I'll probably see it with some puerile buddies anyway, but in our case we'll be bringing along some beer. Trailer - Official Site
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