Good Carma

Sunday “morning” I dragged my tired but out of bed and into a beautiful Sunday on the Bay. I met Barney at the Embarcadero in time for the noon ferry to Sausalito. It was sunny wand warm in the City, icy and foggy on the Bay, and sunny and warm in Sausalito. The Golden Gate was entirely invisible.

Deb met us at the dock, feeling very much like the new mother waiting for Daddy at the pier with little Roman zonked out in the stroller. We strolled along the waterfront and stopped in the park long enough for me to change from jeans to shorts. Living in SF I am not shy about dropping trou in public. I am hoping the locals didn’t mind. I didn’t care about the tourists. I consider them interlopers. I am local color.

Deb and I had planned this day as an opportunity to spend a beautiful day together, and for me to buy her car.

A couple of weeks ago, Deb finally accepted that she would have to get a mommy mobile. Roman and Zola (enormous black lab) could not easily share the back seat of the Beemer. Deb sent out an e-mail asking if her friends knew anyone who might be interested in buying it. The Beemer was way out of my desired price range, but I knew the car well, knew Deb had taken anal-retentive good care of it, and knew it was a good deal. But more than that, I thought I should by it because it just made cosmic sense. One of my best friends needs to sell her car at the same time I need to buy one. Take the sign. Don’t question it. Be appreciative. And just ride the gift horse.

I told her I was interested. I really wanted a convertible though. I shopped around online for a long time, visited a couple of dealers, and conferred with friends. I am not a “car guy.” I hate dealers. I shiver just typing about it. I don’t like car research and I don’t get into it like my brother Mac or my friend David Britt. I just want a reliable car at a reasonable price. The opportunity with Deb just seemed so right. And a gift from Heaven. No muss, no fuss, no stress, no strain.

The exclamation point to the “this is a sign dumbass—just buy Deb’s car!” feeling was made by the Ford dealers at Dolores and Market. Major with the creepy! And AGGRESSIVE. And so stereotypical annoying and pushy and sleezy that I almost laughed at them. Things like shaking my hand but then not letting go. Pushing me aggressively towards something I have adamantly declared I didn’t want. I almost asked “Does this actually work on other people?” But then they started tag-teaming me with cheesy lines and high-pressure sales tactics and I realized that many people must get caught like deer in the headlights and just capitulate to get them to back off. It got to the point that I actually wanted to shout “Stop it!” Except they outnumbered me and I really didn’t even feel safe in there any more. They were like hyenas circling their prey.

But I digress. I went to Sausalito to spend the day with Deb and buy her car. Once she knew I was interested, she asked if I was flexible with the timing as she had not decided on a mommy mobile just yet. She bought a Honda SUV last week, so this was a good time to pick up her old car.

We had a lovely day in Sausalito. We took lunch at a nice café on the water, enjoyed the sunshine and the random Sting/Russian cover song from the Albanian guitar player working the patio. (He was hunky, pretty, and pretty cheesy. Which we found quite entertaining.)

It occurred to me that it must seem strange to other people that I came to Sausalito to buy a car I have never even driven. So I drove it. Loved it. Heck, I have been driven in it enough. In fact I was the first passenger the day that Deb bought it.

It’s a 2001 BMW 325i, fully loaded, leather, silver exterior, well-maintained, and just passed 60k miles. As a bestest-buddy Deb gave me a great deal (but fair to her too). It needs its 60k “Inspection II” service, a new windshield wiper fluid pump, and a dent pulled from between the grills, that will run almost $1,000 so she knocked that off the price. She had meant to have it detailed before I claimed it, but there wasn’t time. She did however clean it to almost immaculate perfection.

And she hid $5 in the glove box for the bridge toll back as a ‘welcome to the car’ gift.

I’m going to take it back to her official BMW guy in Sausalito for the service, as he only charges $400, instead of $750 charged by the two pretentious BMW places in the City. I would like to use Cole Garage as it is just around the corner, but they won’t even give me an estimate. So one day next week I will drive up to Sausalito and work out of Deb’s home office. The body work I can get done across the street from my apartment—if I choose to do so at all. The dent is so minor I couldn’t see it even though she told me it was there. She had to point it out for me to notice. Once I have the maintenance done, I’ll have it detailed and the inside shampooed/steam cleaned for that new car feeling.

While I did get a great deal, I have been cringing at the added expense of registration, change in title, required smog check, and oh dear God the sales tax. I paid a third down and need to come up with the rest. Now that I have the title in my name, I'll get a car loan, or probably a line of credit at a lower rate. Or just pay her a montly amount for a year as she's cool with that.

Next: new insurance.

One down, two to go.

I love the car. And I’m thinking of naming it Linda. After Debbie Sue Linda, one of my pet names for Deborah (originally from a MadTV sketch).

And yes, I am well aware that driving a BMW now makes me yuppie scum. I believe I have sufficiently mitigated that by my nights at the Powerhouse, Trannsyshack, and Midnight Mass.

I am not suggesting it.

I'm just sayin'.

The 40th Anniversary.

Clearly, resistance is futile.

"This is my happening and it freaks me out!"

Time for a little shout out to the friends from Midnight Mass.

So "holla."

Saturday night Kevin and I took Little Brandon to his first Midnight Mass. This weekend was Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. We were worried it wasn't going to be a good night because when we got there the line was relatively short and tame. However, we landed in line next to the grown-up goth-ish Melissa (holla) who, drinking from a paper bag, knew what Midnight Mass is all about. That was evidenced by the drinking out of the paper bag. We got into an animated discussion over who wrote Valley of the Dolls vs. Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, which resulted in my calling Lance to look it up online because, having just left Lance and Barney at the Dolores Park watching Kath & Kim, we knew he was awake.

We could agree (after the embarrassing moment when I confused Suzanne Pleshette with Jacqueline Suzanne) on the bit of trivia that roger Ebert wrote the screenplay for Beyond, but I vaguely remembered the audience going "oooh" at the Castro Theater at the end of Valley of the Dolls when it said "written by Roger Ebert". According to the imdb, I was wrong. But the memory was so nagging that I doubted the imdb. However, after reading Ebert's scathing review, I no longer consider his authorship.

There was a lovely young couple in line behind us as well (okay, 30s young). We could tell by their naiveté that they were virgins. But we welcomed them and introduced them to the scene. I will say that Midnight Mass is officially a victim of its own success. Too many lookie-loos and local tourists, and not enough freaks. Honey, this is supposed to be Trannyshack's night out. This is home to mother/daughter mud wrestling before Mommie Dearest and Drag Queen Roller Derby before 80s dreck. Alcohol and pot smoking are encouraged. So what is with the boring bridge-and-tunnel/ shirts-with-collars set?

Lucky for us, these two may have looked like white bread newbies, but they were really lost Midnight Mass souls who had finally found their way home.

I started to explain the whole Midnight Mass theology: "Welcome to Midnight Mass. It's about getting drunk or high, and commentary."
"Oh," She said, looking sheepish to her date, then slightly embarrassed to be saying it, and ultimately disappointed: "I could have brought the high..."
"You didn't being any drinks?"
The boyfriend this time, "Don't they have drinks inside?"
"No. They have what we call 'mixers.'"

Melissa raised her paper bag in illustration.

Bear in mind, the paper bag was the most subtle consumption on display. Which is kinda the deal. I showed them my flask (the much beloved Davidson Pocket Policy my fraternity sold in college to make money) and explained that one drinks beer in line, and many people smoke or have a cookie/brownie beforehand, and then you take in your drinks for the show. The only rule is they can't see it. Willful suspension of disbelief—if they don't see it, we don't have it, everyone is good. But people are lighting up bowls inside for goodness sakes. We're not talking the height of stealth.

When we arrived, Kevin dropped us off and then went looking for parking, Brandon went to hold a spot in line, and I went to the window to get our pre-paid tickets. I was in line behind Matt, one of Kevin's exes, and AKA Rentecha. He, who continued his two year streak of always looking at me as if I were vaguely familiar and not as if we have met 60 or 70 times, and his date were "with the band." I.e., on the lost of comps. Which from what I could see was quite long. Brandon was a late addition and I had not ordered a ticket for him. So while Brandon was getting his ticket, I was alone in line for a while with Melissa, the newbies, and another couple who did not want to actively engage but were clearly enthralled by our conversation. I advised Boyfriend to go across the street and get libation for the show. Later he returned and I checked on his purchase.

“Did you get your drinks?”
“Yeah, I got a bottle of anchor steam.”
“A bottle of beer? Amateurs.”

When Brandon came back I made my own trip across the street.

That mini-mart must do amazing business on Midnight Mass nights. I went in to get a couple of tall boys for our wait in line. While inside, I ran into Mr. Moses, whom Kevin and I met in line last year for Peaches’ Playhouse/Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. He was in a great Pee Wee costume, and we all got along like the Midnight Mass devotees we are. He later sent me a Frienster invite, which is how I found him here.

So while I was getting ready to check out with my three tall cans and an additional flask-sized bottle of vodka for Boyfiend/Girlfriend, in strolled Mr. Moses and his companion on a similar quest.

“Mr. Moses!”
“Wilson! My God,” he said shaking my hand and taking my arm, “it’s been exactly one season.” And so it had. It was nice to see him again. And nice to be remembered. His hair is handsomely longer and he was suitably attired in a period/alternative jacket, and he had some good lines for me but as I had never seen the film before they were lost on me.

When I got back to the line, Brandon and Kevin were very excited to get their MGD treats. I gave the bottle of vodka to Boyfriend, telling him that “Beer is what you drink in line. And you can have booze during the show.”
He replied, “Smirnoff?”
“You’re going to be mixing it with Sprite and popcorn. I’m not going to get you Kettel One….And for God’s sakes-- a stranger buys you a bottle of vodka and you complain about the brand?”
“Point taken. Thank you.”

There were so many people on the comp list that even through we were near the front of the line, the theater was nearly full when we entered. The usual seats for Statler and Waldorf were already taken. Kevin and Brandon went searching for good seats and I went for mixers. I love that the cool concessioners don’t blink when you ask for a soda, half full, but with lots of ice. They know their crowd. I imagine they know it well as they have to clean up the mess the messy leave behind.

As it turns out, we got seats next to Boyfriend/Girlfriend and in front of Moses and a bunch of other displaced Trannyshack/Midnight Mass regulars. Which was a blast. Unfortunately, we were in front of two MM virgins and ‘serious movie goers here for the actors’ Q&A’ who were serious downers. And not in the alternative underground way.

They shushed us. Let me repeat that: They shushed us. It’s freakin’ MIDNIGHT MASS. Where Mystery Science Theater 3000 meets the Rocky Horror Picture Show! On acid. It’s about edge and tragic and fierce and kitsch and camp and being altered and yelling witty comments at the screen. When you have a trashy movie preceded by a bunch of drag queens on roller skates beating the crap out of each other in the final wig-snatch competition, it is not the Whitebread Film Festival. They complained a lot.

We did try to keep it down, but we really just pulled it back from a 12 to about a 9 on the MM scale. We kept saying, “It’s Midnight Mass” as if that should be sufficient explanation. And it should have been. But in hindsight they have no idea what that means so it made no sense to them. The gallery behind us was making commentary all though the film, and there were pockets of laughter all across the theater of others doing the same. Occasionally, really good quips get shouted so the entire crowd can hear it, and are welcome and laughed at.

Riff & Raff hated us. And I was sorry that they weren’t having the filmic experience they wanted, but this was not the venue they thought it was, and not the place for serious screening. (What serious screening starts at 1:30 in the morning? With people smoking bowls in the theater?)

At one point they tried to reason that “It’s only you who are talking!” (oblivious to the rest of the crowd across the theater enjoying a similar experience).
“It’s not just us.”
“Well, you and your friends”
True, it was us and 15 of our friends in the little section behind them, but what they couldn’t grasp is that we met these people in line. And the others are just other regulars, and so in that sense we were all friends—but it’s not like I had ever seen any of these people in daylight.

The Q&A was at times interesting, and mostly interesting for the reunion part of it, and historical perspective. But all in all, really boring compared to the usual sort of pre-show (who can compete with mud wresting or a wig snatch?). The movie too was cool in its fucked-up-ness, but also pretty lame. Of course, it’s not like I was paying such rapt attention that I remember all of it. It was the camp aspect of it that was awesome. And the whacked out ending. Yow.

With a lovely dinner of beer, vodka, and popcorn, my tummy was not all that happy by the time I got to bed at quarter past four in the morning. Kevin was a saint for driving. Of course, poor lil’ ol’ me couldn’t without a car. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. And by that I mean stranger people.




And of course, hitting the sack at 4:15 A.M. did not make me the freshest flower in the vase for the trip to Sausalito on Sunday morning. More on that later.

Bubbles! BUBBLES!!

Pop, pop, pop. POP POP POP POP!

Digital bubble wrap.

Even with sound. Listen carefully if you select a fresh sheet. I love her, and the heavy-breathed "moooore."

Thanks to Terrence for passing this on.

Forwarded from Barney

From Pamplona:



That's what I call a bum steer.

What's your sign?

I found mine:

Or

Or on the other hand, there's this:

Don't ameliorate, defenestrate.

(Rather than make it better, throw it out the window.)

From Trixie, at Milk and Cookies dot com.

Stand

When push comes to shove you taste what you’re made of.
You might bend ‘til you break, ‘cause it’s all you can take.
On your knees you look up; decide you’ve had enough.
You get mad.
You get strong.
Wipe your hands.
Shake it off.
Then you Stand.

Some of you may know that this has been kind of a crappy Spring/Summer for me. There have been many moments of happiness, but those have been the highlights in a very stressful period. The environment at the office is increasingly hostile, unbearable, and inexcusable. The interference of a particular neighbor has become intolerable. And my car was stolen.

So I need a new job, a new apartment, and a new car. And I hit all three within weeks of each other.

No pressure.

My friends were amazed I wasn't more upset at each of these things individually, and even moreso at these in the aggregate. My work-related stress is worming its way out in some unpleasant unconscious ways, but that is getting under control and I am sending out resumes and having interviews. I have smacked down Gladys Cravits with a completely reasonable communication to the landlord and have notified her that I will be moving, but will be taking my own sweet time in doing so. Paul Day has taken my apartment hunting as his new hobby and sends me postings about four times a day. Although so far, nothing special or worth the expense.

So I am dealing, and in my usual Virgo sort of way. If I can be active and rational in my response to a crisis, I can pretty much handle anything. It also sucks that I've thrown out my ankle and can't dance as I'd like—and you know that Sunday's Sundance is my little bucket of happy I get once a week. Unfortunately, rational planning does not mend soft tissue.

When I hit this trifecta of personal stress, I had to take a moment to think and get a handle on it. I was reminded of one of those annoying simple platitudes, the sort of which elementary school teachers post in classrooms or simpletons put on coffee mugs. This one was hand-written by the football coach and tacked on the bulletin board in the varsity locker room in high school: "Either you control your attitude or it controls you."

I decided this was all in how I looked at it. I could be upset at so much upheaval, but I decided to look at this as an opportunity for change. And that's how I have been referring to it when friends ask, "So what's up with you?"

I'm having a summer of change. And looking at it that way, instead of being ugly, it becomes something beautiful.


Challenge becomes opportunity.

A few months back, an old acquaintance posted some personal painful experiences to his blog. Chip, whom I met a lifetime ago in Nashville where we once briefly shared a dark corner, moved to San Francisco, then Sausalito, then settled down in Chicago. All has not gone according to plan. In his narrative, he quoted a song from Rascal Flatts that spoke to his situation and emotion. He never dreamed that home would end up where he did not belong. He's moving on. In fact, he's moving back to SF.

I've been thinking about another Rascal Flatts song of late. And playing it a lot. Work has thrown all sorts of shit my way. And life. Stuff I don't write about here. My grandmother once said that sometimes the only way out is through.

Or in the words of a less sappy song: I get knocked down, but I get up again.

(and in fact I do like whiskey, vodka, lager, and cider drinks.)

Onwards. Upwards. Always.

............................................
Stand
Written by Danny Orton, Blair Daly
Recorded by Rascal Flatts


You feel like a candle in a hurricane
Just like a picture with a broken frame
Alone and helpless, like you’ve lost your fight
But you’ll be alright, you’ll be alright

Chorus:

‘Cause when push comes to shove
You taste what you’re made of.
You might bend ‘til you break,
‘Cause it’s all you can take
On your knees you look up.
Decide you’ve had enough.
You get mad.
You get strong.
Wipe your hands.
Shake it off.
Then you stand.

Then you stand.

Life’s like a novel with the end ripped out,
The edge of a canyon with only one way down.
Take what you’re given before it’s gone.
And start holdin’ on, keep holdin’ on.

[chorus]

Every time you get up and get back in the race
One more small piece of you starts to fall into place.

[chorus]

Sunny side of the hill

Sure, it's like 40 degrees with gale force fog at work and at home, and I thought I would pop over to Café Flore and catch up on some blogging. Downtown at lunch today it was freezing and windy too, but over here in the Castro-- sunny and mild. It's like half a mile away from the artic conditions surrounding my apartment! These micro climates are crazy. Oh to move over to this side of the hill...

On little cat feet my ass.

Mark Twain wasn't joking.

Or rather, I suppose he was. But it's only funny because it's true.

It's July in San Francisco and I am wearing a sweater and a jacket and a hat. It is so cold and foggy up here on Parnassus Street I'm making soup for dinner and getting out the flannels.

I went on a little search for the citation for Twain's aphorism: "The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco." But what I learned was that he didn't coin that at all. Another misattribution.

But still. It's freakin July and it is ass cold over here. I got sunburned in Sausalito yesterday and today I'm in a parka.

Brr.

50 Ways of Saying Fabulous

Barney's little cousin back in New Zealand is starring in a NZ gay coming-of-age flick , 50 Ways of Saying Fabulous. It's headed this way, and with good reviews.

That's his cousin Andrew pictured.

Criminy!

Hey kids. It's super busy at work and at night so not much time to post. Still- Luv yew. A little nugget in sec, but otherwise I pretty much won't be able to write until Monday night.

Boot Windows boot

So the Intel Macs can run Windows too? That's cool for the one or two apps you really need a Windows machine for.

But now, why even bother installing or booting up Windows? Apparently, soon you will be able to run the rare must-have Windows app on your Intel Mac without running Windows, or paying for a Windows license.

This looks way cool.
(You know, if you're a geek.)

Great for offices or home offices that want the happiness of the Mac OS, but also occasionally need to use some proprietary work program that only runs on Windows. I'd probably only use it for FreeCell.

Surreal estate

And I thought finding a decent pad in SF was bad. How about this lovely little penthouse in NYC. Only $70 Million.

No Mo Marriage for NY

You may have heard the news.

From the New York Times: "New York's highest court today turned back an attempt by gay and lesbian couples to win equal treatment under New York State's marriage law, saying that the state constitution 'does not compel recognition of marriages between members of the same sex.'"

Disheartening to say the least. But I am heartened by this quip from Leno on the Tonight Show:

"According to polls, 51 percent of Americans do not approve of gay marriage, but 70 percent ... do not approve of President Bush. So gay marriage is actually more popular than he is."

(source: The Charlotte Observer, 06/12/06).

Killer Guac

Well, it almost made him a killer.

Best recipie for guacamole ever. Backdated.

A funny guy recounts his failure to make guacamole as if it were a recipie.

So, Superman returned

Eh.

It was fun to watch, and Brandon Routh pulled it off, and with a surprising homage to the performance of Christopher Reeve. He had the meter and voice down pretty pat. This film lacked a lot of the playful fun of the first two Supes flicks, but it was still a good action ride. Although at two and a half hours, I could have used more action, and more Parker Posey, and a lot less Lois. Kate's cute, but she is no strong-willed single mother/experienced ace reporter. But she wasn't nearly as bad as the reviews had prepared me. (Note for the 3-D fans, it's just 3-D in four sequences, not all the way through, and it was a 3-D extraction from a 2-D print, so it is rather planar and not truly three-dimensional.)

Sure, this movie lacked the soul of the X-Men, but it was a very good Superman movie— its primiary flaw being that while very good, it could have been much better.

And I want to kiss Bryan Singer on the lips for the opening credits. Kevin and I both said afterwards that we felt like we were suddenly 12-years-old again, and had an immediate rush of excitement to be seeing a Superman movie. Whatever the emotional equivalent of muscle memory is, my brain released the same chemicals and triggered the emotional state of my first time--young, truly care-free, and excited to see a Superman matinee.

I had a matinee-idol fascination with the tall, dark and handsome Christopher Reeve then, and not so much for the new Brandon Routh, although he fills out the spandex quite nicely if slimly. I was able to make a bunch of queens' heads turn as we were filing out of the IMAX madhouse. In turned to Kevin sotto-voce, in the clichéd Jewish-mother tone, "What? Two and a half hours and less than a second with his shirt off?"

...........................................................
Kevin has two riffs on the Supes film he wants to put to paper: One on the timing of the movie and the state of today's geo-political scene, and one on the clear "yadda yadda yadda-ing" of "the American Way" in the line from Perry White: "Does he still stand for truth? Justice? All that stuff?". Kevin-- once you put words to screen feel free to voice them here in the comments section.

Sliding into third

It's the third of July. Most folks I know got a four day weekend. Even though this institution is open today, hardly anyone is around. I stepped down the hall to use the shared copier, and the lone worker from the south side was surprised to see me.

"Oh, you had to work today too?"
"Yeah. How's it going?"
"It's creepy walking around this place today. Very 28 Days Later."

Which is all the more creepy with a hospital across the street.

I wore a red shirt with a blue undershirt to be all almost-fourth-y today. But directly from work I'm going to see the Superman Returns 3D/IMAX experience, and now I will look all Super-fan-y. I'm dressed like Tom Welling on Smallville, but without the pouty lips and rippling abs.

Also today: I have discovered that nachos are not good for breakfast, and surprisingly not good for a hangover.

blue blog

I got a nice e-mail from Stephen this morning. He's a cool guy who and we've decided he needs to be added to our fold.

In his e-mail, he gave me the link to his blog:

If you want to climb into my brain for a minute, you can check out my blog at www.stephenyarbrough.com (look for entries before January 2006 if you want to laugh, and after that date if you want to cry... (insert sad violin music here).

Shout to Stephen, and his blog. And grieving is a process, that really, really sucks.

1:58/1:59

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.

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.

MACgritte

This guy is brilliant. I don't know who Dan is, but love what he did with his powerbook!

Dynamic Drinking Duo

The Drinking Detectives Agency. Secret agents with secret ingredients.
Fabulous, and fighting crime.

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.

Bloody Marys

They're not just for breakfast anymore.

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?"

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.

Anna Graham

I once dated an Anna Graham. That girl was so mixed up.

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?"

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:



And pleasantly, I renewed by acquaintance with Mr. Jennings (as he shall now be referenced), enjoyed some meaningful dances and may wind up going on a proper date.


Jennings and Keith

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.

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

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.)

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."

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.

Shameless

Happy Pride everybody!

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!'

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.)

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?!"

My first gray hair?

And it was in my nose. That can't be good.

Life difficulties

Please stand by.

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.)

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.

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.

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.

Overheard at the bar

You're wearing "pre-stressed" jeans and a "factory trashy" shirt.

You're not slutty. You're faux ho.

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:

Baby, I want scary kisses.
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 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 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.

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.

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.")

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.

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.

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."

Overheard at work - 13

Well, back in the heyday of All My Children...

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.

Shall we?

Or would it be "will" or "should" we?

Wow. So much more than I thought of "shall" and "will."

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.

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.

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.

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...

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.

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.

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.

Get your kicks

On Route 666.

Have a happy Tuesday, June 6, 2006.

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.

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.

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.

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.”

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

Seriously Gov'ment,

Stop fucking with Librarians.

From the NY Times: Four Librarians Finally Break Silence in Records Case
(registration required)

Don't make us go Medieval Literature on your ass.