Overheard last night

"Next week I am going to start researching [intense subject]. Because I plan to quit drinking and I'll have all this free time."

This was overheard on the way to the bar.

There is no "I" in team.

But there is "M" and "E."

Complete B of A Holes

So a guy wants to sells his mountain bikes. He goes to Craig's list and deals with someone in Canada for a couple of weeks, and ultimately sells the bikes. Before sending them, he receives a business check on a Bank of America account for more than the agreed amount ("for shipping and his trouble").

Slightly suspicious, he takes the check to the Bank to verify the account is real, and that there are funds to cover the amount. The teller assures him this is the case, so he cashes the check.

Or rather, he tries to. Instead, the B of A branch managers call the cops, they manhandle and cuff him in the branch (no mirandizing, btw), haul him to the police station, strip search him, take his clothes, keep him for four to five hours before he can call his parents, and lock him overnight in a cramped cell built for one with four other people, including violent offenders and drug dealers. There is one john in the corner with someone passed against it. And one bed. He curls up on the filthy floor.

Finally, after his Dad pays the $4,500 bond of the $45,000 bail to get him out the next day, all charges are dismissed by finding of fact-- basically the district attorney said he did nothing wrong and Bank of America reported a "suspected crime" not a real one.

Beyond the repeated huliliation, dehumanization, and suffering this young man edured, the 48 hours also cost this retail clerk $14,000 to clear his name.

All because he suspected a check may have been fraudulent, checked with the bank, who checked on the check, told him it was legit when it was in fact fraudulent, and called for the police and reported a crime to have him arrested him as part of the fraud, which he clearly was not.

This guy has been seriously abused, and as for the $14 grand, he thinks B of A should pay for their mistake. I am inclined to agree with him.

But a 2004 Supreme Court which removes all protections to this victim: "the court ruled that all reports to the police are absolutely privileged. In other words, no liability can be connected to telling police of a suspected crime, whether real or not."

B of A is saying it only "suspected" a crime, not they did any real checking or asked the guy. And the police way over-reacted. Where was the whole "innocent until proven guilty" thing. By all reports, he was hauled away and incarcerated, then there was an investigation, which apparently took all of five minutes when they got around to it the next day, to show it was completely baseless.

And B of A? What are they saying to this poor customer they humilates, abused, and incarcerated.

Basically it ssems they are saying, "We are not paying you for the trouble we caused. And by the way, fuck off."

Because of the 2004 ruling, B of A has no legal liability in the case and warned the customer that "litigation would not prove financially beneficial" to him.

SF Chronicle story here.

What was the old slogan? Worth changing banks for...

Death Race SF

Update from this morning's SFGate.

And this:

Throughout the chaos, only one thing seemed clear: The driver was on a hunt. A hunt for humans.

It's a bit melodramatic, but so was the terrifying killing spree.

Death Race 2006

Suddenly, Death Race 2000 isn't all that funny anymore.

SUV Hit-And-Run Rampage On SF Streets:
Up to 14 hit; man killed earlier
(SF Chronicle/SFGate)

I may be burning the candle at both ends,

But it gives a lovely light.

Birthday math

Hey kids.

I've gotten a few comments about the lack of postings today. I am looking forward to the Gay Rodeo Shopping Roadtrip narrative feature straight girls and serious leather queens. I need to edit some of the photos first and will upload them to Flickr. I inadvertently set the quality on the digital camera to "super fine" so the file sizes are enormous.

And of course, there is the birthday party. It was a small, intimate gathering of good friends, and of course any exclusion or absense should not be construed as an indicate that certain non-participants are not good friends. It was just a small dinner party.

Which of course by midnight had devolved into dancing on furniture.

I have a few "aww/cute" photos from earlier in the evening, and then a hundred messy ones from late night as the cameras got passed around and the party population halved.

I may have time to transfer these to the laptop and upload them here sometime tommorow evening.

I know your breath is bated.

Teaser: Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Liquour.

Five unexpected words, I know.

While gifts were not expected they were appreciated. And it may be telling that of three gifts, two were bottles of booze and one was a set of coasters.

I guess every party needs a theme.

I am noting quite clearly this birthday that my recovery time has increased dramatically. It has been a long, tiring day here at work, and I am bowing out of another party tonight to recuperate with another event which should be much lower liver impact. Birthday algebra for this virgo has proven that 36 ≠ 26.

Q.E.D.

Photos and posts to continue when I am no longer occupied with doing fabulous things to blog about! Maybe Thursday?

Happy Birthday to me...

It has been another trying day here at work but I am about to leave for a faboo birthday dinner hosted by the lovely Shilpa.

Some birthday thoughts before I go:

1) When people have asked what I want for my birthday, I've saying "a portrait to go in the attic."

2) and why is it when you're old enough to really appreciate a good spanking , they no longer give you birthday spankings?

Here's to 36. Ugh. I may be pushing 40, but I have to remember that's better than pulling it.

Gay Rodeo Western Shopping Road Trip

Stories to tell. But off to bed now. Tales to here and photos to Flickr soon.



Much, much fun.

Birthday Blahs

I'm not feeling very 'birthday bonanza' this year. Mac's 40th was just last weekend, and I had been focusing on that. And Dad's 70th, which was in July, but we never had the big hoo haa as planned. I managed a quick hit-and-run trip to Nashville last weekend to surprise Mac for his fabulous Mac-eoke birthday karaoke extravaganza, then turned around and got back on a plane Sunday afternoon. (Photoset up on Flickr.)


My birthday is Monday, and I didn't give it any thought until Mom asked me about it on the way to the airport. I used to love August, because that's my birthday month. Maybe it's just that I can't believe the summer is over already. I need a vacation. A real one. More than just a day or two. I really loved my two week jaunt across Europe last August, and wish I could spend a week in Glasgow before Labor Day. Jan and Cat have moved into a single flat together. Remo renovated a place nearby. And Remo and Car have bought the corner pub and are renovating that.

Oh to spend a month working on and in a Glaswegian gay-friendly bar. So much more fun than my day job here. It was called the Western. I threatened to come over, redesign it myself, and call it the Southern.

But alas, here I remain.

I have been trying not to do the "another birthday going by personal inventory." I have skimmed the surface of that lake and really don't feel like diving in. I am heavier than I have ever been, and balder, and am still single. I quit my job in 2002 and went to grad school to pursue a dream, but have not gained footing on the road to fulfillment. I was about to erase all debt except for the minor student loans, but now bought a car and am back to paying monthly debt service instead of saving. I do not own a home.

Okay, I need to stop this as it is unfun blogging and is rapidly approaching wallowing self-pity. It could just be that I am in a mood because it has been a long end to a long week.

There are, of course, many upsides. And I just launched iTunes and am feeling merrier already. The random play started up with bluegrass (Rolling in My Sweet Baby's Arms) and as Steve Martin pointed out, it is impossible to be depressed with a banjo.

Shilpa (back from Africa and bless her heart) also cornered me this week about the birthday. I had made zero plans, so she decided to host a night for me this Monday. Mondays are not usually good party nights, but it is the actual birthday. So food and friends it will be at her place on the 28th. We've got a small but deeply loving and immensely entertaining crowd gathering.

She also pressed me as to my "ideal birthday party if you could do anything." I have decided what that is: a weekend in a big house in the Russian River with the crazy friends and lots of eating, drinking, and games. Kevin, Barney, and Shilpa are all for it. I'm thinking maybe 10-12 of us now. Suitable houses abound, and they are actually reasonably priced. Off-season doesn't begin until October 1, and that's when the weather starts to turn. September here is still summer.

Unfortunately, scheduling has become the big obstacle. This weekend was out of the question as we had already planned the super-fun Gay Rodeo Private Shopping Road Trip night for tomorrow. (Last year I unwittingly started a trend of wandering pantless while trying on clothes off the racks. I seem to have a thing about pantless.) So that will be a ball.

The rest of September’s weekends are pretty full. The first weekend is for Kevin’s birthday surprises, the second weekend is the Rodeo and Shawn’s birthday BBQ, the third and last full weekend is the Folsom Street Fair, where Kevin and I hope to podcast (we gave up on the booth idea as it was cost-prohibitive). So that pushed us to October. The first weekend in October is the Castro Street Fair (featuring a great outdoor Sundance Saloon dancing stage), which overlaps with the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival I love. The second weekend in October is the Sundance Stompede, which I can’t miss. I love the weekend full of dancing as much as the cowboy imports (as you can see in the image on this page).

Kevin’s presence at the Russian River weekend is a requirement, but he works three weekends out of the month so this throws a bit of a wrench into the works.

But for all of this scheduling and planning and by all appearances a jam-packed (“I like jam!”) social calendar, it is now Friday night and I have no plans other that to meet up with RMJ and Barney at an undetermined time and place later in the Castro after everyone has finished their first-round of evening obligations.

It’s ten past six and I am waiting for Shilpa to finish up with some work. Then we are getting cocktails and manicures.

Not so bad for a Friday I suppose.

Kevin is getting over the flu and headed to see a 70mm screening of Titanic at the Castro Theater. I don’t think I’ll go because I don’t want to catch whatever it is he had. That, and I’d have to watch Titanic.

Samuel L. Jackson should avoid Mumbai

The sequel: Indians on a Plane!

From the Times of India.

To which an Indian coworker said, "That is so my mother!"

Nerd fight!!!

From BBC News:
A fierce backlash has begun against the decision by astronomers to strip Pluto of its status as a planet.

Update: Smart-asses like me get in on the action. From CafePress:

It reads like it's from The Onion

But it's not.

Earlier this week the International Astronomical Union voted to strip Pluto of its formal status as a "planet" in this solar system.

Pluto has responded with a lawsuit.

And for those of you who haven't heard of The Onion, it is America's Finest News Source.

Marooned on Loser Island!

Population: you.

Love to Shilpa.

Table talk.

Having a hard time broaching that difficult topic at the breakfast or dinner table? Can't quite bring yourself to initiate that awkward or painful conversation?

Well fret no more! The good people over at Heinz have offered to do the talking for you with customizable ketchup bottles. At MyHeinz.com you can orer pre-made or personalized messages to appear on your ketchup bottles.

Oh sure, their samples all say things like "Congratulations", "Happy Anniversary", and "Get Well Soon," but honestly, how crappy a congratulations or anniversary present is a bottle of ketchup? And I'm sure he'll recover from that bypass much more quickly with a load of ketchup on his fries. Clearly, this ingenious service is to bring to the table that which you would rather not do yourself.

Whether you're serving tater tots,



hot dogs,



flank steak,



leaving out a cold dinner because he was "working late" again,



or for spicing up those frozen leftovers,



this ketchup can say what you're afraid to.




The condiment for when the condom breaks.

Overheard from an epidemiologist

I think there's something to it.
"It's hard to get a placebo effect from a cat."

Very Cool Country

My Fave-O-Rite band 77 El Deora got a nice little multi-media coverage in the Chronicle from their show last Sunday at Thee Parkside, which I was so sorry to miss.


Check it out here.

Now I lay me down to sleep...

Pajamas for Jesus.

Holy shit you not.



Frankly, I'm surprised they put "truth" right across little Jonny's nads and little Mary Magdalene's hoo-ha. The last thing conservative Christians teach about human sexuality is the truth.

"Chastity" or "Honesty" might have been better choices. Associating honesty with what one does downstairs might make for healthier choices later in life.



Found via Pam's House Blend.

And the cow says...

Well, it depends.

In Canada, it may say "Moo-eh?"
Or in Georgia it may "Mooooah."

Sent in by alert reader/researcher Barney May, the New Zealand Herald is reporting that cows moo with an accent.

Of course, some of those who moo are just born different.

wardrobe change

I need to change clothes. Don't worry though...it won't take but just a second.



I bet most guys wish the women in their lives could change clothes this quickly.

TOO MUCH FREE TIME

One might think as the CEO of iMatix, Pieter Hintjens wouldn't have the time to so actively campiagn hardware manufactures to eliminate the 'Caps Lock' key from keyboards.

WHATEVER.

Fakes on a plane.

While I laughed out loud at the personalized voice mails from Sammy Jackson himself urging me to go see Snakes on a Plane (thanks Kev), I think I'll pass.

But I do love hearing SLJ rant about it.

But the fact that these snakes don't exist and real snakes don't act like that would just bug me too much. And, you know, the whole "it's stupid" thing.

SF Gate review: 'Snakes on a Plane' is as phony as a python with fangs. It's still fun, though.

Not to say this movie, even before it opened, is without its fans.

Peckish for a little parietal lobe?

How did I miss this?!

Zombies invaded San Francisco this weekend!

Good thing I was unavailable as my sweet, sweet brain would have attracked them to me like Whitney Houson to that bag of "powered sugar."



From Laughing Squid: Zombies Invade San Francisco!

Man I love this town!!

Favorite comment from the Laughing Squid coverage: "The first photo is exactly as I feel when I leave the Mutal Washington branch office in the photo."

And gotta love this: Zombie shopping in the Apple Store.



I'm surprised Apple hasn't welcomed this as a marketing image. "Where do zombies go for the best brains? The Apple Store's Genius Bar of course." Seriously, the Genius Bar sounds like a great zombie restaurant.

All photos by Scott Beale / Laughing Squid.

MacD turns 40! Happy Birthday!

Today is my brother Mac's fortieth birthday!

Woo hoo!

And...wow.

It got me thinking... I remember our Dad's 40th. And I am the youngest of the three Hardcastle boys. Dad just turned 70 last month, so he was just 30 when he and Mom had Mac, their second child. I was looking at a photo of Mac and me at my 30th, and even though it was only five (well, almost six) years ago I was considerably slimmer with more hair. And looked like a baby. I still feel there are times I can't take care of myself and Dad had a big house, career, and three kids by the time he was the age I am now.

I will be 36 in a couple of weeks, so I must have been five years old when Dad turned 40. I remember there was a big party at the house we had moved into just a year earlier. I remember that day fairly clearly as I was sent across the street to the Warner's house where their youngest, Mary Laird, was babysitting me during the party (as long as we are on the subject of birthdays, ML and I have the same one, just seven years apart).

After we came in from playing outside, Mary Laird asked me to close the door behind me. It was a wooden door with about a dozen glass panes, and I put my arm through one of them. She rushed me across the street (my house) to see her Dad, a doctor. I thought it was fine and didn't start crying until I saw the blood. Then I was screaming bloody murder for, according to reports, six hours or so. They washed me up and checked me out in the kitchen and Dr. Warner decided I needed stiches. Of course, the house was full of people for Dad's 40th birthday party. It's odd sensation for me to realize while typing this that ML must have only been 12 years old, the same age as my little neice.

We live on a dead-end street with a tightly-knit group of families. Most of the parents have known each other since childhood and they all moved to be near other on this very special street. The four families each have three children, at roughly the sames ages, so we all grew up together very closely. In many ways. Collectively, we affectionately refer to each other as the "street people."

So as little 5-year-old Wilson lay screaming and bleeding, Joe McAlliser got his station wagon from up the street, Beth Harwell held me, and Dr. Warner made the necessary medical arrangements. I screamed the entire car ride over to Baptist Hospital (where Dr. Warner works to this day, although now he is the Chief of Neurology).

So Beth, one of my mothers, and Joe, one of my fathers, carried me into the ER.

A wailing-child accompanied version of "Who's on first?" ensued.

"What is your name?"
"Beth Harwell."
"Beth Harwell...What is the child's name?"
"Wilson Hardcastle"
"Wilson Harwell...okay. What is the nature of the...'
"Hardcastle"
"Hardcastle?"
"Hardcastle."
"Okay, Mrs. Hardcastle, what is..."
"Mrs. Harwell. Beth Harwell."
"I thought you said Hardcastle..."

After enough confusion he turned to Joe.
"So, Mr. Harwell. Or Hardcastle?"
"McAlliser."
"I don't understand."
"I'm just the driver."
"Let's start this again."

This went on for far too long and in hindsight I am glad this wasn't the guy stiching me up.

The examined me, took me to the ER, and gave me a local and four stiches. I am told I never stoped wailing. I believe it.

Emily and Mac flew out to SF and hosted a big ta do for me on my 30th birthday. It kills me I won't be back home for Mac's 40th. Emily has planned a big party for Mac at their house on Saturday. Mac is a showman, and often with a microphone, so she has planned a large kareoke party. Or as I am calling it "Mac-eoke and Cheese."

Hopefully, his 40th will end in less bloodshed.

My gift is my song, and this one's for you...

Be vewy vewy quiet, we're hunting apartments

I meantioned earlier about MyApartmentMap.com which tied Craig's list housing posting to Google maps with limited success.

HousingMaps has done this as well, and with seemingly better results. However both services are powered by Craig's List and Google (with no official affiliation) and cannot account for the fuzzy nature of most of Craig's List apartment locations. Within a CL post, one can click on the given location to see a Google map, but more often than not the post does not contain enough specific information for Google Maps to plot the site without asking, "Did you mean..." first. Such postings do not appear on either apartment-mapping site.

But still, kinda cool, and kinda useful.

Jeep for sale

Kevin is selling is brother's Jeep. He was kind enough to lend it to me after the Saturn was stolen. It's a good ride.

Here's the Craig's list post if anyone is interested:

1993 Jeep Wrangler, hard top, 110k

Reply to: sale-195170447@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-08-16, 9:17PM

Very clean green, hard top Jeep. Never been in any accidents. Never been serious off roading, just the occasional dirt road. Runs great, lots of fun. The gas tank is empty when the gauge shows 1/8 tank (tripometer works). Rear door doesn't lock and would require a locksmith to fix- otherwise no big deal. Totally rocking car!

showing this saturday and sunday 11a-3p
Kevin
415-533-5124

Ivy covered halls of Davidson

Well, the ivy was on the outside. And not on all the buildings.

Even though it is located in North Carolina, Davidson College is now considered an Ivy League School.

Of course, some of us already knew that--Princeton being the "Davidson of the North" and all.

Update: Davidson as the new ivy is also the Time magazine cover story.

Go Wildcats!

Dating, history

I once had an ex give me the evil eye and cold shoulder for over two years because once, late night in a bar, I quipped that he "had more baggage than the Oakland airport."

Now we all have our own set of emotional baggage-- some of it matching, some of it designer, and some terribly battered. And frankly it's to be expected for people to bring their respective baggage on first dates and into relationships. I just have a rule that any emotional baggage you bring on a date with me must be able to fit in the overhead compartment.

Of course, losing one's emotional baggage may or may not be healthy.

Losing actual baggage--now that the a-hole terrorists have it made so you pretty much have to check everything--is certainly not mentally healthy.

It's a "nightmare."

If this keeps up we'll be back to taking the stage.

BBC News:
10,000 bags misplaced at airports
'Nightmare' of lost luggage

The really Quaking Quakers

There not just Friends. They're Friends With Benefits.

Can you imagine? (Yes, yes I know you can.)

I'm sure the RQQ would become the fastest growing religion in America. And you just KNOW they'd be much cooler than those religious extremists Christian conservatives.

Working it for the Weekend

I'm ready for another weekend!

Last Saturday was one of those perfect days. I got up early and had a coffee and went over to Kevin's place to plan our day. Saturday night was Midnight Mass: Death Race 2000! And of course, we were going to be appropriately attired. We spent too many hours finding and searching junkyards for a steering wheel. What we won't do for props.

Apparently, insurance policies in SF preclude customers from actually going on the lot (as opposed to 'pick your part' junkyards in the East Bay) and these guys wanted over $50 for a steering wheel, which was more than we wanted to pay for a throw-away prop. We decided we would just get a foam ring from a craft store and wrap it in electrical or tennis-racket tape.

We then went to a uniform store in SoMa and tried on various coveralls, ultimately finding limited success. The very helpful woman there was able to pick out sizes that mostly fit us, but Kevin's needed major taking-in in the waist, and mine needed the ass reduced something major. So we called Barney and made an appointment to drop in at Club Jackson after lunch, and bring him some beer for our alterations.

After we found our mechanics' coveralls, we went to the profesional theatrical make-up place at Mission and 9th—because Kevin wanted to put a SF spin on our race team and do a red-skull "Day of the Dead" thing. I didn't really get the idea, but I am game for any adventure and supported the plan.

This makeup is really, really good and so much better than other crap I have dealth with at Halloween. We also took note of their other dramatic accroutrements, which were way gross.



The vileness of the chunky faux vomit was matched only by the fabulousness of the spray glitter.

Oh my.

We took lunch at Harvey's in the Castro and enjoyed the view, then chilled with Dr. Barney over at Club Jackson for the afternoon.



I took Kevin back to Daly City and we each got about a 15-minute disco nap before Kevin came back to my place to prep.

We were TEAM MAD MAX FACTOR, which I thought was genius for Death Race 2000 meets Peaches Christ. I wrote our names on the back of our uniforms in red tape (purchased for an insane eight bucks at Mendel's, where we bought the fabric for our racing scarves). This took for freakin' ever to write:



so it really sucked when getting out of the car, it just looked like this:



Pretty much in the first 15 minutes, what was left had transfered to the backs of our theater seats.

I am so broke and such a miser, but I didn't bat an eye on shelling out (and this is just my half) $50 for coveralls, $30 for makeup, $20 for misc crafts, and $30 for tickets. It was reminiscent of last year's extenisve costuming and props for Mommy Dearest. Clearly I am penny-wise and Midnight Mass-foolish.

And Kevin sprung for a steering wheel cover we fouind at Kragen's, which came with a plastic steering wheel to hold its shape. With the label blacked-out with a Sharpie, it was perfect.

And I must say, we looked awesome.








We were also the pre-show pre-show. The crowd was very straight, a little staid, and we were the only ones dressed with flair. So we took it upon ourselves to be entertaining. Or put another way, we let our freak flag fly.

While waiting for the pre-show to start, I would do laps racing up and down the aisles. I would shift, accelerate, and make little "vroom" noises while I did loops in alternating directions. For one lap, I left my soda/cocktail with Mr. Moses in the orchestra and after I mimed a drive-though order to the tragedy/comedy masks up front, he took my cash and handed me the drink. For the last lap, I broke down in the handicapped section, and Kevin, heretofore unseen by the audience, came down with his toolbox and repaired me. We returned to our seats just as the lights dimmed.

It reads kinda lame looking at it typed now, but trust me, the crowd loved us.

And Peaches was pleased with the effort.

Xanadu's and Don't's

The movie in the park last night was excellent. Kate and I merged our crowds and had a really fun group. And with Xanadu as the show, it was a really silly/retro crowd who knows what is so bad is good.

Joining us was the always changing Stephen Handorf and the always über-sexy Dean. Prrr. Neither of those two had seen the movie before. I must say, the value in Xanadu is in the fuzzy-nostalgia-affliations. Because Lord, it is just not a good movie.

But I love it.

Poor Dean was just agape at how awful it was. He even texted a buddy, "This is the worse movie ever." His buddy replied, "Yes, but in the best way."

Amen.

The crowd around us was hilarious too. I got a little too loud as I forgot it was not Midnight Mass.



Susan and Kate


Jeff and Dean

Afterwards as I was driving the boys and girls home, we passed Kevin and Shawn on the street. They had seen a movie at the Castro theater and were on their way to 440 (previously known as Daddy's) after dinner. The boys joined them and I took the girls home.

I found parking and rejoined the boys at 440—WHERE NIPPLEBALM WAS THE GO-GO DANCER! I don't remember if I blogged that story or not, but Kevin and I met Nipplebalm (our derogatory version of his real name) at Day of the Dead just after Kevin's brother passed away. I had just made Kev some calling cards, including one that read "in search of Bombay Dreams." Nipplebalm called him a "curry queen." Super short version: Nipplebalm sort of stole Kevin's heart, stomped on it, and was a dick. Oh yeah, he was also in a porn movie called Arabesque—where all the guys were supposed to be arab, but in truth were all Indian or Italian or latino. Whatever.

Anyway, it was hilarious for us that Kev was there with his hot partner, and loser Nipplebalm was on the bar shaking his ass in tiny black briefs for singles.

Just a great cap to an evening of "dancing."

Gay is okay, but practice does not make perfect?

Making the rounds in the news today: The story of Pastor Bradley Smelling, who, when he became the Pastor of St. John's Lutheran Church (Atlanta) six years ago, told the Bishop that he was gay, and that he didn't have a boyfriend, but being the kind and loving Christian that he is, he probably would one day. That's what happens to kind and loving people-- they tend to couple up. And so much for the better.

His congration knew he was gay before he even assumed the position (poor choice of words, I know) and his homosexuality has always been a non-issue, other than the "he must know something about introspection, struggle, and hosesty and aren't we lucky to have him as a spiritual leader" sort of issue.

Now, Pastor Schmeling has a boyfriend. Good for him. But for some reason the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America, the umbrella organization that includes St. John's, suddenly has a problem with the gayness and wants to try and discipline Shmeling because now that he has a bf he's probably having a gay sex. Apparently they skimmed that biblical verse that said, "And then Peter said 'well, DUH.'"

If the Evangelical Lutheran Church of America body chooses to discipline Schmeling, he will be stripped of his clerical title and authority, but not his love, campassion, nor grace of God. Go figure.

My favorite response/observation of this mess comes from Queerty:

What we find funny about the whole thing is that just because you don't have a boyfriend doesn't mean you're not committing sodomy every weekend. The Lutheran Church is encouraging secret promiscuous sex [over] public monogamy.

Seriously, they might want to rethink their 'position.'

Cleanliness can be next to sleasyness

At least chronologically.

Variety is the spice of life. I love that my friends have diverse interests. I have a Bohemian who also dabbles in “international affairs.” A biochemist who can take in a costume on a moment’s notice.

And of course they all look to me as Mr. Answer Man. Trivia and library geek that I am.

One recent question, called from a bar in the middle of the night: “Where does toe-headed come from?”
“Actually, it’s towheaded. Tow is the silky flax on an ear of corn. It is long and fine like human hair, and so pale blond it is almost white. So someone with hair like tow is tow-headed.”

What always amazes me is not the random nature of these queries, but that I never ask why they need to know these odd, random things.

And then there is this. A text message to my phone:

“Okay Mr. Library Man. Here’s a question you probably haven’t had: How do you clean a sling? You can't know everything. But I am sure you can find some sort of S&M Martha Stewart show that I missed.”

Well, actually, I had at hand and old copy of Barty Phillips’ How to Clean Absolutely Everything, although I was fairly certain that “sex sling” would not appear in the index. However, reference people know nothing if not the importance of synonyms in the absence of a controlled vocabulary.

From Page 126
Cleaning furniture and upholstery/Special cases/Leather

• Clean dirt areas with saddle soap, using as little water as possible. When dry, buff up with a soft cloth.
• Rub dark leather every six months or so with castor oil or neat’s foot oil to prevent the leather from cracking. Clean the leather first. Apply a small amount of oil with a cottonball [sic] or a piece of cotton wool or the fingertips. Rub it in well and take off any surplus.
• Rub pale leather with petroleum jelly. [also works for boyfriends]
• Don’t wax leather furniture as it won’t absorb the wax. You can use a little shoe cream instead if you wish, but make sure you rub it in well and polish off any excess so that it doesn’t get transferred to your clothes. [or skin]
• Sometimes hide begins to get a dried-out look [so do boyfriends], especially in centrally-heated homes. Apply leather conditioning product with cotton balls. Leave for 24 hours for the leather to absorb it, then buff with a soft, clean duster.
• Or sponge with vinegar and water with a little ammonia added. While still wet apply castor oil on a rag. When the leather is dry polish with furniture cream.
• When using any sort of leather conditioner, be careful not to touch any embossed gilding and keep the product away from any surrounding wood.

I imagine that last bit means don't clean the sling while someone's in it.

The love that we came to know

We call it Xanadu-ooo-oooo...ooooo

Movie in the park tonight: Xanadu!

From their Web site www.doloresparkmovie.org/, my favorite bit is this:

Under "Editor's note:"
Do I really need to write anything here? C'mon. It's Xanadu.

Information Kareoke

The very cool Tricia Roush coordinated an information professionals happy hour at the orbit Room last night. I got there only as it was ending, but I got to catch up a bit with Carole-with-an-e who just landed a sweet job with Bain. It was also nice to chat with Tricia, whom I had met at a "copyright in the digital age" workshop last year.

I can't tell if I am deflated or motivated from the event as I see how far I have fallen off of my library science career track by working where I am now. I would much rather be in an information research environment if I cannot be in a television/film archving/reference environment. And the more I work here, the more time passes without direct experience in the research/reference field. Ugh. It's time to refocus my energies towards the career goals and stop "just working."

Next door and immediately following the information professional's happy hour was the Country Kareoke night hosted by The Best Buck in the Bay (Bay Area gay Rodeo) at The Mint.

I've learned a tricky thing about kareoke nights. Once you're drunk enough to put your name in for shaming yourself with song, it's too late to be in the queue and your name won't come up before the bar closes or you want to go home. I'll have to finesse that next time.

Anyone who knows me knows I can't carry a tune in the bucket, but with the country company I was keeping last night, any grading of my performance would have been on a curve.

While perusing the songbooks lastt night, I also noticed how many country songs are basically talking, not singing, songs. For example, The Devil Went Down to Georgia, and a lot of Johnny Cash. The solace songs for the kareoke-challenged.

Better apartment hunting

I am still keeping an eye out for a new place, but it's been back burnered after the major expense of getting the new car. Paul Day still scours Craig's list for me and forwards me places o finterest.

And now there's this. Ian Reardon in Boston has been tinkering with a personal project and has offered up MyApartmentMap.com. It takes apartment listings from Craig's List and plots them on a Google map. very handing for finding listings in neighborhoods of interest, and seeing how close a particular offering is to parking, public transit, etc.

John Lambert, whom I met years ago in P'town as a friend of Albert's east coast friends, is moving to from NYC to SF today. He left me a message that he would be looking at places with his "broker." That is so NYC, and so not SF. He might find this useful.

Update: Okay, so the site is not so helpful. Improvements are expected. He needs to nix the shared housing posts.

What's in your toolbox?

Just the usual: drill and bits, wrench, screwdriver, and hammered.

Way with the gross

Remember The Very Hungry Caterpillar?

Step on him.

Now.

Or else.

I remember as a kid each summer, trees in the neighborhood would be infested with the occasional coccoon nest of caterpillars. Dad would wrap a turpintine-soaked rag at the end of a pole and burn them out (which I thought was really cool) before they could destroy all the trees/gardens in the yard. I'm talking about two or three cantelope-sized nests.

Nothing like this.

Ew.

this time, explanation forthcoming

But not yet. Just want to mess with your heads first.


Then again, now that you know me, such sights may not suprise you in the slightest.

Rabbit seasonings

Do you know the penalty for hunting a fricasseeing rabbit without a fricasseeing rabbit license?

I still haven't seen The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, despite the urging of my friends. I'm not averse to it, I just haven't made a plan. Most of my friends want to see me be one of the audience members selected to participate. I was thinking of what I might ad lib if such came to pass (and I did not know how to spell the word). It occured to me that I might say "f-r-i-c-a-s-s-e-e-i-n-g-d-u-c-k," but I think the humor would be lost on everyone but me.

I of course, would think it was hilarious.

Never explain.

Although, you may feel free to add your own captions in the comments.

Jenny, I got your number

How do you add up?

Work your arithmancy here.

Happy Anniversary

To me.

It's been a year today since I started blogging here. I originally created this space as a travelogue for my little Euroadventure.

And to think it all started here.

One year and 8,770 hits later.

Thanks for tuning in.

-Wilson

This fair Earth

Earth is the name of a photographer who has been taking pictures of "interesting" people at county fairs for a couple of years now. Earth has just started putting some of these online.

Lordy me loves the fair!

Now sugar, you be good and run get Momma a funnel cake before she finishes her menthol and I'll give you money for the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Check it out at Earth's World!

Of related interest: An amazing Flickr set by Jeff Voris of scenes and objects seen at county fairs.

And OH DEAR GOD! There is a booth selling not only deep fried Twinkies, Oreos, and vegetables, but also a chicken sandwich served on a Krispy Kreme donut.

Law me!

(Thanks to Boing Boing!)

Slip-N-Slide!

Amy Day was talking about how much her newphew loves the slip and slide, and how tiny it looks now that we are "grown-ups." But to someone who is 30 inches tall, the 16-foot plastic slide looks huge.

And another reason to love San Francisco, and Dolores Park (aka Dolores beach on hot days): Giant 50-foot Slip-N-Slide for grown-ups, produced by a group asking for donations to fund their Burning man camp.

Love it.

Gimmie some shugah

Oh, how I miss the days of Sweet Old Ladies (a big hug to Mrs. Punch) who would chase the tiny me and pinch my cheeks at church and say, "Come here and give me some sugar!"

Here's a fix: both sugar and southern, surprisingly from the New York Times.

four point seven

There was a good long shake a few minutes ago. Started low, then paused and got steadily stronger. Then it stopped. Floor lamps swayed, my entertainment center swayed, and photos slid across their surfaces. Initally reported as a 4.7 earthquake just north of here near Santa Rosa.


4.7 2006/08/02 20:08:12 38.363N 122.589W [9.1 Depth] 5 km (3 mi) W of Glen Ellen, CA


Latest Quake Info

And it bears repeating:

Hey Bert.

I can't hear you.



I have a banana in my ear.

You say it's your birthday?

Happy birthday to Chuck!



The most dashing binge-drinker since, oh I don't know..., me.

Heart of gold, liver of iron, eyes of onyx, and wit of steel.



I wish you a very happy birthday buddy!

Sit. Spin. Savant.

Paul and I spent yesterday evening doing laundry at the Sit and Spin.

I was trying to get a design done while sitting at a café table outside when the new owner and her five-year-old son arrived. The five-year-old, Daniel, was entralled by me and my laptop. I became his new best friend and he would not get more than 18 inches away from me for the rest of the night. Flattering, but also a bit bothersome. Especially when he would poke at the keyboard or "watch me work" with his head between my face and the screen.

After an endless round of "what's that?" Q&A—

Daniel: "Do you know everything?!
Me: "Well...yes. As a matter of fact I do."
Paul: "You know everything? Are you going to blog this?"

We all have our vices

And thank goodness this one is online. Viceland dot com has silly UK blogging bits, but the jewel in this crown is the best "do's and don't's" section ever.

For example:

No matter how hot it gets, Europeans would
rather die (their heat wave death
toll is already approaching 2003’s
record of 35,000) than resort to the
rags and flip flops you lazy f*king
Americans indulge in.

and my favorite: here.

take... this broken wing...

Just back from the doctor. No carpal tunnel, just tendonitis. An ergonomic evaulation, some PT, and a brace and I should be fine. Work and play to resume.

maybe they should try Craig's List

Laura Croft, Charlie, and James Bond need a new place.

Bay swimmers' baleen

For my wacko friends who insist on swimming in the Bay, you may want to keep your mouth shut and every single pore closed.

Unless you want a snack.

southern by nature

One of the most hansome men I've met spent some time charming me yesterday... until the return of his boyfriend. As much of a stand-up guy as I am, I was this >< close to being Little Susie Homewrecker, perfectly willing to come between them. (Ahem.)

About the fourth time he came by my booth (I was volunteering for the Rodeo serving drinks at Dore Alley), he mentioned that he was waiting for it to get hot enough to take his shirt off (nevermind the sea of flesh parading by in the blazing sun). While his taking his shirt off whould have certainly made it hot enough for me, it was the way he said "off" that made me ask where he was from originally.

His answer of "New York" was almost enough to break the spell. Almost. As he complimented me on my southern charm.

But I suppose this New Yorker is as much of a Californian as I am, but a transplant to San Diego. It made me think of an e-mail I recently received from my friend Jennifer in Nashville, which spoke of a northern transplant concerned and complaining that their child was learning to talk with a southern accent. The response was this: "Just because your children were born in the South does not make them Southerners. If a cat had kittens in the oven, that wouldn't make them biscuits."

I never got a shot of him, but here are some of my co-cowboys working the booth:

to hair is human

But to make soy sauce out of it is just disgusting.

Overheard at the bar

Me: "That boy needs to learn some boundaries."
Kevin: "Yeah. The shock collar ain't doin' it."

Maybe at the the county fair

"You always hear about battered women, but they never deep fry them and serve them on a stick."

random Bush joke

Making the e-mail rounds today:

Donald Rumsfeld briefed the President this morning. He told Bush that three Brazilian soldiers had been killed in Iraq.

To everyone's amazement, all the colour ran from Bush's face, then he collapsed onto his desk, head in hands, visibly shaken, almost whimpering.

Finally, he composed himself and asked Rumsfeld, "Just exactly how many is a brazillion?"

PBS bedtime story-teller fired for a 30 second satirical adult clip seven years ago

PBS is clearly under the oppresive thumb of the New Puritans.

This is insane. Mark Morford reports in today's SF Chronicle:

What sort of people are we? What sort of warped and reckless and utterly silly value system do we suck on in this culture? Why are we so wildly, preternaturally terrified of all things sexual while at the same time drawn to it all like fat teenagers to French fries? ...

Yes indeed, before joining PBS (a full seven years before, mind you), Martinez apparently appeared in two harmless, 30-second satire videos called "Technical Virgin" in which she spoofs PSAs by joking about -- say it with me now -- sex and virginity. Gasp. And PBS found out about it. Because Martinez told them.

And of course, PBS, spineless as a jellyfish licked by Pat Robertson, immediately fired her. They claimed the dialogue in Martinez's humor videos somehow meant she wasn't a good role model for their fluffy kiddie show. A show, remember, that's designed for 3-year-olds. For creatures who can barely go to the bathroom by themselves, much less understand the meaning of an adult satiric video they will never ever see.

It is sadly appropriate that this happens now. Morford also brings the issue of gender to this insanity:

Plus, it must be said, Martinez is a woman. She's relatively young, attractive, alive. She's still a vibrant, sexual being. She is not a 60-year-old Mrs. Doubtfire type in spectacles and a shapeless housedress. And nothing scares media executives and right-wing religious types more than youngish women who are effortlessly unafraid of sex and sly humor. Just ask, you know, Eve.

And I must say he has a point:

Now might be a good moment to point out the dozens of adult actors (male, of course) who appear in countless kiddie movies and TV shows, most of whom have happily raunchy personal histories. Haven't George Carlin, Ringo Starr and Alec Baldwin all appeared in that sweet little choo-choo train show, "Thomas the Tank Engine"? What about Eddie Murphy, Robin Williams, Chris Rock? What of all the big (male) stars who appear on, provide voices for, even produce kiddie shows? Is it because they're famous? Because they're rich older men, whereas Martinez is a nonfamous youngish sexual female and is therefore an eternal danger to all mankind everywhere?

Read the whole rant. It is SO worth it.

Now these are activist judges

Just as the Washington supreme court had to do some serious reaching to justify the equal inclusion of gays and lesbians to the rights and obligations of marriage laws, the New York supreme court has rejected a lower court ruling and struck down gay marriage in that state by some seriously twisted illogical logic.

Get this, as reported by Deb Price at the Detroit Free Press: New York's top court rules gays can't marry because heterosexual unions are too unstable.

Take a minute to read that again. I'll wait.

She continues:

The bizarre -- but very true -- ruling on July 6 actually declared that lawmakers could rationally believe that because man-woman "relationships are all too often casual or temporary" they require a special "inducement in the form of marriage and its attendant benefits" for them to commit for the welfare of accidentally conceived children.

Despite the myth that gay couples are the unstable, irresponsible ones, the court weirdly concluded that because gay couples' children are wanted and planned -- not "a result of accident or impulse" -- those of us who're gay can legally be denied marriage licenses in New York state.

That's just crazy.

So basically, because heterosexual relationships are so unstable that the state needs to provide an incentive for them not to abadon unwanted children by providing some sort of benefit for sticking together. And that incentive is marriage rights. And if everyone has the right, it's no longer special or an incentive? And for the poor children who are born or adopted on purpose by gays and lesbians, then that just sucks for them. They have parents who love them and love each other. That should be enough.

No Honey, you have to wait for the other Mommy to get home and sign the permission form before you can have that surgery. And if Mommy1 dies, you'll have to leave Mommy2 and go live with the conservative fundamentalist grandparents in Backwater, Arkansas because they have all the rights to take you away from the only home you've known and love. And they'll piss on Mommy2's name whenever they can. And you better enjoy that cable tv and free thinkin' while you can because that there's just not allowed at their house.

The 4-2 majority added, "The legislature could find that unstable relationships between people of the opposite sex present a greater danger that children will be born into or grow up in unstable homes than is the case with same-sex couples, and thus that promoting stability in opposite-sex relationships will help children more." (Read the mind-twisting ruling at lambdalegal.org.)

Wow. And jurists who obey the letter and intent of that whole "equal protection under the law" thing are called "activist judges"? Can we get Fox news to endlessly repeat the new term "batshit crazy judges"? No?

Ah, hell.

She's totally going to have to take an extra shift at the Peach Pit

WTF? Out of an estate of $300 million, Aaron leaves Tori and her brother only one $1 million each.