Saturday, May 12, 2007
More teasers
Off to the races. Last night was a blast, but oh so hot and humid. I think we all soaked through our dinner clothes...
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Postcards from Nashville
Hey kids.
Lots of stories and commentary. Wow. But for now, here's a teaser.
Lots of stories and commentary. Wow. But for now, here's a teaser.
Shout out
To new reader Wayne Hoffman, who came across the blog and found photos Jeff Javits, one of his close friends from Tufts. Glad to help y'all reconnect.
Friday, May 04, 2007
A late night, and a little "Late Night"
[Hey kids. This will be a short post as I am livid-- I just wrote several pages and then Firefox froze and I lost the whole thing. Grrrr.]
Last night's work function was fine. Nothing particularly special to blog about, other than that our honorees were such fun, as were their families. Shilpa and I, as usual, looked tasty.
After the event and during the mass exodus, the cabline outsite the ritz was ridiculous so Shilpa and I decided to chill and debrief in the formal bar/lounge. It kind of reminds me of the living room at Cliff Lawn. The pianist was entertaing (if not playing an odd assortment—we noted the irony of listening to Hotel California in a hotel in California). I thought it was either a sign of the times or maybe just SF that what sounded like a trio was a single pianist with an Apple PowerBook for accompaniment.
After excusing myself to the little socialite's room, I transversed the lobby and, almost literally, ran into Conan O'Brien returning from his penutltimate show at the Orpheum. It took me a moment to process, and I said, "Oh. How was the show?" He mutters a little, "Well...you know..." as if he was spent and realized that he wazs no longer on-air did not really have to talk to be or be entertaining any more. but he was certainly cordial for a passing-by.
He and his companions took the table next to me and Shilpa (who texted me in the bathroom to say as much). I wanted to take a photo for the blog, but that just would have been bad manners.
I will say that he does look different in person. He is way tall. I thought about saying someing like, "Wow, the camera must take off six inches. Only from your height I hope."
But wisely I did not.
Dressed as we were, Shilpa and I eventually cabbed to Martuni's where we happily finished the late night with a messy, messy drunk couple also in formal wear, a couple of bears on a date, a couple of super-swishy valley-girl baby faglets, and Joe the piano crooner.
I'm shure Shilpa has photos.
I will be rushing off to prepare and pack for my trip soon. I had hoped to be ready early enough to enjoy tonight in the City, and surprise Kevin (who is kind enough to schlep me all the way to OAK tomorrow morning) by taking him to Lynda Carter's (yes, TV's Wonder Woman) cabaret debut at the Plush Room. I learned in an e-mail that RMJ and Barney went last night and were in the front row. I'm so jealous. I want to tell her how much I loved her work in "Partners in Crime" with Loni Anderson, and of course, her variety show.
I will blog from Nashville as best I can. Posts this week will be erratic but hopefully entertaining. I have a full social schedule this week. I tryed to pull together a night for all of my Nashville gays, and the lovely and talented Van Pond stepped in and offered to host at his and his hubby's newly-constructed home which he designed (Van is an archtitect). I am looking forward to seeing and catching up with all of my Nashville boys/men. I considered inviting the unresponsive, elusive, exceptionally randy, and crazy hot television reporter I met over Christmas. I don't think he would actually show, but inviting him would add additional drama to the week. Especially considering I found out that he used to date/hook up with a friend of mine, who will be attending the cocktail party with his new partner.
Okay, I lost this post once before and am now very late getting to my packing and such. Off to the races.
Last night's work function was fine. Nothing particularly special to blog about, other than that our honorees were such fun, as were their families. Shilpa and I, as usual, looked tasty.
After the event and during the mass exodus, the cabline outsite the ritz was ridiculous so Shilpa and I decided to chill and debrief in the formal bar/lounge. It kind of reminds me of the living room at Cliff Lawn. The pianist was entertaing (if not playing an odd assortment—we noted the irony of listening to Hotel California in a hotel in California). I thought it was either a sign of the times or maybe just SF that what sounded like a trio was a single pianist with an Apple PowerBook for accompaniment.
After excusing myself to the little socialite's room, I transversed the lobby and, almost literally, ran into Conan O'Brien returning from his penutltimate show at the Orpheum. It took me a moment to process, and I said, "Oh. How was the show?" He mutters a little, "Well...you know..." as if he was spent and realized that he wazs no longer on-air did not really have to talk to be or be entertaining any more. but he was certainly cordial for a passing-by.
He and his companions took the table next to me and Shilpa (who texted me in the bathroom to say as much). I wanted to take a photo for the blog, but that just would have been bad manners.
I will say that he does look different in person. He is way tall. I thought about saying someing like, "Wow, the camera must take off six inches. Only from your height I hope."
But wisely I did not.
Dressed as we were, Shilpa and I eventually cabbed to Martuni's where we happily finished the late night with a messy, messy drunk couple also in formal wear, a couple of bears on a date, a couple of super-swishy valley-girl baby faglets, and Joe the piano crooner.
I'm shure Shilpa has photos.
I will be rushing off to prepare and pack for my trip soon. I had hoped to be ready early enough to enjoy tonight in the City, and surprise Kevin (who is kind enough to schlep me all the way to OAK tomorrow morning) by taking him to Lynda Carter's (yes, TV's Wonder Woman) cabaret debut at the Plush Room. I learned in an e-mail that RMJ and Barney went last night and were in the front row. I'm so jealous. I want to tell her how much I loved her work in "Partners in Crime" with Loni Anderson, and of course, her variety show.
I will blog from Nashville as best I can. Posts this week will be erratic but hopefully entertaining. I have a full social schedule this week. I tryed to pull together a night for all of my Nashville gays, and the lovely and talented Van Pond stepped in and offered to host at his and his hubby's newly-constructed home which he designed (Van is an archtitect). I am looking forward to seeing and catching up with all of my Nashville boys/men. I considered inviting the unresponsive, elusive, exceptionally randy, and crazy hot television reporter I met over Christmas. I don't think he would actually show, but inviting him would add additional drama to the week. Especially considering I found out that he used to date/hook up with a friend of mine, who will be attending the cocktail party with his new partner.
Okay, I lost this post once before and am now very late getting to my packing and such. Off to the races.
Thursday, May 03, 2007
phone a friend
A friend called me at work this morning to recount a pretty amazing evening/night/morning. I needed to be brief but stayed on the line to get as much of the tale as I could.
When XYZ called, I was on my way out for a meeting and Shilpa was hovering about waiting for me to join her. XYZ and I were talking for a while and Shilpa started tapping her foot, then tugging on me to go.
After I hung up the phone I said, "Sorry. I had to have that conversation. It involved the Nob Hill Theater, gay-for-pay, and sex with a hot straight man."
She replied, "Was that XYZ?"
Ah.
I think that says something about reputations.
And the company I keep.
When XYZ called, I was on my way out for a meeting and Shilpa was hovering about waiting for me to join her. XYZ and I were talking for a while and Shilpa started tapping her foot, then tugging on me to go.
After I hung up the phone I said, "Sorry. I had to have that conversation. It involved the Nob Hill Theater, gay-for-pay, and sex with a hot straight man."
She replied, "Was that XYZ?"
Ah.
I think that says something about reputations.
And the company I keep.
Work hard and play hard 3 -PJs off Polk
Let me tell you, trying to wake up early for a brunch on Sunday after a long night on Saturday was nigh near impossible. I had dutifully set my alarm, but also slept through it for more than an hour, dreaming that I had gotten up, gotten ready, and went to the brunch. When I finally woke up later I was genuinely surprised to find myself still in bed and not yet brunched.
In retrospect, I should have clued into the fact that I was dreaming when Ed Asner, Betty White, and the woman who played Mrs. Roper arrived and eventually caused a scene.
Luckily, RMJ and Barney were running even later than I was, so I had plenty of time to shower and get dressed in fresh “going out” sleepwear and watch some of the news. Yes, I found it ironic that we were going to a pajama brunch who’s idea is that patrons in the neighborhood could roll out of bed and directly into breakfast, and yet I got up, showered and changed.
The Red Door Café hosts a pajama brunch on the last Sunday of every month. And it is enforced—if you are not in your pajamas (or someone else’s I suppose), you don’t get in. The Red Door Café is a wonderful little spot at California and Larkin. It is a small, family-run café serving simple breakfast and burgers, and incredibly delightful homemade cakes and pasties and nibblies. Cash only, no substitutions, and nothing, nothing but love. While we were waiting the host would bring little family corn cakes made with cucumber and other treats with a raspberry drizzle. The place is very small and slightly sunken below street level, with a fairly low doorway (one hot local guy commented that he felt a bit like Gandalf stooping to enter a hobbit’s den). The chairs and tables are an eclectic mix of the off and irregular, and has the feeling of an old southern home furnished with bits and pieces of leftover antiques and cast-off, yet family, furniture—including old sewing tables and stuffed wing-backed chairs. Antique, found portraits and daguerreotypes hang on the wall opposite ephemera such as a limited edition “Kitty Glitter” stuffed animal, and child’s drawing of an angel in magic marker next to an old box of Penis Pasta. The overall effect is not only welcoming, but embracing, and the sort of intimate space in which dining in one’s pajamas would be completely comfortable.
Not living in Nob Hill or the Gulch, I drove over. I finally found parking and walked the block or two, in pajamas and bear feet, down to the Red Door. (That’s not a typo, the slippers I wore wear furry bear’s feet, complete with claws.) RMJ and Barney had already been seated at a table against the wall—then again, the place is so small all of the tables were against a wall—but sitting next to each other so they could both face the room (which was worth facing). I faced the wall throughout the meal (and managed to stay on the SBD despite the smell of the freshly baked whole wheat toast), until the end when we chilled and digested with coffees and mimosas and I moved against the wall as well under the pretense of getting out of the server’s way. At that point we looked like the panel from American Idol, and adjusted our commentary accordingly (I did the best I can as I have never actually watched American Idol.).
When I originally arrived, I thought I might have been had. Telling me to show up downtown for breakfast in my pajamas at a non-themed event is just the sort of practical joke RMJ and Barney might devise and I would certainly fall for—never being one to reject a theme. Some of the patrons were clearly not in sleepwear. On some of the guys it was hard to tell if they were in theme, or just slobs who put on track/sweat pants as their Sunday best. It turns out the proprietor and host, the very lovely and loving Ahmed, had been out of town for the past month and in his absence no one put up notices or flyers for the pajama brunch, and he said most people won’t think about it if they don’t see a notice beforehand. As such, the only people who showed up in sleepwear were the locals/regulars. But those that did, did it pretty well. Here is a pic of the table behind me.
The guy also had furry slippers, and while I don’t think it was particularly attractive, I appreciated that his girlfriend wore an antique bed jacket. Our host made a special effort to praise up for coming in pajamas and apologizing profusely for the lack of other participants. He was very sweet.
We had a very nice morning together, and were reluctant to relinquish our table. While we had planned to go to the antique car show atop Nob Hill as last year (and I packed a change of clothes), we all decided we would rather go home and take naps.
I love my friends. Who else would rally for a pajama brunch? And it really amused us that even though the majority of the patrons were not in sleepwear, and had never heard of the last-Sunday tradition, most of them didn’t even bat an eye and the bedroom-clad. It’s San Francisco, after all.
It occurred to me that in this town, you don’t really need the sponsorship of an establishment to make your own theme. We really could have gone anywhere and had breakfast in our pajamas.
So we are. Next month, we’ll pick another place. We’re starting a new tradition of “breakfast in your pajamas,” and a new venue each month. I’m hoping we’ll become a bigger thing.
I also love my friends because I can hear phrases such as “if you need some pieces of zebra chenille…” tossed offhand.
Note to self: I need to let y’all know one final note on Sunday, regarding Sundance Saloon and the Rodeo pageant. But I’ve got to sign off now.
In retrospect, I should have clued into the fact that I was dreaming when Ed Asner, Betty White, and the woman who played Mrs. Roper arrived and eventually caused a scene.
Luckily, RMJ and Barney were running even later than I was, so I had plenty of time to shower and get dressed in fresh “going out” sleepwear and watch some of the news. Yes, I found it ironic that we were going to a pajama brunch who’s idea is that patrons in the neighborhood could roll out of bed and directly into breakfast, and yet I got up, showered and changed.
The Red Door Café hosts a pajama brunch on the last Sunday of every month. And it is enforced—if you are not in your pajamas (or someone else’s I suppose), you don’t get in. The Red Door Café is a wonderful little spot at California and Larkin. It is a small, family-run café serving simple breakfast and burgers, and incredibly delightful homemade cakes and pasties and nibblies. Cash only, no substitutions, and nothing, nothing but love. While we were waiting the host would bring little family corn cakes made with cucumber and other treats with a raspberry drizzle. The place is very small and slightly sunken below street level, with a fairly low doorway (one hot local guy commented that he felt a bit like Gandalf stooping to enter a hobbit’s den). The chairs and tables are an eclectic mix of the off and irregular, and has the feeling of an old southern home furnished with bits and pieces of leftover antiques and cast-off, yet family, furniture—including old sewing tables and stuffed wing-backed chairs. Antique, found portraits and daguerreotypes hang on the wall opposite ephemera such as a limited edition “Kitty Glitter” stuffed animal, and child’s drawing of an angel in magic marker next to an old box of Penis Pasta. The overall effect is not only welcoming, but embracing, and the sort of intimate space in which dining in one’s pajamas would be completely comfortable.
Not living in Nob Hill or the Gulch, I drove over. I finally found parking and walked the block or two, in pajamas and bear feet, down to the Red Door. (That’s not a typo, the slippers I wore wear furry bear’s feet, complete with claws.) RMJ and Barney had already been seated at a table against the wall—then again, the place is so small all of the tables were against a wall—but sitting next to each other so they could both face the room (which was worth facing). I faced the wall throughout the meal (and managed to stay on the SBD despite the smell of the freshly baked whole wheat toast), until the end when we chilled and digested with coffees and mimosas and I moved against the wall as well under the pretense of getting out of the server’s way. At that point we looked like the panel from American Idol, and adjusted our commentary accordingly (I did the best I can as I have never actually watched American Idol.).
When I originally arrived, I thought I might have been had. Telling me to show up downtown for breakfast in my pajamas at a non-themed event is just the sort of practical joke RMJ and Barney might devise and I would certainly fall for—never being one to reject a theme. Some of the patrons were clearly not in sleepwear. On some of the guys it was hard to tell if they were in theme, or just slobs who put on track/sweat pants as their Sunday best. It turns out the proprietor and host, the very lovely and loving Ahmed, had been out of town for the past month and in his absence no one put up notices or flyers for the pajama brunch, and he said most people won’t think about it if they don’t see a notice beforehand. As such, the only people who showed up in sleepwear were the locals/regulars. But those that did, did it pretty well. Here is a pic of the table behind me.
The guy also had furry slippers, and while I don’t think it was particularly attractive, I appreciated that his girlfriend wore an antique bed jacket. Our host made a special effort to praise up for coming in pajamas and apologizing profusely for the lack of other participants. He was very sweet.
We had a very nice morning together, and were reluctant to relinquish our table. While we had planned to go to the antique car show atop Nob Hill as last year (and I packed a change of clothes), we all decided we would rather go home and take naps.
I love my friends. Who else would rally for a pajama brunch? And it really amused us that even though the majority of the patrons were not in sleepwear, and had never heard of the last-Sunday tradition, most of them didn’t even bat an eye and the bedroom-clad. It’s San Francisco, after all.
It occurred to me that in this town, you don’t really need the sponsorship of an establishment to make your own theme. We really could have gone anywhere and had breakfast in our pajamas.
So we are. Next month, we’ll pick another place. We’re starting a new tradition of “breakfast in your pajamas,” and a new venue each month. I’m hoping we’ll become a bigger thing.
I also love my friends because I can hear phrases such as “if you need some pieces of zebra chenille…” tossed offhand.
Note to self: I need to let y’all know one final note on Sunday, regarding Sundance Saloon and the Rodeo pageant. But I’ve got to sign off now.
formal
Shilpa and I are going to a black-tie work function tonight. In light of the last work-related formal, she e-mailed me not to forget her corsage.I'm thinking for her, her corsage would be a lime wedge.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
Work hard and play hard 2 - The Red & Black Gala
Okay, the official name of the event was "The Red Hot Black and White Gala." This event was a formal sponsored by the department down the hall for the entire campus and held at the Gift Center downtown. They had been pushing the Red and Black theme and I had just processed it as a Red and Black Ball. They have had Black and White Galas before, but they get confused with the greater San Francisco Black and White Ball which is a huge deal benefiting the symphony, attended by hundreds (thousands?) who bring it.
I hadn’t planned on going (I had planned on being in recovery), but Shilpa and Amy gave me the hard sell. There are not that many friends I can call on to go to a formal event at the last minute, especially a formal event which will have no one they know, no gays, and perhaps require glitter and face paint (I had a plan).
But there is Jim Myers (or as he is called only by me, Jimbo). He said “sure,” but he doesn’t own a tux. So we worked out our own wardrobe/costume for the night which worked out so much better.
Jim spent the morning shopping, and I joined him down inJonestown Stonestown Galleria as I could use a pair of dress black pants that were a littler, shall we say, roomier (despite dropping a few lbs on the SBD). And I had a tear down the backside of my springtime pajamas and could use a sprucy new pair for Sunday’s Pajama Brunch. While shopping I got a call from Shilpa who needed me to rescue her with my set of keys to her apartment.
Let’s just take a few moments for Shilpa and keys. Shilpa is constantly losing things. On any given day she'll lose her keys faster than a cheerleader's virginity on prom night.
This is a running gag now. In the three short years that I have known her, I have lost count as to how many times she has lost her keys or locked herself out of home or office. It has past comical and entered into tragic. This time, her keys were wisely in the pocket of her favorite fleece. As it was such a lovely day, she decided to hike from her place through Golden Gate Park to points north where she would meet up for shopping with her party companion Amy Droptrou (a play on her real name, and so indicated as to differentiate her from another regular blog character, Amy Day). It was a sunny day and somewhere along her route Shilpa took off her fleece. Only miles later when she boarded the Geary did she notice she no longer had her fleece.
Or her keys.
Yesterday we had a major work event, which Shilpa ran quite smoothly. Afterwards I dropped her off in the Gultch for a fine dining night with Droptrou. Later that night she called me at home while she was bored waiting for a cab. This morning she told me she lost her cell phone, which mush have fallen out of her new purse into the cab. On a related note, she is now on her third digital camera in 18 months. As my mother used to say, I fear that girl would lose her head if it weren’t screwed on (bless her heart).
But I digress.
Jim and I shopped unsuccessfully and I went back to the City, got my keys to Shilpa’s place, picked her up from 9th and Irving and got her home and inside her building.
Jim met me for cocktails at my house where we prepared our final touches before heading out to the Gift Center. [Side note: We wished for roadies later. I forgot that the constant at the Gift Center is a crappy bar with over-priced drinks. The wise BYO or flask it, tacky though it may be it is certainly the wiser move, and oddly appears more sophisticated. And any booze you bring in (subtly of course) if guaranteed to be better than what they serve.]
Keeping with the “Red and Black” theme, I must say that we looked great. Or as we say, we brought it.
The question was, were we a pair of Jacks, or just a couple of queens.
During the evening, an older gay couple sought us out as the only other gay couple and we had a lovely conversation. When I mentioned this to RMJ at brunch the next day, he asked, “What made you stand out?” Ha ha.
Shilpa and Amy looked fabulous too.
While the event was very nice and well produced, it was basically one big prom, with the younger, more inexperienced guests treated it like the only other formal functions they’ve been to, which was prom. I even had to take some photos across the room. Take note of the wrist corsage (wrist corsage?) and matching boutonnière.
Amy Droptrou became Shilpa’s travel gnome as she ran around posing in front of bad outfits and scary looks.
Seriously, who attends a formal and dances wearing a dress and a backpack?
Walking around we were slow to notice one pair of boys who were looking very cute wearing complete negative black and white outfits. One had white pants, the other black pants; black vest/white vest, white tie/black tie...even skin color. They did have matching giant jeweled earrings. We pegged them as the other gay couple and started talking to them about their, well, costumes. They were quite pleased with themselves, as they should be. Making conversation, I asked where in the complex organization they fit in. One said, "Oh my mom works here. I'm just here with my mom and my girlfriend, and he's my friend who came with."
We had to back up. Girlfriend? Right. He repeated the scenario so I had to ask the white guy, "So, you're here with his mom?"
"I suppose, I guess, yeah, I suppose."
"Is she hot?"
I also noted out that they were such attentive boyfriends as the girl were dancing and they were cruising together. Later I asked to take their photo, and they struck a total made-for-TV street pose.
Word.
We felt that the only thing missing was the photographer’s station to take the prom pics. We staged our own.
We knew a several of the producers of the event, and as we were the primary enteraintment, we had a fabulous time, looking fabulous.
Shilpa, of course, took many photos, as her dependency on her Elph borders on the pathological. Note the constancy of the camera.
After the band finished, the music became just cheesy hip hop which I really didn’t like. Jim and I took Shilpa with us to Badlands in hope of better music and dancing. Unfortunately, the place was too crowded to be much fun, and dancing was impossible.
We of course, continued to be fabulous.
Complete Red and Black Gala photo album on my personal site.
(And the obligatory photo set on flickr.)
I hadn’t planned on going (I had planned on being in recovery), but Shilpa and Amy gave me the hard sell. There are not that many friends I can call on to go to a formal event at the last minute, especially a formal event which will have no one they know, no gays, and perhaps require glitter and face paint (I had a plan).
But there is Jim Myers (or as he is called only by me, Jimbo). He said “sure,” but he doesn’t own a tux. So we worked out our own wardrobe/costume for the night which worked out so much better.
Jim spent the morning shopping, and I joined him down in
Let’s just take a few moments for Shilpa and keys. Shilpa is constantly losing things. On any given day she'll lose her keys faster than a cheerleader's virginity on prom night.
This is a running gag now. In the three short years that I have known her, I have lost count as to how many times she has lost her keys or locked herself out of home or office. It has past comical and entered into tragic. This time, her keys were wisely in the pocket of her favorite fleece. As it was such a lovely day, she decided to hike from her place through Golden Gate Park to points north where she would meet up for shopping with her party companion Amy Droptrou (a play on her real name, and so indicated as to differentiate her from another regular blog character, Amy Day). It was a sunny day and somewhere along her route Shilpa took off her fleece. Only miles later when she boarded the Geary did she notice she no longer had her fleece.
Or her keys.
Yesterday we had a major work event, which Shilpa ran quite smoothly. Afterwards I dropped her off in the Gultch for a fine dining night with Droptrou. Later that night she called me at home while she was bored waiting for a cab. This morning she told me she lost her cell phone, which mush have fallen out of her new purse into the cab. On a related note, she is now on her third digital camera in 18 months. As my mother used to say, I fear that girl would lose her head if it weren’t screwed on (bless her heart).
But I digress.
Jim and I shopped unsuccessfully and I went back to the City, got my keys to Shilpa’s place, picked her up from 9th and Irving and got her home and inside her building.
Jim met me for cocktails at my house where we prepared our final touches before heading out to the Gift Center. [Side note: We wished for roadies later. I forgot that the constant at the Gift Center is a crappy bar with over-priced drinks. The wise BYO or flask it, tacky though it may be it is certainly the wiser move, and oddly appears more sophisticated. And any booze you bring in (subtly of course) if guaranteed to be better than what they serve.]
Keeping with the “Red and Black” theme, I must say that we looked great. Or as we say, we brought it.
The question was, were we a pair of Jacks, or just a couple of queens.
During the evening, an older gay couple sought us out as the only other gay couple and we had a lovely conversation. When I mentioned this to RMJ at brunch the next day, he asked, “What made you stand out?” Ha ha.
Shilpa and Amy looked fabulous too.
While the event was very nice and well produced, it was basically one big prom, with the younger, more inexperienced guests treated it like the only other formal functions they’ve been to, which was prom. I even had to take some photos across the room. Take note of the wrist corsage (wrist corsage?) and matching boutonnière.
Amy Droptrou became Shilpa’s travel gnome as she ran around posing in front of bad outfits and scary looks.
Seriously, who attends a formal and dances wearing a dress and a backpack?
Walking around we were slow to notice one pair of boys who were looking very cute wearing complete negative black and white outfits. One had white pants, the other black pants; black vest/white vest, white tie/black tie...even skin color. They did have matching giant jeweled earrings. We pegged them as the other gay couple and started talking to them about their, well, costumes. They were quite pleased with themselves, as they should be. Making conversation, I asked where in the complex organization they fit in. One said, "Oh my mom works here. I'm just here with my mom and my girlfriend, and he's my friend who came with."
We had to back up. Girlfriend? Right. He repeated the scenario so I had to ask the white guy, "So, you're here with his mom?"
"I suppose, I guess, yeah, I suppose."
"Is she hot?"
I also noted out that they were such attentive boyfriends as the girl were dancing and they were cruising together. Later I asked to take their photo, and they struck a total made-for-TV street pose.
Word.We felt that the only thing missing was the photographer’s station to take the prom pics. We staged our own.
We knew a several of the producers of the event, and as we were the primary enteraintment, we had a fabulous time, looking fabulous.
Shilpa, of course, took many photos, as her dependency on her Elph borders on the pathological. Note the constancy of the camera.
After the band finished, the music became just cheesy hip hop which I really didn’t like. Jim and I took Shilpa with us to Badlands in hope of better music and dancing. Unfortunately, the place was too crowded to be much fun, and dancing was impossible.
We of course, continued to be fabulous.
Complete Red and Black Gala photo album on my personal site.
(And the obligatory photo set on flickr.)
Work hard and play hard
No pun intended.
No much to report during the week these days as it is nothing but nose to the grindstone, and I am almost out of nose.
Friday was our a corporate Staff Appreciation Day, and the office was scheduled to be closed after 10:30/11:00 for a day of many festivities in Golden Gate Park. Unfortunately Shilpa and I were buried not only in additional work that needed doing, but also a slew of new items which required response by the end of the day, so we did not get to flee the office in search of barbecue until after 2:00. The weather could not have been better—sunny and clear but cool—and it was a wonderful way to start winding down from a whirlwind of a week.
But it was by all means, one of those days. And by 10:30, I wanted a drink. Shortly after I muttered that to myself, I got an e-mail from Shilpa saying the same thing. I was on my first week of South Beach Phase I, which calls for no alcohol. And when it comes to drinking, I don’t want to be one of those people who drinks because they need a drink. I just want to drink because I want a drink.
But come ON. There is only so much one can take before they say F-it and go get a drink.
By the time we got to the park, we had missed most of the festivities but still got to visit with a lot of folks, and scrounge for no-carb food stuffs. I was going to meet the boys later and Shilps had an appointment in the Marina, so we killed some time together with sunshine and the sunroof. And sat on a deck and had a well-earned and well-deserved mandarin and soda. Ahhhhhhhh. I have been very good on this no-carb no-sugar thing, and even meeting friends for dinner and drinks all week, had abstained from alcoholic beverages. I have learned, as many others before me, that the South Beach diet is great, and easy to follow as long as you allow yourself exemptions on the weekends. I am trying to look at this diet as a lifestyle change, and not just something for the next couple of weeks. And that will only be possible if I allow for social drinking over the weekends.
And I have discovered the super-low carb chocolate ice cream bars from Weight Watchers, and the no-sugar-added fudgesicles. These are my saving graces. And I almost went nuts last night at Safeway when I found that they were out of both. Conspiracy!
After our cocktail I dropped Shilpa off at her appointment, and after a don’t-bother report from Barney headed home for a wardrobe change and some chill time. I was happy to be off from work and ready for the weekend. I stopped at Pitch for a visit (and possible trim) with Emmanuel and my newbarber stylist. Good neighbor that I am I always offer cocktails. I brought a shaker of raspberry cosmos, and a carb-lite vodka soda for myself. It was a nice evening and I ended up getting a trim and a color tone at the end of the day. My stylist was excited to hear that there was country music and a gay rodeo in town, and asked to join me later at the 77 El Deora show.
I was excited about 77’s return from their euro tour and last time at the Knockout the crowd was pretty cool. Of course, last time their follow-up act flaked and never showed so they had to play for three or four hours, which was fine by me.
I invited SkotLand to join me after his family obligations, but those ran way late and he never made it. My stylist was waylaid as well so it was just me.
Again, the same guy they had been paired with before, totally flaked. He did not inform the owner/manager that he wouldn’t be playing, but one of his buddies showed up and said “X can’t make it tonight. But me and my buddies can go on instead…” Which to me sounded like a total bait and switch.
And not only were these guys total “I’m in a band, aren’t I hot” posers, they suuuuuuucked. Their music was crap, and very garage band/fraternity row jam-band wanna-be’s. Jeanine called them “Dead-inspired” before they fell into their dirge rock.
I really can’t convey their level of suckage. Enjoyed, it seemed, only by the friends/hos they brought with them. And their style of music was nowhere close to the Country Honky Tonk music on the marquee and previously advertised around town. It was the sort of music visibly drove people away at the door (certainly not worth the five bucks either) and annoyed the genre locals who had arrived in complete period 50s/rockabilly wardrobe and styling.
It was midnight before 77 took the newly-constructed stage, and even then the previous band left all of their instruments and enormous rotating woofer on the dance floor, which was only 15’ by 12’ as it was. There was little room for dancing, which sucked because 77 is great for dancing, and many often do. And they left their gear on the tables and chairs in the corner so there were no longer places to sit or rest drinks. One guy even came over to shoo someone (okay, me) from sitting on one of their cases, and later they were exasperated that people would rest their drinks on their crappy wooden cabinet they left against the wall. Seriously, they should have taken all their crap back to their cars when their set was done.
During the 77 El Deora set, I got to dance a little bit with Mau’s wife, the ever-lovely Jeanine. The woman can flat out dance, but she is so petite it is often difficult for me to dance with her (me being not so quite petite). Later, a blond girl named [redacted] asked me to dance. I accepted and then tried to dance with her, but either she was too drunk or too devoid of any rhythm/grace to dance along with me. We were couples dancing (just a basic swing) and she would routinely just fall, or stand there, or spin only halfway around, then just stand there as if she forgot where she was. It was extremely frustrating.
Then her girlfriend asked me to dance. (I didn’t initially know there were there together--and not together in the lesbian way, just girl friends girlfriends.)
She was also a train wreck. But I was a gentleman and just tried to be a strong lead and show her a good time.
They kept asking me to dance, and it just got worse and worse. I don’t know if it was the shoes or the blood-alcohol content but these girls could not move on a dance floor, tiny though it was. And I have a reputation to uphold when it comes to dancing and I was hoping the onlookers could tell that I was doing my best, and it was just Laverne and Shirley bringing me down.
After a few rounds, I graciously extricated myself and went to the bar. Moving from just soda to a mandarin-and, the blond sidled up to me again, put her hand on my chest and looked up to me: “Do you have a girlfriend?” She slightly slurred.
“No,” I said as sweetly as possible, “I’m gay,” my voice tinged with disappointment as if to say, “if only I weren’t…”.
“No, do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” I tried to be clearer, “I have boyfriends” Not that I actually have boyfriends, but it’s not for lack of wanting.
I left her (I imagine) devastated. I accepted her compliments to my dancing, and politely declined to repeat the experience.
When they left the bar they were rebounding off one another on the sidewalk, and begging cigarettes. My only thoughts as they stumbled into the Outer Mission night were that I hoped (1) they would quiet down and not display themselves as such easy pickings for a sexual assault in this neighborhood, or (2) that they weren’t getting behind the wheel of a car. And (3) thank God they were gone.
When I got myself home, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. And Saturday I welcomed the opportunity to sleep late and didn’t open my eyes again until after noon. Baby needed his rest as Jimbo and I were planning to join Shilpa and Amy Droptrou for the Red Hot & Black Gala and it was going to be another long night.
No much to report during the week these days as it is nothing but nose to the grindstone, and I am almost out of nose.
Friday was our a corporate Staff Appreciation Day, and the office was scheduled to be closed after 10:30/11:00 for a day of many festivities in Golden Gate Park. Unfortunately Shilpa and I were buried not only in additional work that needed doing, but also a slew of new items which required response by the end of the day, so we did not get to flee the office in search of barbecue until after 2:00. The weather could not have been better—sunny and clear but cool—and it was a wonderful way to start winding down from a whirlwind of a week.
But it was by all means, one of those days. And by 10:30, I wanted a drink. Shortly after I muttered that to myself, I got an e-mail from Shilpa saying the same thing. I was on my first week of South Beach Phase I, which calls for no alcohol. And when it comes to drinking, I don’t want to be one of those people who drinks because they need a drink. I just want to drink because I want a drink.
But come ON. There is only so much one can take before they say F-it and go get a drink.
By the time we got to the park, we had missed most of the festivities but still got to visit with a lot of folks, and scrounge for no-carb food stuffs. I was going to meet the boys later and Shilps had an appointment in the Marina, so we killed some time together with sunshine and the sunroof. And sat on a deck and had a well-earned and well-deserved mandarin and soda. Ahhhhhhhh. I have been very good on this no-carb no-sugar thing, and even meeting friends for dinner and drinks all week, had abstained from alcoholic beverages. I have learned, as many others before me, that the South Beach diet is great, and easy to follow as long as you allow yourself exemptions on the weekends. I am trying to look at this diet as a lifestyle change, and not just something for the next couple of weeks. And that will only be possible if I allow for social drinking over the weekends.
And I have discovered the super-low carb chocolate ice cream bars from Weight Watchers, and the no-sugar-added fudgesicles. These are my saving graces. And I almost went nuts last night at Safeway when I found that they were out of both. Conspiracy!
After our cocktail I dropped Shilpa off at her appointment, and after a don’t-bother report from Barney headed home for a wardrobe change and some chill time. I was happy to be off from work and ready for the weekend. I stopped at Pitch for a visit (and possible trim) with Emmanuel and my new
I was excited about 77’s return from their euro tour and last time at the Knockout the crowd was pretty cool. Of course, last time their follow-up act flaked and never showed so they had to play for three or four hours, which was fine by me.
I invited SkotLand to join me after his family obligations, but those ran way late and he never made it. My stylist was waylaid as well so it was just me.
Again, the same guy they had been paired with before, totally flaked. He did not inform the owner/manager that he wouldn’t be playing, but one of his buddies showed up and said “X can’t make it tonight. But me and my buddies can go on instead…” Which to me sounded like a total bait and switch.And not only were these guys total “I’m in a band, aren’t I hot” posers, they suuuuuuucked. Their music was crap, and very garage band/fraternity row jam-band wanna-be’s. Jeanine called them “Dead-inspired” before they fell into their dirge rock.
I really can’t convey their level of suckage. Enjoyed, it seemed, only by the friends/hos they brought with them. And their style of music was nowhere close to the Country Honky Tonk music on the marquee and previously advertised around town. It was the sort of music visibly drove people away at the door (certainly not worth the five bucks either) and annoyed the genre locals who had arrived in complete period 50s/rockabilly wardrobe and styling.
It was midnight before 77 took the newly-constructed stage, and even then the previous band left all of their instruments and enormous rotating woofer on the dance floor, which was only 15’ by 12’ as it was. There was little room for dancing, which sucked because 77 is great for dancing, and many often do. And they left their gear on the tables and chairs in the corner so there were no longer places to sit or rest drinks. One guy even came over to shoo someone (okay, me) from sitting on one of their cases, and later they were exasperated that people would rest their drinks on their crappy wooden cabinet they left against the wall. Seriously, they should have taken all their crap back to their cars when their set was done.
During the 77 El Deora set, I got to dance a little bit with Mau’s wife, the ever-lovely Jeanine. The woman can flat out dance, but she is so petite it is often difficult for me to dance with her (me being not so quite petite). Later, a blond girl named [redacted] asked me to dance. I accepted and then tried to dance with her, but either she was too drunk or too devoid of any rhythm/grace to dance along with me. We were couples dancing (just a basic swing) and she would routinely just fall, or stand there, or spin only halfway around, then just stand there as if she forgot where she was. It was extremely frustrating.
Then her girlfriend asked me to dance. (I didn’t initially know there were there together--and not together in the lesbian way, just girl friends girlfriends.)
She was also a train wreck. But I was a gentleman and just tried to be a strong lead and show her a good time.
They kept asking me to dance, and it just got worse and worse. I don’t know if it was the shoes or the blood-alcohol content but these girls could not move on a dance floor, tiny though it was. And I have a reputation to uphold when it comes to dancing and I was hoping the onlookers could tell that I was doing my best, and it was just Laverne and Shirley bringing me down.
After a few rounds, I graciously extricated myself and went to the bar. Moving from just soda to a mandarin-and, the blond sidled up to me again, put her hand on my chest and looked up to me: “Do you have a girlfriend?” She slightly slurred.
“No,” I said as sweetly as possible, “I’m gay,” my voice tinged with disappointment as if to say, “if only I weren’t…”.
“No, do you have a girlfriend?”
“No.” I tried to be clearer, “I have boyfriends” Not that I actually have boyfriends, but it’s not for lack of wanting.
I left her (I imagine) devastated. I accepted her compliments to my dancing, and politely declined to repeat the experience.
When they left the bar they were rebounding off one another on the sidewalk, and begging cigarettes. My only thoughts as they stumbled into the Outer Mission night were that I hoped (1) they would quiet down and not display themselves as such easy pickings for a sexual assault in this neighborhood, or (2) that they weren’t getting behind the wheel of a car. And (3) thank God they were gone.
When I got myself home, I was asleep before my head hit the pillow. And Saturday I welcomed the opportunity to sleep late and didn’t open my eyes again until after noon. Baby needed his rest as Jimbo and I were planning to join Shilpa and Amy Droptrou for the Red Hot & Black Gala and it was going to be another long night.
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