Pride weekend was, as always, busy, fun, and exhausting. With lots of surprises. I've got a thousand other things on my plate, so I'm telling this tale in pictures.
To be honest, I'm over the parade. Have been for years. I've done the early-watching thing, the watch from a party thing, the sleep through it thing, the march in it thing, the dance in it thing, and now I'm just happy volunteering for a group during.
My waning interest in the parade is matched by my growing enthusiasm for Pink Saturday. That's where the fun it.
We started off meeting up with Coco Flores, Jimbo Myers, Shilpa Patel, and Jeff Javits at the Metro. And had perfect window seats (unintentionally) for the Dyke March. That was a sight to see. And sometimes, as we do, mock.
The Dyke March lastd for hours it seems. Strong stock those dykes.
After that, we all crammed into a cab to head up to David and Sean's—Javits and Jimbo were proper invitees, and Coco, Shilpa and I were the plus one three.
Javits took me, Kevin, and Kelly last year, and we not only had a lovely time, but also totally fell in love with David and Sean. (Of course, back then I didn't know they were an "and" as I flirted shamelessly with Sean.) As always, David and Sean were wonderful and generous hosts.
Wilson Hardcastle and David O'Connor
Imagine my surprise as we crossed the threshold, and David greeting each of us, including Shilpa, by name. It seems that David is a total lurker and big fan of the blog.
David O'Connor and Shilpa Patel
I left a couple of my comical cards last year, and David checked out the web address. Since then, he has been checking the blog a couple of times a day. He's a total fan of the blog (so flattered) and a fan of Shilpa's. He knew everything about our bid'ness (asking about our recent exploits, auto theft, Shilpa's deal with her mother etc.). Much fun. So a huge I'm Just Sayin' shout out to Alert Reader David O'Connor!
There were other familiar faces, and lots of pink.
It was a perfect weekend for Pride, with a pink sunset to usher us into the Pink Saturday night.
Where I again played demented Easter Bunny, and met up with lots of friends.
Sean Ray and Wilson Hardcastle
While Pink Saturday was the highlight of the Pride weekend, here are a few comments on Pride Sunday—
I had signed up to volunteer at the boot check for the Sundance Saloon stage, and planned to spend the bulk of the day two-stepping in the sunshine. Something I really love about Pride. That, and how so many pretty little things are so brazenly cruising for cowboys. It's like being a candy story surrounded by kids.
I was, no surprise, late for my shift, but that was totally the fault of the N-Judah. It should not take over an hour to get from Cole Valley to Civic Center.
But I loved the people watching. For example: dude standing next to me, a 'mo tourist in town for Pride.
Yes, Mary, you're all butch and shit.
With your big bad bear self:
and tats.
and boots.
But you sort of ruin the whole straight/manly/I don't care about fashion queers look with the Prada shades.
You just one big beary label queen aren't you?
Again this year, the country stage was packed.
I was impatient throughout my shift as I could not wait to get out on the dance floor. Having checked other people's boots for two hours, I was ready to get mine out.
Small problem: in my rush to leave the house in the morning, and pack everything I could conceivably need for the day, I made a little oversight—
I packed two right boots from separate pairs. That suuucked. At least I still had a backup frozen roadie, which only slightly eased the pain of being stuck in sneakers all day.
I thought about going home to change, but considering the nightmare I had getting here in the first place, I decided just to walk around and enjoy this unbelievably gorgeous day.
There were some sights to see:
Yay for gays!
Yeah you are!
Awesome.
The well-balanced lesbian.
Who says gay values aren't family values?
And this last one is just WTF?
It's Gay Pride people, not fetish pride, or freak-show pride, or, you know Kiss pride.
Every couple of months, maybe twice a year, when I have decided (as usual) not to spend ten bucks on a cab but instead hike from the Castro to Noe and Duboce for the N to take me home, I find that some moron has driven his (or her) car into the Sunset Tunnel and lodged the vehicle onto the tracks.
Then I walk back to the Castro for that cab.
Sometimes I am surprised at how often this happens, but other times I can see how drunks/ tourists/ drunken tourists could make this mistake. However, whenever I have witnessed this the divers have since bolted, and the car is always some crappy old Chevy-something (and not likely a tourist's ride).
This is the first time I have seen a car stuck in the tunnel from my side (Cole Valley). And it is a Prius no less. However, judging by the way the car was facing when it was towed out of the tunnel by the train, it had to have entered from the Duboce Triangle side (aka the East Portal).
And the fine? Only $55. And parking on the sidewalk is now up to something like $150. But parking on the railroad tracks in a tunnel? $55. Weird.
and, well pear-ade. Any kind of ade really (lemonade, lime-aid). Nice mixers those.
I did not see much of the Pride parade this year as by the time an N with standing room showed up, it was going to be late for my shift at the Sundance Saloon country dance stage boot check booth.
Joe.My.God reports from the Mermaid Parade on Coney Island last week.
Imagine this at a Pride parade: and entire float/contingent of people who love dick. Signs reading: "We love Dick!" and "We Support Dick!"...
Overheard from the aforementioned Sean, during a conversation about a fab faux fur jacket, which turned to PETA/animal rights activists attacking people wearing fur and dousing them in red paint
"But they're hypocrites. The activists keep screaming that fake fur is just as good and 'just like' real fur. If good fake fur is indistinguishable from real fur, how did they know that the people they were attacking weren't wearing fakes?"
Welcome back to a beautiful, sunny, post-Pride Monday. It's a gorgeous day, and I hope to spend the evening uploading photos and sending out the shouts.
And hopefully I can get some Club Jackson pix to share from the other Irregulars. That shit was just crazy.
And yet, somehow, typical.
Love to all, and a special smootch and shout to Fan of the Blog David O'Connor and his loving (and quite lovely) husband Sean. Great guys and spectacular hosts. (I will offer a simple rule of thumb for pride weekend: gays = vodka. I'm just sayin'.)
I am begining to love these inspirational moments from Britain's Got Talent. The hilarious homo at the FAGAT's Guide posted this clip.
FAGAT writes: "All credit goes to nymag.com's Vulture blog for unearthing this clip from Britain's Got Talent. We'd be embarrassed that we teared up at the office before noon when we watched this, but we did shots before we left the house this morning - so we're a little bit past feeling judged."
I admit to a little mistiness around the eye area myself. (I did not do shots before leaving the house this morning, but there might be some lingering effects of last night.)
[watch the clip before continuing]
Read the comments over at the original post. Most are just cute, but some are just really funny.
From BigMouth:
You know, we just watched this video again with a straight girlfriend, and it became very clear that only gay people are so easily played like an emotional puppet by this scene. After all, our friend pointed out, it IS just a fag twirling a baton.
Last night was another Out With A.C.T. night, and Kevin and I were in form again.
I don't have much time so here are the highlights:
GREAT performance. Nancy Dussault owned the play, but the young redheaded suitor often stole it. It was Molière's The Imaginary Invalid, as adapted by Constance Cogdon. Very funny.
Kevin did not find it quite as amusing as I did, and found it at times to campy, at one point going so far as to call it a farce. I pointed out that this IS farce. This is were farce comes from. Molère basically invented, and if not invented then cemented, the genre. It's supposed to be camp. This was new at the time— we are talking about 16th century France.
But that's not the point and I have to rush.
We loved Nancy Dussault (and you may know here from her many stage and screen appearances, but she is famous for her role as the mother on Too Close for Comfort. She was kind enough to join the Out-ers after the show. She was so sweet (and amazing in her role).
And she was all interested in blogs but had never seen one. So I gave her my card and now she gets to be on one.
Love you.
Also high on our praise list is Promotions Manager Randy Taradash. Randy is always a superlative host, and Kevin and I have enjoyed getting to know him over the seasons. He ushered us behind the scenes for a little tour and we may have a venue for Kevin's 40th.
Randy has also undergone some serious measures for weight loss. I thought I was doing well on the South Beach Diet (I'm three notches in on my belts now), but Randy has lost 150 pounds over the past several months. Wow.
And looking good, Randy.
Also shout to Randy's friend, and now ours, Jason. (tasty morsel)
I just got my hair cut over lunch today, and since Luis split, I need a new barber. And with the new shorn look, I need a daddy/bear sort of barber who knows how to cut short, trim beards, and make them both look hot.
I found it in Danny over at Joe's Barber Shop at the top of the Castro on the 19th end.
And I love their logo. I have always been a fan of clever designs, especially those that can tie the endeavor of the subject into the design of the name.
Here's their logo:
Why is it cropped like that? Because this is their tag line:
I bought a t-shirt, from Joe himself actually, because it reads "My barber can beat up your stylist."
The very loveable Cousin Barry sent me a copy of this month's Nfocus magaine from Nashville. It's been a long, busy morning and the UPS guy just delivered it to my desk and it has made my day.
I know I still have not gotten around to writing down all the tales from the Nashville trip, but one of the highlights was meeting the sweet Sinclair Kelly, who also happens to be an Associate Editor and Photographer for the magazine.
Sinclair covered the Hunt Ball for the magazine, and as she spent a lot of time with the Hardastle family that night (because we are the super-happy-fun-time people), we were featured in the coverage.
You may recall the whote "dyed my hair blond thinking it would grow out during surgery recovery and no one would see it but then teh surgery was canceled " bit. I had a haircut before going home, but that just left me with blond tips, which in no way pleased my mother.
The week before the "Oh God! Oh God! Dear God stop the burning!" heat wave in Nashville, it was like seven degrees. On Easter. It was crazy, and all the flora got severly frost-burned. And all the new recently tender-green growth was frozen to a light brown.
When I got off the plane and my mother grimaced, paused, sighed heavily, touched my hair and said, "Well... you look like the boxwoods."
I, of course, thought she was crazy. And you know, my mother being crazy wasn't exactly a news flash. Until I got home and saw this:
That night at Tribe I got some comments on the hair and I mentioned what my mother had said. Jon Glassmeyer did a spit take he laughed so hard. Gotta hand it to Fran-- she gave me the best line of the week. Even though I had originally had no idea what she was talking about, every one in Nashville knew exactly what she meant.
I told the story at the Hunt Ball and it became a pull quote in the feature. I have gotten more e-mails on this than you would believe.
The photos from the Hunt Ball are great (but not on the Nfocus Web site). And it's so nice to be featured/remembered in the social pages even though I am so far removed.
Gotta keep that face fresh in the scene you know.
So--
Love to Sinclair for being such fun and throwing my story out there; and Love to Barry for sending me a copy!
[on Country Music celebrity and "hunk" Darryl Worely]
"Isn't he the gay one?"
"No, the one with the gay rumors is Ty Herndon, but he's actually dated some friends of mine. Darryl Worely now has hippie-long hair, and just posed for Playgirl. He was so hot in the Tennessee River Run video, when he had shorter hair and hair on his chest. Now he has Fabio hair and clipped his body hair. And his ass was huge, not that I am one to talk..."
Did I mention that Rich from NYC/Phoenix is staying with me this week. he's here for a tour management class. I know I've mentioned Club Jackson here before.
Last Friday Rich was working late with his classmates, and Shilpa and I were in the office until around 9:30. We caught a SB-friendly dinner on Polk, waited for Rich, and headed up to Club Jackson for a Friday Night Chill (which is usually drinking, talking and ultimately messy dancing).
Ing and Verde arrived about a bottle later. Shilpa was preparing for a trip to Vegas and we had stayed too late at work to make our mani/pedi appointments, so she was doing her toes. We were all talking. Verde needed some hand-holding for her first Brazilian the next day.
The conversation went from there.
Favorite line was from the thoroughly nonplussed newbie: "I'm just..., just amazed at the lack of boundaries in this room..."
I posted a little bit about steampunk works the other day. Today BoingBoing reports "Henry Jenkins, my favorite pop-culture scholar, has just posted the first part of a long essay dealing with the theoretical origins of steampunk. Jenkins connects steampunk to the eBay retro-collectibles urge and dead media -- themselves products of inhabiting a high-speed world where the things we love go obsolete and fall to rot in the blink of an eye."
I remember a few years back they finally updated Disneyland's Tomorrowland and got rid of all the 70's plastic crap that made it look like "50's Furutist Land." The problem with designing a Land of Tomorrow is that tomoorow always comes, and it never looks like you think it will (Where are the flying cars? Alright, we do have communicators...).
I have not been back to Disneyland yet, but I remember a television piece interviewing the designers who took it back to a more lavish, fictional view of the future, rather than the 50's-70's/Jetson's futurist design. The designers tried to think in terms of H.G. Wells visions of the future: lots of polished wood and brass and sci-fi designs made of low-tech materials.
I have always loved that stylistic vision of the future (of course on the other extreme, I also salivate at Art Deco. I'm a little bipolar stylistically). And I have always appreciated (and envied) the DIY tech mods showcased at shows or on the Web. I have always wanted an antique typewriter for a computer keyboard.
I haven't really paid that much attention to the subculture (I really don't have that kind of time), and only recently realized the modern term for classical futurism is steampunk (proposed etymology). I've always considered it "Wellsian," but it looks like I'm the only one.
I have always thought that "one of these days" I'll have the workshop space and the free time to design and build this sort of stuff.
(That's a modded high-end computer and flatscreen.)
I have so many divergent interests and talents, I sometimes which that way gave on to ways that I did not end up performing analysis and writing at a desk all the time, but designing really fun things, and making the world a cooler place one room (or set) at a time.
The guys at Because We Can may have the coolest jobs in the world. They just recently completed a design and build out of a video game headquarters in SoMa. It's profiled this week in Wired News.
The company's loft, in the trendy South of Market district, has been painstakingly outfitted to resemble The Nautilus from Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The offices have an attacking octopus couch, a secret lounge hidden behind a bookcase, captain's quarters and a steampunk bike rack, plus a ton of other Victorian details.
If I had a business, and the budget, it would be steampunked out.
(And now I am all warm-fuzzy thinking about Tennessee camping trips with Dad in the Cumberland Basin. Sure, I suppose the other one has "warm fuzzies" too, but that's just gross.)
Paul Day has fallen off the wagon, and into a bag of chips. He e-mailed that he had a box of animal crackers and a hot chocolate today (It's like 80 degrees. Hot chocholate?)
I am reassured that indulgences and some carbs are allowed.
Shilpa had a rough mother weekend in Freakmont and we went to brunch together at our newly-reopened favorite comfort food venue, Harvey's. Shilpa went completely off plan.
I was tempted and led astray. The eggs and chicken apple sausage were on plan. The side dish,
was not.
I resisted and only ate half of the plate. And every. bite. was. worth. it.
Ahhhh.
And all things considered, I could have done worse.
Deep fried sticks of macaroni and cheese? Lordy.....
This past Saturday night, the second Saturday in June, I was not at the Swan Ball in Nashville for the first time in 15 years.
I was, however, invited to a black-tie (but not white-tie) gala celebration at the Saint Francis, with a featured performance by the illustrious Rita Moreno.
"Illustrious" doesn't quite cover it. "Diva" seems ill-suited with its modern connotations. "Divine" evokes Miss M. "Miraculous" might be accurate. The Miraculous Miss Moreno. (I say "Miss" although she did wax poetic on her loving husband, Mrs. Moreno sounds odd, and Moreno, as I understand it, is not her married name.) I am a big fan, which is actually a little surprising to me as I am not a show queen.
But that's not the point.
The gala was lovely, if not fairly boring absent the after-dinner performance. And what's the deal with $10,000 a table, and no bar? Just wine. No bar, no music, no dancing. These people need to attend a southern ball or two and see a successful event. And southern gentleman that I am, you put me in dinner clothes and a social situation, I will, by habit and manners, kiss women on the cheek at greeting, and offer an arm to cross a room. I through a lot of women with that, but I do not feel inclined to apologize for good, if not culturally removed, manners.
I was a guest of a luminary at this event, and as such did not ask if I could bring a date. It was a pleasure to be invited, and I was honored to be seated with some notable donors. Later I was told that I was seated at their table as I was trusted to fit in with their crowd as well as provide conversational entertainment. Praise indeed. (True enough, but always flattering to hear.)
The meal was surprisingly SB-friendly, and exceptionally tasty. Being good, environmentally conscious Californians, we did wonder whence the sea bass was fished.
An unexpected pleasure for the evening was serving as escort to The Lady M. The Lady M, with whom I work, has become a good friend and was a fun companion for the evening. That, and she and her sister are somewhat known for their fashion sense. These women bring it, and Saturday night M was looking particularly glamorous.
We were the paparazzi for the night, taking many snaps to take back to her absent sister. At the end of the evening, I had to cross the room to speak to a wonderfully fabulous stranger who looked resplendent in a complete art deco look: floor length deco gown, 20's hair, and contextually appropriate accessories. And she pulled it off flawlessly.
Now, while this little narrative is all well and good, the highlight of the evening was the performance by Rita Moreno. She had a little cabaret-esque show in the Plush Room last year, and this performance was (I imagine) largely the same. But the Plush Room is period and tiny and perfect for intimate performances. This ballroom was enormous and cavernous, and she OWNED that room. She worked the crowd as if each and every one of us were a dear friend of a friend invited over to her parlor for a little light entertainment and personal tales of old Broadway.
We were all entranced. And I left feeling as though we were now close, personal friends.
And side note: the woman just turned 75. Seventy. Five. And she is as vivacious and spry as one could hope. And visually stunning. While she said that a lifetime of dancing in heels has taken a toll on her knees and ankles, she did manage to work in a soft shoe. And the tales she can tell. Love her.
Added bonus to being M's date for the evening: she was invited to a behind-the-velvet-ropes after party for luminaries, donors, sponsors, and honored guests, which was advertised to include personal time with the Miraculous Miss Moreno., and she included me as her guest.
The after-reception invitation listed the location as the twelfth floor hospitality suite. Now, most hotel hospitality suites are sort of an awkward combination of would-be rooms and suites. Not in the old building of the Saint Francis. The rooms were of San Franciscan wealth and antiquity: dark woods, heavy tapestries, walls of leather-bound books, a fireplace in each room, and fireplaces so large that the mantles were often taller than I am.
Miss Moreno sat perched at a single table in the far room, patiently attending a large reception line, and graciously giving her time and energy to anyone who cared to speak. I found her attentiveness even more endearing considering the hour and a half program she had just completed.
I introduced M to Rita (we’re all first names now), and with a “she would never tell you this herself” included her title. Rita had spoken to how deeply their cause had touched her and what it has meant to her life, and I thought she would appreciate M's service too. Giving some props. After I took their photo for the absent sister, it was my turn to pay homage. She very subtly maneuvered M to move on and for me to approach with the skill of an experienced celebrity or polished politician.
I knelt beside Rita and noted that she looks spectacular. She has the beauty and skin of a 38-year-old, and is a testament to a lifetime of yoga and what I can only assume is a very talented surgeon. She was polite and alert (it was past eleven at this point and she must have been exhausted from the performance) and took my hand when offered. She smiled politely and waited for my small talk.
I took her hand and thanked her for the generosity of her talent and her time for this event, and how gracious for her to remain afterwards for the reception. I told her that I had been looking forward to her performance for weeks, and that “I have been restraining my enthusiasm. When you came on stage it took all of my self control not to yell, 'Hey you guys!'”
She lit UP. Her expression went from a practiced pleasant expectation to sheer delight. She clapped her cheeks, laughed, and took my hands in hers. “Oh my goodness! That is remarkable! Oh dear thing, did I teach you to read?!” A young woman, who I believe was with the major foundation sponsoring (among other things) this event, broke from formality and leaned over, “The Electric Company!? I loved that!” As the only ones in the room anywhere close to under 50, we were the only ones who got the reference.
Rita loved it. We were all high-five-ing and she just sort of beamed and gave us hugs. She held our hands and turned to the onlookers and only explained “It was a little show way back when…I taught them to read…”
I also mentioned that I had just stared watching Ugly Betty and I caught her performance in the finale, and thought it was wonderful that the B-story of the episode was the nephew playing the lead in West Side Story. She had played a cameo basically and had not seen the show or the episode, but had heard something about it. Sensing waning enthusiasm and expiration of my time, I moved on.
Others had presented their program for her autograph, but I had not retained mine. I decided that I would in fact like an autograph, and reached for a calling card—but Alas! Which card to give her? (I have like 14 you know, all with different titles/tag lines.) I settled on Wilson Hardcastle, witty banter. This just seemed to confuse her though, as everyone else was workplace titled. I just said, “Oh, that’s just one of the things I do well, so I put it on one of my calling cards.” No less confused, she signed the back of the card. During her act she spoke of her various journeys and aging and performing and worked the “journeys” theme a few times. I said, “Considering all of your journeys, I think you just might appreciate this one.” I handed her the card reading “Wilson Hardcastle/ Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.” She laughed out loud at that one, put it in her pocket, wished me well, and I took my leave.
I am forever charmed.
And I now consider us close buddies and I can call her any time to talk about my love life or go stay at her house. I’ll keep you posted.
. . . .
I had MUNI’d downtown, and The Lady M had driven up from the peninsula. The valet parking was full at the Saint Francis, so she had to park down the street in a garage, and fear for her life as she walked back to the hotel in her gown. I insisted on escorting her to her car, and in kind she insisted on giving me a lift home. It was early yet for a Saturday (for some of us) so she dropped me off at Martuni’s before getting on the freeway.
There are only so many places you can go late night in a tux. (Well, there are some places you shouldn’t but do anyway). Martuni’s is a tux-appropriate venue.
I don’t know if it was the black tie, the beard, or the confidence accompanying the weight loss, but even though I entered alone, I was not alone for long. After the handsome but slightly spider-sense-tingling Forrest bought me a drink, I spied Ky across the room. It was his friends who were at the microphone, as they were all out celebrating a successful opening night of their new show Legends, now playing at the New Conservatory Theater. Some of his professional stage cohort were in messier shape than others, so everyone was entertaining at the mic in one way or another.
We closed the bar down and he and his walked up to It’s Tops for pancakes. I am trying to stick to the SBD and was only hungry for Evan, so I hailed a cab and went home. (That, and I have never heard good things about It’s Tops.)
Speaking of the South Beach Diet, it’s pretty easy to stick to if you don’t eat out too much, and allow vodka. Phase two allows some wine, but really that’s a lot of sugar and should be avoided. Vodka, not so much. There was no bar at the gala, only wine. I tried to order a vodka from the staff, but was sent downstairs and to a different building to order one from the bar. Which cost me $16 before tip. For an orange vodka/soda. I had ordered a mandarin & soda (natch), but they only had Hangar. Which to me tastes a little too much like pez. But still, $16 for a cocktail? The bottle costs less. I ordered one, then sipped the wine.
It's odd that as we age the best friends we used to see or talk to five days a week, we now have to schedule dinners or afternoon meetings weeks in advance. James and I now try to have dinner together at Flore at least once a month.
Catching up, venting, leaning, supporting, laughing, and possibly eating and drinking.
And I've got some new toys. If we have time: geeking out.
But the way, James totally would have gotten this.
Out and About is a fun gay newslweekly in Nashville. It's incredibly tame compared to many other gay zines. Basically, it reports what's going on in the news and in the social scence of interest to gays and lesbians. You know, a newspaper.
Like most free newsweeklys/monthlys, Out and About is disctrubuted via free publication racks in bookstores, bars, restaurants, and grocery stores.
When the venerable and fabulous chain of H.G. Hill stores closed, Kroger became the only chain supermarket in town (Thankfully Harris Teeter has appeared and brought a clean and class grocery shopping option back to Nashville). Kroger stores have always featured enormous areas and stacks for many, many free publications.
Including Out & About. Until some religious nutcase (i.e. typical Kroger shopper in Nashville) threatened to "unleash a fury they had never seen if they didn’t remove the publication." Unsurprisingly, Kroger said, "Sure."
Now in the past, I would expect the gays just to be screwed, and not in the good way. But Nashville has changed somewhat over the past few years. Not only is the City more gay-friendly (in deed if not in legislature), but the gay Community in Nashville is no longer likely to just let something like this go.
And boy did it go-- all the way to NYC.
Queerty's blub provides a link to the Scene article (the Nashville Scene is the alternative newsweekly, akin to the SF Weekly or the Village Voice, and has always been not only extremely reputable, but gay-friendly.).
New York-based Troy Masters, who publishes Gay City News, caught wind of the story, he immediately called Kroger to complain. Not surprisingly, Kroger didn’t feel like chatting. So, Masters contacted the New York City’s Comptrollers Office to see if they invest in Kroger, which they do, but maybe not for long. From [the] Nashville Scene:
After receiving no response from Kroger, Masters, a native of Nashville, contacted New York City’s comptroller’s office, which has a policy prohibiting the city from investing in any company that engages in discrimination.Apparently, New York City is a major shareholder in Kroger, holding more than $89 million in the supermarket’s stock. On Tuesday, Masters asked a spokesman for the city’s comptroller’s office if this was worth investigating, to which he responded, “Absolutely. I’m going to call their investor relations people.”
I smell a showdown. And I am willing to bet New York's $89 million may have a stronger effect than a small (minded) and bigoted, yet hungry, congregation.
In a recent interview, author Ray Bradbury asserts, quite vehemently, that the book is not about government censorship. Nor was it a response to Senator Joseph McCarthy, as is often speculated. It's basically about television destroying interest in reading.
I stopped shaving after Barney cut my hair so it could all sort of grow out a the same time. He left me with just the burns, and while that can be kinda hot in the right setting, it looks kinda odd in daylight, and freakish in the workplace.
But this beard is ITCHING me, man. And since I am putting on a tux Saturday night, I think it is time to shave.
Hot but Hobbled Keith Hinkle was curious to see what I looked like with a beard and a buzz. So here I am:
For the first time in over 15 years, I am not going to the Swan Ball. For a variety of reason, none of my intitmates are going this year, so we are all taking a yeaer off. Sad, actually, but it has worked out. It turns out that I really needed to be here for work this week, and I received a kind invitation to another formal gala this weekend at the Saint Francis, to be the guest of a luminary and enjoy a performance by Rita Moreno.
I'm not going to the Swan Ball, but old friend and locally famous radio and club DJ, DJ RON is. And as a VJ.
Kudos to DJ Ron, and I can't believe there is a VJ, an openly gay performer no less, at the Swan Ball. I can't even take a same-sex date without a serious scandal. (Note that while I took many notes and photos, I did not blog about the Swan Ball last year--abstaining from comments and rants was certainly the wiser thing to do.)
I've known Ron for years-- first as the super-queen of dance music on Vanderbilt's 91 Rock rasio station, then as DJ at the old Connection, and good friend of a friend, then as just Nashville buddy at all gay/benefit events. Ron and I worked with Jim Mees for ArtRageous 9: Moving Pictures back in 1996 (Ron was DJ/VJ, I was the Digital Media Director). Jim has also been the designed for the Swan Ball for the past several years (what going on ten years now? with some breaks here and there)-- so I wonder if there is a connection.
Regardless, this is a huge coup for DJ Ron, but I believe it will be the Swan Ball guests who are the real winners.
Grr. I can't believe I'm missing it.
BTW, DJ Ron is also the editor of the very popular Dance Music section of About dot com.
Today we announced that The Duke Endowment has pledged $15 million to help Davidson initiate and endow the historic new policy to eliminate loans from student financial aid packages. The Duke Endowment Trustees have consistently encouraged and supported Davidson at points of critical decisions, and our gratitude for their counsel and support knows no limits.
This remarkable gift represents an important first step toward fulfilling the Davidson Board of Trustees’ commitment to permanently fund this new policy. Of this gift, $5 million is in hand for immediate use, and $10 million is committed to the $70 million needed to endow the policy.
As we expect our no-loan initiative to lead to increased enrollment of students from middle and lower income families, it reaffirms a core value of our college—that a Davidson education should be affordable for all students, regardless of means. Following our March announcement of this new policy, we heard from hundreds of members of the college family, as well as many others from across the country, who share this value and endorse our Trustees’ vision of education and opportunity at Davidson.
Please take a moment to look at the full story just posted on the Davidson homepage, and read in more detail about The Duke Endowment’s extraordinary support of our efforts to make a Davidson education accessible to all. We remain proud that Davidson is the first national liberal arts college to eliminate student debt in its financial aid packages, and we will continue to share news of our progress toward endowing this policy.
It's another busy, busy week here at IJS. Fast with the work and slow with the posts. Shilpa and I have been staying to eight or nine at night and I am pretty much sick of the working. (Damn my sense of duty!)
I'm off carbs still (well, mostly) and would really like a nice frosty beer at the end of a long, hot day.
According to Alert Reader Paul Day, Monday's are now 80's night at "The Bar." (The Bar on Castro, also known as TBOC.) And ARPD played host to the over-worked Wilson and Shilpa on Monday, who were more than happy to revel in the retro spins, and sample the 80-cent cocktails. ARPD is still Phase One-ing and stayed away from the alcohol. Shilpa and I are allowing some booze on the diet, but restricting it to the least caloric/carby drink possible: vodka/soda. Which is just fine as I have converted her to the Mandarin and Soda.
Unfortunately, the 80-cent cocktail special only applied to well drinks. And even then, I think they got the name from "Oh well, these fools will drink anything." I saw the label on the generic vodka they were pouring, and it looked like it was distilled in a car engine. Earlier that day.
But it was good enough mixed with soda water and lime juice (South Beach Friendly! Hepatologically Antagonistic!).
Frankly, it was a very, very weird night. And I am tempted just to let Shilpa and Paul talk about it in the comments. During the night some really creepy drugged-out guy kept trying to dance/touch Shilpa. Another baby fag tried to grind against her uninvited. I appreciate the whole coming out and moving to the big city experience, but just because you are gay does not mean you can sexually assault someone. I gave some "kindly older gay man advice" to back off of bit and wait to be invited. (I gave some honest advice on manners as kindly as I could, the poor thing just didn't know any better.) Then there was the over-the top sexual...well "assault" may be too strong a word...by the large lesbian who pulled Shilpa into a bear hug then groped her ample endowments. When Paul tried to intervene, she dug into his underpants and grabbed his goodies.
At the end of the night some really annoying fag hag was tossing serious 'tude, feeling justified because she had a faglet, and tried to pick a fight with me on the dance floor and it sort of sent me into a seething but contained rage. (Not to front, but for heaven's sakes. I'm a bull of a man in his 30s with a beard and a shaved head—you are a wispy little vapid thing in a gay bar with your codependent twink. You really think your attitude is going to overwhelm mine? Do you really want to throw down with me? I'm just sayin'.)
Like I said, it was a really, really weird night. The great b-side 80's tunes were great. The crowd coming for the 80-cent drinks was not.
It was a manic Monday, tiresome Tuesday, woebegone Wednesday (still not finished), and tomorrow is going be a so-bad-I-can't-alliterate Thursday.
I have been an activist for many different causes. I grew up during the African-American civil rights struggle. Then women had to fight for their equality and its very sad but it’s no different now. You would think in the year 2007, we would be past all this. But now the LGBT community has to fight for equality. Your civil liberties are my civil liberties… Gay people are my people and some of the stuff that has gone down in the last 5 years is just unacceptable to me.
Of course, being Pride month, the blog will feature plenty of Pride-reated posts and Gay Jokes. So fasten your seatbelts and all of that.
(And really, if you are gay and do not get the seatbelt reference, you need to get your gqueer adjusted.)
That "gay lifestyle" can sure be expensive (oh Honey, tell me about it!).
It may sound elitist, but I believe Halloween in the Castro stopped being fun years ago as the non-costumed straights and lame and thuggy Bridge-and-Tunnel gawkers overran the neighborhood event.
You would not believe the amount of anti-gay, and potentially violent, slurrs I've heard in the crowd over the year. One year I got clocked by thug complaining about "all the fags." (It's Halloween night in the Castro-- what was this moron thinking he was going to see? He was the freak, not us. I imagine he goes to Safeway and is surprised and violent that it's full of food.)
The array of clever and complex costumes has always been the highlight, but the throng can get far, far too dense and far too dangerous. Me and mine tend to stay at the periphery and enjoy the parade of entrants, open space, each other's company, and our neighboord local haunt.
The last time they tried to move the crowds away from the Castro, thousands just appeared anyway. It will be interesting to see what happens this year.
The Dyke March lastd for hours it seems. Strong stock those dykes.
Javits took me, Kevin, and Kelly last year, and we not only had a lovely time, but also totally fell in love with David and Sean. (Of course, back then I didn't know they were an "and" as I flirted shamelessly with Sean.) As always, David and Sean were wonderful and generous hosts.
Wilson Hardcastle and David O'Connor
David O'Connor and Shilpa Patel
It was a perfect weekend for Pride, with a pink sunset to usher us into the Pink Saturday night.
Where I again played demented Easter Bunny, and met up with lots of friends.
Sean Ray and Wilson Hardcastle
and boots.
But you sort of ruin the whole straight/manly/I don't care about fashion queers look with the Prada shades.
You just one big beary label queen aren't you?
I packed two right boots from separate pairs. That suuucked. At least I still had a backup frozen roadie, which only slightly eased the pain of being stuck in sneakers all day.
I thought about going home to change, but considering the nightmare I had getting here in the first place, I decided just to walk around and enjoy this unbelievably gorgeous day.
There were some sights to see:
Yay for gays!
Awesome.
Awesome.
The well-balanced lesbian.
Who says gay values aren't family values?
It's Gay Pride people, not fetish pride, or freak-show pride, or, you know Kiss pride.
