Sunday night was the Academy Awards, which for SF means the Academy of Friends Oscar gala benefit. Always a good time, and an opportunity to see friends you might not have seen since last year's event. SF really does not, especially in the gay community, have enough formal functions. As husband Sean was out of town, blog favorite David O'Connor was kind enough to invite me as his escort. The three of us had a great time last year and we managed to wrangle more zest out of this year even without the heroes in spandex. Although we started out in black tie, by the end of the night and the deck of drink tickets, we were more in the realm of black out. I blame Coco. She's not truthfully responsible, professional enabler though she may be, but still. Blaming Coco.
I always want at least a little flair at these theme events, and I indulged the face paint as is now apparently my "thing." It's also always so hideously hot and humid in Fort Mason (it is almost always raining buckets for this event), so I painted a tux shirt with sparkle for when the jackets came off. This year, however, clear skies, strong winds, and a cold snap made the hangar quite comfortable and jackets remained donned until the final dance mess.
Supper happy fun times.
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David O was happy to find his old friend Brent, and also Jay Nicolas Sario of Project Runway Season 7:
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As the theme was "Behind the Seams" there were both backstage/behind the scenes attractions as well as fashion exhibits. There was a neat setup where you could insert yourself into any number of famous movie scenes using a green screen. David and I both chose the Ingrid Bergman side of the "Play it, Sam." scene from Casablanca.
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However, I was just happy because this prompted my new favorite photo of David O:
I'm thinking "Christmas Cards."
It was delightful to run into the charming Hilma again (together we are Wilma and Hilma),
And of course, the irascible Coco. If you're ever at a party and need to jump on the first shuttle downhill, Coco will be drivin'. Or flirting with the driver.
And we were full speed ahead. Coco calls this shot "subtle":
And we are nothing if not fashion forward.
Oh my Dear. Ma petite chou. Let me whisk you away from this place. Maybe in the morning we shall shop for earrings...oh, apologies mademoiselle. A necklace then.
There, there Precious. Shhh....shhhhh. Did the bad man touch you? It's alright. We will be home together soon. shhhh.
Sometimes it scares me that someone can write something so over the top offensive that you are certain that it is satire but it's not. There's a name for this and I suppose now I'll have to look up—some sort of principle that any sufficiently dogmatic conservative treatise will be indistinguishable from its satire. Or maybe it was vice-versa. [Update: It's Poe's Law.]
Anyway, I came across this link long ago and saved reading it for a lunch break. I got to it today. Oh Dear God. No pun intended. It's from a super-conservative Christianist website and written by a scary sort of troll judging by his photo. It is really a delicious rant with so much wrong with it that I wouldn't know where to begin tearing it apart, but I do know that doing so would be pointless. From the "it would be scary if it weren't so ridiculous" file, an honest treatise on how the television show The Golden Girls is singularly responsible for turning an entire generation of men into homos.
Oh my stars and garters.
And Betty White made muscle queens stupid.
Under the "you may also like" suggestions on this site is a link to his similar take on the apparent unholiness that is Glee. It's so effed up it reads as satire and is doubly funny for its unintentional humor. (He's upset that there is singing and dancing because it detracts from the plot. It's a musical for Heaven's sakes.)
My favorite lines:
"the music numbers just drag down the plot of the show."
"They’ve clearly been coached. The singing is just too finely polished. The dance numbers are too excruciatingly choreographed. No high school kids can put on these sorts of shows at the spur of a moment."
"Disregarding any sense of fair play, the show does not offer any alternative to the gay lifestyle argument. There are no teens cured of their relentless and wild male sex desires, there are no moral figures on hand to give a comforting hand, there are no popular boys who say, 'I don’t want to hurt my family anymore and I love Jesus, so I am going to stop doing gay things with guys in the bathroom.'"
Don't worry, he brings it all back to The Golden Girls and that's why it is making you gay.
Skot Land the Shilpa had to bow out of last night's Brain Farts (theme: Oscar losers). And while my system was still recovering from the fun that was the Academy of Friends gala, I was happy to welcome childhood friend Jennifer Corbett —in town from NYC. No cloth napkins or tourist attractions for Jennifer, but rather some good local color. The color purple, actually, as Pollo was decked out in Harlem Globetrotters gear. And looking fierce as usual.
Jen and I are the type of folks who can pick up a conversation where we left off, which I think was in a downtown NYC Macy's Christmas 1994. Jennifer is both a hoot and a holler. She's also total PLU and got into the Brain Farts spirit in the blink of an eye. She's got a new local client so here's hoping we will see her back for more.
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Welcome Jen!
(She's also got some trivia props and we missed qualifying for the lightning round by one point.)
because they really don't "get" the Castro or the Castro bar scene (which are not the same thing, by the way). In the article "The Castro cocktail scene grows up," the author suggests that because gay bars on the strip don't major in "fancy" cocktails that require more than three ingredients and a muddle, they are somehow deficient or immature. I don't know if Camper English, the author of the article, is a boy or a girl, but it certainly reads like it was written by a girl and she should have had some fag read this over first. I am fairly certain the reader's response would have started with "Honey, [pause]" and gone from there. It's a pretty insulting take on the fact that now there are some higher-brow cocktail bars opening up in the 'Stro and 'Stro-adjacent streets (e.g. the previously mentioned lovely and spiritually talented Blackbird).
Honey, here's the thing. Most* of my straight friends cannot handle the cocktails in gay bars. The "gay pour" as it is known is twice the size and easily quadruple the alcohol as the standard fare in a "straight" bar. And you don't have to have a rack to get the bartenders' attention. We are serious about our boozing and can take any hetero macho man down like Marion in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
I can guarantee you most homos can order a "fancy" or sophisticated cocktail when they are out in a cocktail bar. My friend Kevin might as well have an advanced degree in mixology, imports his own ingredients and even has a travel case—complete with appropriate stemware— to properly serve himself or others when away from home. He often takes it even to other people's dinner parties, just in case.
Most of the bars in the Castro serve cocktails in a high ball (if we are going to call those that, larger than a highball, smaller than a pint glass) and serve up two for the price of one until eight or nine o'clock. We actually get a bit annoyed at the foppish who order anything that requires more than three ingredients (and one of those a piece of lime) or any additional shaking—there's a line of people waiting for their booze and their poor man's Manhattan isn't impressing anybody only taking up the bartender's time. In fact, the more simple the drink, the more butch the order—and in the twisted math that is same-sex man-on-man attraction—the hotter the guy. So typically gays in the Castro don't order nor seek to order the "fancy" drinks noted as conspicuously absent by the article.
Note I say "in the Castro." Gays drinks of choice often tend to be contextually appropriate. Camper, bless her heart, has completely missed it that the Castro strip of bars are basically sports bars. The fine restaurants in the area such as Catch, Eureka and 2223 all have bars with proper "mixologists" and patrons ordering items requiring bitters and a muddle—something overlooked in the article. We know what bitters are (Honey, please) even in the Castro.
Personally the most insulting implication in the article is that the only "fancy" drink gays might order is an appletini. Seriously? Appletinis is what young girls in the midwest order when they think they are being sophisticated. I do not know a single gay man who has ordered an appletini in the past decade. I think many may have tried one once when apple was the first in the then-new trend of flavor-infused vodkas. But no self-respecting fag or alcoholic would order one today, especially in the Castro. While I like to think of myself as setting this particular trend, the more popular slightly-above-basic mixed drink today is an Absolut Mandarin and Soda. I cringe when I hear "appletini." It just screams bridge and tunnel. It is much more five-and-dime than within the seven-by-seven.
Here's the final point Camper and 7x7 need to clue in to: bar-bars (not the restaurant-bars) in the Castro are sports bars. You would never order a sidecar or an aviator in a sports bar, nor would that be expected.
We're just cheering on a different set of games.
See also: competing for gold in the men's downhill.
*Clearly exclusive of Shilpa and Coco; Co-Captains, Team Wilson.
ACT house performances tend to be hit or miss, either exciting or snoozers. I don't really know what to make of this one. It is yet another eastern European high-concept drama, but this one is a post WWII communist take on a play within a play of a 15th century story with all-familiar elements.
I don't really know what to make of this one, but I liked it.
It is also one of the few, if only, plays that I read up on prior to viewing, so while the set up and setting were a bit confusing, I had some clue as to what was going on. Basically, if you read up on it before going or not, just go along with it and you'll be glad you did.
I appreciate and applaud the director's deliberate choice to have no announcements and no rising of the curtain, just the gradual appearances of actors on the stage and the story commencing. What does not come across, save for the one gesture of handing an apparent newcomer (the soldier) a script page, is that the entire performance is supposed to be a sort of play within a play. None of the people particularly look like their characters. And judging by conversations at intermission and the reception, I was one of the few that was happy to have a soiled pillow as the stand in for the baby/child. Personally, and especially for a show such as this where the audience has to project much into the experience, I would much rather have a blank pillow than a plastic doll. Honestly, the doll would have been distracting. A plastic doll is clearly and harshly not a real baby. But in the realm of pretend, a pillow could be.
A co-worker asked me today what I thought about it, and if I thought he would like it. My short answer is this: If you are a theater person, you'll dig it. Just run with it and you'll have a good time. But the actors are trying to take you someplace foreign with them and you have to agree to take the trip.
If you are not so much a "theater" person, you too will enjoy the show, but you have to be willing to let go.
Helpful hint to getting the context: Think of a community of people huddled in Bosnia or some place under frequent shelling. They are putting on a play with no costumes and minimal whatever-is-at-hand props. And they are putting on this play for you come Hell or high water and even though shells occasionally knock over part of their stage and building. They are performing this play for you, the act itself being a commentary on the war raging outside their precarious walls. The soldier who dives into the room for shelter during the opening is handed a page and he partakes in the play, appropriately enough as "the solder."
I did speak to several people after the show who didn't much care for the play. But no one could criticize the acting, which truly made this performance. The acting was superb. René Augesen only gets better and better with each role and I am afraid that stellar performances are going to become too old hat for her and she might move on to other things. I just hope she works on her personal shyness and stays behind to mingle with the Out with ACT receptions one night. Tony Fusco is also his usual tremendous self and lilts from character to character with an easy grace. The problem with these two (René and Tony) is that by delivering such consistently good performances we will expect nothing less from them ever again. Jack "Big Daddy" Wills retains his general Big Daddy comportment, but as such is perfectly cast in his role(s) for this production. ACT company regular Gregory Wallace can always be counted upon for a comedic flare, and does not disappoint in both dramatic and comic-relief turns in this performance. New to the ACT stage are, well I hate to say "leads" as it is such an ensemble production but they are the central characters, are the amazing Omozé Idehenre who hits it out of the theater with this performance, and the young and adorableNickChildress who shows his ACT MFA chops in the role of "the soldier."
Of course, as usual there was plenty of off-stage drama at the reception afterward.
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Lots of love to hosts Randy, Darren, Christie, and Max, and to new Out with ACTers but old friends David and Sean.
And shouts to Rob Forni (his serious new beard) and his beau Steven for charming midnight dinner company post-reception at the Globe. And I should say the production at the Globe was superb as always.
I love coffee. Lots of it. Black. I used to say "I like my coffee like I like my men: cream, two sugars." Because it sounds like a joke, but really isn't, and therefore is. These days I just say I take my coffee dark and bitter, like my soul. Regardless, I've had a long love affair with the bean and have had to cut back to half-caff most of the time. Well, at home. At work it's still high octane all day long. Probably unhealthy. But then again, every couple of months some new "study" touts the benefits of coffee. Else failing news/magazines are dredging the same stories up again and again for eyeballs because nobody buys print media anymore.
Whatever.
My point is I love coffee, but feel this sort of rage every time I have to order a drink at Starbucks with their made-up portion names. I have been annoyed by this for years. Almost anything consumable and sold comes in three sizes. These sizes may not be consistent from place to place, but they are always consistent in their relative sizes to each other. It's always a combination of small, medium and large. Goldilocks could order with no problem. What genius decided that a tall cup of coffee was a smallest size? That's not tall, that's small. Just ask 1970's Steve Martin.
And so I will always love Paul Rudd for not only his casual super-sexiness, but also for this scene from Role Models. In fact this clip was enough to make me go see the movie.
Even today, I refuse to conform to the Starbucks pretentiousness and when forced to order from the chain, I will only order in sizes small, medium, or large.
Is this rant from too much coffee today, or not enough? Don't care. I'm getting another cup.
According to CurbedSF , which references the more substantial article in the Examiner, the planned "walking grocery store" version of Trader Joe's set to enter the largely vacant space at Market and Noe is being stymied by RadioShack.
The best thing about Curbed's coverage is the description of RadioShack as "the batteries-and-speaker-wire purveyor."
It seems that even though the other two remaining businesses in the retail space (the dry cleaners and card shop, the rest formerly occupied by Tower records) have agreed to move, and even though RadioShack also had agreed to move (in writing no less), now they're balking at relocating either upstairs or across the street.
Seriously? It's not like RadioShack does a lot of spontaneous "just walking by" business. One tends to go into RadioShack only if they need something RadioShack-related, e.g. small AV accessories, batteries, or cables. Or you know, conversations employees who have no knowledge of radios, shacks, electronic minutia, or of any of the bits they sell. At least the folks who work at the Castro location are nice.
Anyway, it is always frustrating to see progress stymied by a lone holdout for undisclosed purposes. Although I fear the parking/traffic that is to come from the new TJ's.
This past week I saw two guys who looked just like David Tennant's Doctor Who. For your reference, this is Tennant as The Doctor:
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Almost a week ago we saw this guy at Q Bar who was skinny and floppy-haired enough to remind me of David Tennant/Doctor Who:
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But after the Pink Party, I saw this boy at Harvey's. This sexy guy was in town for a convention of some sort and out to see the Castro with three girls from the conference. Only one of the them, the girl from England, spoke English. He was not immediately familiar with the Doctor Who reference, but the girls were and all went into squeals when I mentioned it.
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He was game enough to have his photo taken, but a bit aback by being accosted by a big 'mo in Gaytown.
He was right to have been wary. I was clearly attempting to become the companion to this Doctor Otter with a foreign tongue.
Gavin Newsom's pet Sunday Streets program returns this summer, and has been expanded to run from March through October. Although I am all for maximizing the recreational and commnuity uses of the City, I do think it's odd to spend so much time, effort, and hype to turn major thoroughfares into temporary parks instead of adequately supporting the City's parks system, or creating new neighborhood parks and promenades (can we get a green belt?). City planning should include the pedestrian and recreational rather than fanfare for temporary street closures.
The SFMTA is celebrating itself for these street closures, which is unsurprising as the San Francisco Metropolitan Transit Authority seems to be against anything that facilitates actual transit.
Personal friend and YouTube vlogger celebrityLittleBigChris has decided that enough is enough. Over the past three years he's slowly put on 30 pounds and now he wants his jawline back.
Chris is calling his quest "Project Jawline" and he has subscribed to Medifast, a food-delivery diet plan (first meal arrived today). I look forward to seeing how well it works. And I wonder how boozing fits into this. Queerty has also taken note, and Chris is flattered (fattered?) that they have compared him to Oprah.
LittleBigChris had to change his YouTube account from "LittleBigChris" to LittleBiggerChris" when YouTube had technical problems with his old account and he had to create a new one with a new name (not, as reported at Queerty, because he had put on some ellbees). Let's wish LittleBiggerChris well on his way to LittleSmallerChris.
Last week was the Pink Party in the Redwood Room (I still have a problem saying "Redwood Room" three times fast) at the Clift hotel to benefit the San Francisco Breast Cancer Emergency Fund. The Reedwood Room is always beautiful, but I was surprised at the turnout. There was a big push in the marketing materials to dress pink—heck, it was billed as a "pink party." There was also a marketing push among the gay-listers, gay PR peeps, and the event even featured hot DJ and super sexy gay guy Craig Gaibler. The crowd was almost exclusively clad in black with the only pink on the noses of the young'ns who couldn't hold their pink champagne. The crowd was also decidedly straight, young and preening.
Granted, the modern Redwood Room crowd does tend towards the Marina set, but benefit events tend to attract the beneficial crowd and not the bar posers. Not to say that the crowd wasn't exceptionally pretty, but just on the outside.
Saving my night was some wonderful company—both delightful in themselves and in their unexpected encounter. Shouts to the lovely and pink-participating Sheryl Dare, and her bright friend Kavita—
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—and to fundraiser, former Mr. Gay Rodeo, and finalist for the 2011 Bare Chest Calendar Stephen Taylor, and to handsome couple Tyrone Smith and Craig Gaibler.
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I am happy to know that where there is a good cause, I know I'll run into some good friends.
Race relations in America is a complex issue, and merits exploration and amelioration. What's bothering me in this recent spat of racial accusations and offenses is the pretense that somehow racism is simple.
Two race-related topics have come up in recent conversations, and I think both dovetail into the same human diversity quagmire.
First of all, there is the batshit crazy going down at UC Berkeley and UC San Diego. A student protest against increasing student fees in Berkeley somehow turned into a "UC Regent's are racists" riot resulting in fires and violence in the streets around campus. Honestly, the Governor and the Legislature need some schooling—the UC PTB's hands are pretty tied. The State controls the UC budget, and setting fire to local businesses and sandwich shops that are having a hard enough time making ends meet as it is does nothing to lower student fees, lobby the legislature, or rally anyone to their cause. There is mob mentality, and then there is just plain stupid. One would hope that by enrolling in UC Berkeley, the stupid might be mitigated. Apparently they can only offer knowledge, not intelligence. (As Ron White says, "you can't fix stupid.") I don't understand why a student would think setting fire to his neighborhood would affect state financial policy decisions. Then again, I don't understand why some people set fire to their own city when their sports team wins/loses.
On the heels of the UCB "riot," some dumbasses in SoCal decided to host a "Compton Cookout." I think that should be the beginning of a conversation on SoCal race relations and not the end.
Y'all know I love a theme party. Is this idea so egregious? Reading the coverage in the paper, and the text of the original invite, probably. But the "Compton Cookout" is not the issue, and should not be the focus. The offense at and reaction to this party are merely indicators of a real problem that no one wants to examine. It's not about the party, or the theme.
I got into a thoughtful discussion about this with some peers and it came down, as it often does, to a matter of theory versus practice. In theory, there should be nothing intrinsically wrong with the theme party. The hosts wanted to have a ghetto-themed party, and there are some stereotypes to be played with there (seriously, pull up your pants). Frankly any subculture with easily-identifiable stereotypes is fodder for satire, imitation, and humor. They weren't saying all black people are ghetto, and the lure of alliteration easily led to the name "Compton Cookout." If they had had a Castro Cookout and filled with with a mockery of gay guys, it might still be offensive, but I would also get the funny. I would also not find a Castro Cookout offensive if I were invited and got to make fun of my own culture's stereotypes. Offensive here, again as it usual does, stems from intent. Had a black fraternity chose to hose a ghetto-themed party with stereotype costumes and menu, would it have been offensive? White folks have "White Trash" or "Trailer Trash" parties all the time—is it that different? Yes, but only because race is involved.
As a native Nashvillian I have to put up with hick stereotypes all the time. National news outlets seem to seek out the most dentally deficient locals to interview after any local tragedy or major event. But I can host a white trash party and not imply that all whites are trash.
If the white rural people I've mocked at white trash parties had a Castro Cookout and ended it with a round of Smear the Queer—a game I was forced to play in elementary school by the way—it would be a completely different issue. What if I held a theme birthday party for my dear friend and Jew and dentist and called it Fiddler on the Tooth? What if I had a Bollywood-themed party where we danced as if we were screwing in lightbulbs, blew tempra paint at each other, and finished with a wet sari scene? Is that racist?
Again, I believe it's a matter of intent, which is much harder to examine. (It was raised tonight that it is also a matter of sophistication of the subculture in question—those who can get a joke and those who cling to the chips on their respective shoulders as a matter of identify, or lack thereof. Even the Irish aren't offended by the boozy stereotype at Saint Patrick's Day; instead they embrace it.)
While I would invite gays to my Castro Cookout, I probably would not invite white trash to my Cooter Cookout. White trash parties do not imply that all white people are trash. Analogously, a ghetto party does not, in itself, imply that all people of color are ghetto.
In theory.
In practice, of course it does. Racism is implied. But my question is: why? And the possible answers to that question should be able to be discussed without voices rising, tempers flaring, or names called.
In theory, a private party with a theme (this was not an official PiKA party as reported in some places, nor was it on campus, just a private party in town) should not be a big deal if it is good-natured white trash or ghetto chic. However; in practice, someone should have had the good sense to recognize a terrible idea and nipped it in the bud. How on earth could these organizers, presumably students, not see that a potential shitstorm could follow?
And we're back to the stupid problem.
Or are they, in fact, total bigots who meant it to be offensive, which although still a matter of stupid should be severely disciplined. As often with racist acts, offensive is meant to be intimidating. In which case God-like wrath should be descended upon the Klan Kookout. The more I learn about the context of this party, the more I am inclined to believe the malicious intent. And if not outright malicious, it seems to have sent a message to young people of color that they are not welcome at UCSD. If anyone should be unwelcome at UC Anywhere, it should be those that would intimidate and discriminate against their peers.
This morning I heard about three girls who hung a noose in the library at UCSD. Out of context, a knot is a knot. But this intent was clear, and is just a whole bunch of Holy Crap WTF?! There is no gray (no pun intended) area there. The students reportedly turned themselves in to campus police after an investigation started. I was just surprised it was girls who did it. (Is that sexist?)
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The other race-related discussion this week came about from viewing old commercials on YouTube, particularly the 1960s ads for La Choy Chinese food. I find these fascinating from a cultural anthropology point of view, including history of television, fast food, packaged food, and perception of minorities in America, and American media. The first series of ads for La Choy featured the La Choy Dragon, one of the first productions of Jim Henson and his muppet workshop. Is the dragon racist? I'm not so sure.
And the more I think about it, the less I find the dragon racist. This 1960s ad for jello however, I think crosses a line:
However, it is fascinating to me from a historical point of view. Andwe have been mocking this ad by referring to each other and pretty much anyone as "Chinese Baby." Which brings me to my final thought (tonight) on perceived racism, which is that racism is about intent, and as such can be honestly and virtuously hilarious. Black comedians can be hilarious and tell black jokes. Rednecks can tell redneck jokes. There is a difference between racist humor, and race-based humor.
New friend Denise put me onto her friend's Twitter/Facebook feed. She's a copy writer and beyond funny. She is of Mexican heritage. Her husband and father of her child is not. She refers to her own infant as "Selfish White Baby."
"Selfish White Baby is taking up all my time." Caption to kid in kiddie pool: "We had to tape together trash bags for a slip-n-slide. Selfish White Baby doesn't care how good she has it." Caption to stern-faced pose on Kris Kringle's lap "Selfish White Baby thinks Santa can suck it."
I am in love with Selfish White Baby. I think there should be action sets and marketing tie-ins.
March into spring this week with a full docket of springtime welcoming events:
Monday (Tonight): My friend Freddy Clark gathered a bunch of talented performers from all over the globe to produce Wobbly World, a night of great music at the Rrazz Room. I'm watching my wallet and am a bit exhausted from the weekend so I'll just be chillin' with trivia before hitting bed tonight, but the lineup is impressive and I heartily recommend it for a launch into springtime this March 1st.
Thursday:Sundance Saloon (as usual) and San Franciscan/Brazilian recording artist Kid Akimbo makes an appearance at BeBe Sweetbriar's Cocktail Party for a CD signing party at the Mix.
Friday: Drag Show Fundraiser to Repeal Prop 8 at Trigger (6:00-9:00 pm); Bay Bombers vs the Red Devils roller derby at Kezar Stadium (7:30 pm; will-call window opens at 6:00, show up at 4:00 if you want a chance to skate the track yourself); and Nasty, the now monthly filthy fundraiser hosted by Suzan Revah at the Powerhouse (10:00 pm, benefits the AIDS Emergency Fund)
Saturday: Drag Queen Flash Mob for Marriage Equality (response to this douchess) at Union Square (11:00 am); Mr. San Francisco Leather 2010 Contest (go Lance!) at the Hotel Whitcomb (7:00 pm, 8th & Market., $20 in advance, $25 at the door); and Bearracuda (with another naked Matty poster, starts at 9:00 pm)
Any SFer knows that Muni sucks. And there's no alternative and nothing you can do about it. Well, two pissed off professional guys with no particular political acumen are trying to do something. One is a graphic designer and the other is a web guy, so their site is pretty awesome.
There is a March Against Muni tonight, and they are calling for a "don't buy a Fast Pass" boycott for the month of March. SF Weakly has some coverage of the "movement."
SF and is contract wit Muni is a clusterfucked quagmire steeped in the City charter and the irresponsible ridiculously powerful Muni union (why are they so strong? really?). By contract, Muni drivers must be the second-highest-paid in the nation. However their professionalism and competence seem to be lowest.
Just this week I had a driver show up on a bus on the N tracks, which means something is jacked on the N line, but could not give a straight answer as to why the bus was running and not the train, and where the bus was going other than "Market Street" or how it would get there. No two riders got the same explaination—in barely recognizable fractured English no less. I never support "English-only" legislation, but I do think Muni drivers should be absolutely required to be able to speak English, and not just marginally. At the very least that is a public safety and emergency issue. We, the riders, finally figured out he was just answering "yes" to anything asked. And were enraged upon turning off the tracks at Cole Street to see an actual N arrive headed downtown behind us at the corner. We had to scream to get the driver to stop and allow us to transfer to the train he had previously said wouldn't be coming.
The City is tightening its belt and has to cut most everything, but is doing so in a spirit of "we're all in this together" and let's try to do the best we can to help each other out. Because fo the budget crisis, Muni has to cut services significantly, and is increasing fares. More money for less services—and when it came time for the Union to vote to suspend their contractually mandated raises for one year, they overwhelmingly voted to screw the City (see also). Add to this their record of gaming the system to collect sick and overtime pay simultaneously, among other unethical practices, and I think these guys may be right that the populace has finally had it.
The Weakly has no faith in the March Against Muni movement, and their lack of faith is pretty well justified.
But I also think now may be the time to chuck the charter as citizens and riders may be willing to endure a public transit meltdown (like the other Muni meltdowns we've had to endure) for a month or two while the City fires all Muni drivers and staffers and starts from scratch under all new rules.
I don't know what to make of this. Is it a gimmick that went from "12-year-old girl" to "gays" to "drag queens to "celebrity" to "L.A"? I think this sort of...thing (I hesitate to call it a trend) could only happen in Los Angeles.
I mean, there's a professional spa for this treatment now. And they appear to make loads of money providing the service.
It's bedazzling... for the waxed area just above a woman's vagina. It's vajazzling.
Seriously. I shudder to think where this "trend" will stop next.
In my professional life today I came across the Fox Chase Cancer Center in Philadelphia for the first time. Am I the only one that thinks that's a funny name pairing? Maybe it's just because I started planning the Steeplechase trip last night and have fox chases hunts on the brain. I'm still surprised the Fox Chase center doesn't have a pink coat in its logo (animal rights/bloodsports controversy notwithstanding).
While Leno (Jay, not Mark) has cornered the market on bad marriage name pairings, I think the corporate partnerships are less noted.
I am reminded of my friend Kevin Sharp who broke off from his law firm years ago to found his own firm with his partner James Drescher. To all of their friends' dismay, they named the firm Drescher/Sharp.
I understand that as a new firm they wanted to appear as professional and reliable as possible, but I think the alternative would have made the world a brighter place.
I really thought that February would be a chill month. Not so much. On the calendar this week:
Monday: Brain Farts at the Lookout—this week's theme: Love Songs
Tuesday: "A great BIG night of Live Music & Dancing at Yoshi's" looks awesome and I got the notice from the super fun couple we met at Bardot a Go Go at the De Young last year, but I may proactively plan a recovery night at home this week.
Wednesday: MBA (Montgomery Bell Academy) alumni function at Hotel Monaco; followed by the Pink Party in the Redwood Room at the Clift Hotel, benefiting the Breast Cancer Emergency Fund (6:00 to 8:00). Facebook link.
Thursday: Inner Sunset Community Event at UCSF, GLAAD Media Awards Kick Off Party, 2011 Bare Chest Calendar Semi-Finals, Ejector's album release party at DNA Loungue,and Sundance Saloon.
Friday:Celery Design (international green design firm) reception at the Plant Café on the Embarcadero (invitation only)
Saturday: Drag Queen Flash Mob to repeal Prop 8 (don't see the connection, but sounds like fun). 2:00-4:00 at Union Square.
Update: The "drag queen flash mob for marriage equality" is in response to little Miss Beverly Hills (beauty queen) shooting her mouth off against marriage equality and the biblical damnation of the gays.
By the way, thanks to Skot Land we are now substituting "Santa" for "God" in all online, cursory and blasphemous expressions. Once you embrace it, it's really catchy. I find myself doing it unconsciously now.
I had to delete my initial response to the discovery of Jeffrey Jackson in the Facebook comments, as it occurred to me that "Oh. My. Santa." would confuse, confound, and potentially offend some of those participating in that thread.
Jonathan Harwell has unearthed the whereabouts/life story of one of our lost cohort from elementary school. Jeffrey Jackson was my best friend for many of those young awkward years. After eighth grade graduation, I never heard from him again.
Gail Doyne posted a pre-first class photo to Facebook and one by one most of us got tagged. Brandi Cartee, a name often bandied-about for comedic effect as a name from the past never heard from again has joined the page. Facebook is the great reuniter. Upon "discovery" of Brandi, Jonny sought out the remaining missing.
He found Jeffrey Jackson, and Lord do I now feel sorely underachieving. And clearly, his blog is very different from mine.
The "just one hour" plan for the after work/end of a crappy week happy hour turned into a seriously intense Castro bar crawl with my mates. Or what I started calling: "competing for the gold in the men's downhill."
You might have lived in SF too long when you get back to your car on a Sunday afternoon and both the fliers stuck on your windshield feature half-naked men. And you know them both on a first-name basis.
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My friends are terribly, terribly shy.
(I stand corrected. Matty's level of dress isn't anywhere near halfway.)
or otherwise entitled "have you all had your shots?"
We shined the quarters and pennies and pressed the ones and fives as the only portraits in sight for President's Day on Monday. It was the end of a long weekend of Valentines and International Bear Rendezvous parties, among other gratuitous "it's a three-day weekend" events around the City. Without photos, I can report that the Sundance Saloon Sweethearts Ball: Boots, Bras, and Briefs was an enormous amount of fun. And those that look good wearing next to nothing wore just that. I swear the skimpy attire at these parties is getting smaller and smaller. Next time I won't be surprised if some guys wear a postage stamp. But I do admit, they'll look first class doing it.
As an annual tradition, Pollo Del Mar hosts Recovery Monday at the Lookout (for Presidents' Day, Labor Day, and Memorial Day).
We had a great crowd, including the elusive Jon Heintschel (now that he's all happy in love and stuff) and the always fun time, and as of Saturday freshly crowned Mr. Powerhouse, Lance Holman. For a Monday, we couldn't have asked for a better afternoon.
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Hey! That's "Wilma and Hilma!" We did note that despite the fortunes we spend in this establishment, they still have some bills to pay...
I think this one sort of captures the spirit of the day, even if the photo looks a bit familiar:
Another favorite caption:
"I only order drinks that match my outfit!"
The revelry just sort of went from there...
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Debauchery and linen sales—I'm sure that's how they envisioned honoring Washington's and Linclon's birthdays.
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