and a very Happy Easter in Dolores Park, 2012

While Easter Sunday was not like those of my childhood, we had a lovely day in Dolores Park. The "events," even the Hunky Jesus Contest were entirely ancillary to the fashion and picnic love fest in Dolores Park. I particularly love that Suzan and Graig went all out with a Astroturf runway for Easter fashions, and large pink plastic thrones for their parents and relatives they brought to the park. Even the five-year old was in a white tux with turquoise accents. Despite the conservatives disdain for this very San Franciscan Easter Sunday, hosted by the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, this truly is a family affair. Or as Suzan has coined, the San Framily.









I also got to spend some quality time with one of my all time favorite peeps (tee hee) Michael Smith. You really should click through his photoset. Here are some of my favorites of the photos he took on Sunday.



And of course,



Pure joy!

Hey Easter Bunny, where'd you get those eggs?

Ainsley had a birthday afternoon cocktail party and dinner at their lovely place on Mare Island the Saturday before Easter. New to the patio was a chicken coop—Ainsley and Ing (and their babies too I suppose) are now chickeners! They have one coop in the garden for the two "pet" chickens, and another hutch for an enormous pet rabbit. Or perhaps Easter bunny.

There is a larger coop, it turns out, behind the art studio. That coop had about five chickens (I am only guessing that they were all hens), each a different breed and all beautiful to look at. Those chickens are not pets and do not have names. Other than "dinner." That sort of cracked me up. And evidence of such, tasty at that, was featured on the party buffet table.


Before                                                    After

On a related note, as seen in the studio, this is how they plan to catch the Ether Bunny:

more Easter love

While Papa John is conspicuously absent this Easter, for my faithful family this day the grave has lost its sting.  Carolyn (Adjunct Sister) sent in this photo of Franna and Grace (adjunct niece) at church on Easter Sunday.



Love the Fran!

missing my original Easter Bunny

I posted this earlier, but this was the scene when I popped out to the Castro for a haircut last week:


I took this pic with my iPhone and edited while waiting for a chair with the new, very cool iPhoto app for iOS. I sent this pic to my Mom.

She wrote back earlier this week saying, "I love it! You look do much like Dad with that Bunny. - same smile, same humor..." I miss Dad a lot, and loved hearing that, but the reminder also brought everything back to the surface again. I really can't imagine how hard it is for Mom, who has never lived alone and has been in love with Dad since she was 19. For her, every day and every thing is a reminder of what is lost, and I don't think I could bear that.

Thinking of Dad on Easter I am reminded of my favorite Dad-at-Easter story. We got pretty awesome Easter back sets growing up. Nothing fancy or over the top, but stealthily placed baskets with some chocolates, plastic eggs—some filled with jelly beans and some filled with coins—and generally a small toy. Not Christmas, but springtime excitement and a morning surprise left by an equally magical benefactor.

And the Easter egg hunts—Dad was good at those, and the side yard was perfect for that. Mac always found the Golden Egg. Every friggin' year.  I'm still a little frustrated at that.

As we grew older and into adults, there were younger kids for Papa John to hide eggs for, and he enthusiastically did so. Dad also had a separate "Easter egg hunt" for the young adults/grown ups: strategically placed mini bottles of booze. Love my Dad.

One year the weather on Easter Sunday was less a lesson on the resurrection and more a lesson on Noah's Arc. Dad creatively hid the eggs for the kids around the living room. And he hosted another hunt for the adults in the library (what other people might call a den). Both were much fun, but here's the thing: it's not like Dad had a map or a count of the liquor bottles.

For years afterwards we would find a random mini-bottle of bourbon or vodka squirreled away in an obscure part of the library. I was having people over one night and as we visited in the library, a guest put her hand between the sofa cushions and produced a tiny bottle of Jack Daniels. She looked first puzzled then seriously concerned. She thought one of my parents had been hiding liquor around the house, which I suppose was in fact true, but not in the way she suspected.

In hushed tones she asked, "Wilson...does your Dad have a drinking problem?"
Me, laughing, "Oh no...that's just from Easter."

It then occurred to me that my answer, while also true, must have sounded like a non-sequitur, leading her to think that perhaps I was the one with the problem.

I believe it was this day that I adopted my policy: Never explain.

Great is the mystery of our faith.

why I don't leave my SF Safe Zone anymore

Going downtown for a Davidson College alumni drink thing last night, I was struck by (1) hot hot the guys are leave work around six-thirty from jobs in the Financial District are and (2) I never seem to leave my SF Zone any more.  I can't remember the last time I was in North Beach.  And I am sure I have spent some ironic time in Fisherman's Wharf much more recently than I have been to the Marina.  My Mission outings, generally for black-box theater or honky tonk fare, are targeted destinations— are as far away from the hipster blocks as I can make it.  While I feel I have isolated myself a bit in this City that has So Much, I am comfortable spending my time in the Cole Valley, the Castro and South of Market.  My version of "venturing out" from these places is for theater (and the occasional shopping or cocktail) on the seedier side of Union Square.  I know these neighborhoods and they know me.  I like that I can go for something known and yet be surprised.  I know I can go out alone yet be surrounded by people who know my name  Last weekend just stepping out for a haircut, I spent over half an hour at the corner of Castro and 18th visiting with and endless array of friends passing by.

Last night the alumni event was at Rickhouse on Kearny at Sutter.  As I was walking up from the Montgomery Street station, my first thought was, "Why don't I come out here any more?"  As I approached the bar, I thought, "Oh, that's right.  Because I don't need to to douche."  I wondered who chose their venue for an alumni function.  There was a line to get in.  Really?  A line for a downtown bar just past happy hour on a Thursday?  Other than overwhelming volume, underwhelming service and a pretentious price point, there was nothing really to recommend it.  Maybe I'm just an old bear.  The crowd was very Young Professionals.  Guys who would have last decade been described as metrosexuals and college graduate girls hunting aggressively for professional boyfriends.  If I were straight and in my early twenties I might have thought this was "the bomb" or whatever the kids are calling it these days.  Maybe I was just a little bitter in my maturity when I noted that the guys were predominately very young, very fit, and generally handsome and all with full heads of hair.

I am also still off carbs and booze and my mood has been firmly ensconced in grumpy if not crotchety of late.

Rickhouse is the newest rough-hewn manifestation of the Trendy Whisky Bar.  I loathe all things trendy, and the crowd was definitely trend-chasing (but not trendsetting), and full of people who by appearances drank whisky because it was the new cool thing to do.  As someone who suckled on the teat of whisky long before it became The New Cosmo, I admittedly look down my nose at the bourbon-come-latelys with a bit of smugness and disdain.

I'm realizing now I am just sounding like a dick, or someone who will grow up to be a scheming caretaker ultimately foiled by a couple of meddling kids and their pesky dog.  Put me back in a bear bar and give me a cocktail and a carbohydrate and I'll perk back up.

But deliver me from the douche.

On the bright side, I met a Davidson alumna in line I hadn't seen since the last one years ago, and inside I got to catch up with two good friends I hadn't seen perhaps since I left Davidson in 1993.  Kristin lives in SF and I have only run into her once—as she ran by during Bay to Breakers.  Molly is a mother of two (three?) now in Arlington and just happened to be out here and came to the event.  Despite the voice and the crowd, we had a good catch up.


What prompted this rant in the first place, and brought to mind the scene last night, was this gem found via Uptown Almanac:  Douchey and Hipster.  The white boy rap about the young men who consider themselves SF Playahs, and the girls who love them.



This is why I keep it in The Zone.

Alumni family

I am off to a Davidson alumni mixer downtown.  It just occurred to me that only yesterday I wrote of Hartley (whose father in law just passed) and Joe (whose father also just passed).  T. Hartley III and IV, And Joe Jr. and III are all Davidson College Alumni.  As are brother Mac and I.

Al, Carolyn's father (and T. Hartley IV's father-in-law) went to Penn, as did brother Jay.

No point really, other than we do seem to keep an academically related family too.

occupational hazard

When we're socializing, my friend hates having to answer "So what do you do?"  Which is kind of odd, I suppose, as I greatly respect his job and I think what he does is cool.  But I also take his point.

Last night, he was sort of cornered by the question and he hemmed and hawed for a moment so I answered for him.  Which he appreciated.

Questioner:        "So what to you do in San Francisco?"
Friend:               "errrr..."
Me, for friend:    "Anal."

meaty

I walked down the the grocery near work the other day to get one of their amazing sandwiches from the deli. The butcher/meat counter is extensive to say the least, and as I noticed the burly sexy butcher working behind the counter, I thought to myself, "I'd date him..."

...and I immediately thought of my old friend Paul Schmidtberger, who once said, "Dating a butcher? That would be so Ann B. Davis."

this place is hopping

I love living in a town where on the Saturday before Easter, there is a giant Easter Bunny in the neighborhood business district.  And he grabs your ass.  And you recognize who is in the suit by his squeeze.


Sunshine inside and out.

Later, walking back from my haircut, I passed a family of five walking up Castro Street and spied the Easter Bunny about 20 yards behind. I said, "Look, you can get your picture taken with the Easter Bunny!" The kids went nuts, and the parents were equally excited. The Easter Bunny kindly got down to their level and posed for pictures and played with the kids. I was struck by the scene when Dad, cheering on his brood for the photos, said to them, "Wave your flags!"

The parents (a mom and dad) had bought each of the kids a rainbow flag at Cliff's. Festive and inclusive.


Love this town.

Especially when times are tough

People need the library.

And it's National Library Week. If you haven't checked out (get it) your local library recently, you may have missed the transformation—libraries are not just books, but media catalogs, information access centers, research professionals, and community centers with learning programs for every age, with focuses on adult education for job seeking, career advancement and personal development as well as fostering and feeding a love of learning for everyone.

And they are particular busy during tax season.  Libraries don't provide tax advice, but they are experts in guiding you to the best resources address your needs.

Have a question? Ask a librarian.

I'm enjoying the irony that one of my favorite comments during National Library Week is from PC Mag:

Any four-year-old will tell you that a library is a building that lends books, but the real purpose of a library is to amass and disseminate knowledge. So, even if printed matter were to disappear, libraries would still be a cultural necessity.

For my locals, take a moment to explore the redesigned website of the San Francisco Public Library, then visit a branch—they have nearly finished their ambitious project of physically renovating every branch.  There's one near you.

take it off.

I went to lunch with some fiends/coworkers to Ella's recently and the view brought to mind an increasing trend I find increasingly annoying.  Men who wear (hipster) hats indoors.


A gentleman wears a hat.  A gentleman also takes it off indoors.  The rule for elevators is to keep it on as it is considered a conveyance and an extension of the hallway.  Hats are worn while traveling (e.g. on the train or bus, or in a car) and in hallways but are removed once in an office, home or interior destination.

A hat is never worn by men indoors and never, ever while seated in a restaurant.

A hat may be practical and it should be fashionable.  Wearing a hat indoors, in a bar, or while dining makes it costume.  I'm all for costume but this is unintentional costume and a major fail.  Wearing a fedora indoors does not make one look sophisticated, but quite the opposite.

The younger the person is the more annoyed I become. There is a certain smugness to their "I'm cool!" fashion statement but all I can hear their outfit saying to me is "I'm an idiot!"

Kids these days.

obitulist

I haven't told my mother but I am still procrastinating on the condolence thank-you notes.  It's easier to not deal when I am removed from Nashville and don't dwell on it.  But every time I go to write a letter of appreciation for the kindness shown to me during the period of my father's death, I sort of lose it.

Today, as I have been thinking about my Dad, and the loss of Joe's and Carolyn's, I realize what a season of grief it has been.  In the past six months, my family has lost:

Dad
Bill (my sister-in-law Emily's father)
Mr. Calvin (adjunct brother Joe's father)
Mr. Griffin (adjunct sister-in-law Carolyn's father)
Betty Brown (Hardcastle-adjacent Susannah's mother)
and most recently, Miss Patty (great, great aunt to us all)

All this and I am off carbs, sugar, and booze (collectively called "the coping mechanisms").  It's enough to make a grown man cry.

and farewell to the fathers

My family has always been a loving, welcoming bunch.  As Jay noted in his homily to Dad, "...somehow the other children wanted you as their dad too...Dad, you and mom ran a household that welcomed our friends as much as your own children. We just seemed to collect other kids. Margaret, Jonathan, Susannah, Billy, Bill, two Pauls, Carrington, EJ, Robin, Hartley, Joe, Sloan, Scott, and anyone who lived on Sheppard Place, to name a few."

Among these close ties, I have two biological brothers, an adjunct brother, an adjunct brother and sister-in-law, and a pseudo sister. I refer to Margaret as my pseudo sister as she and I were raised pretty much next door to one another and are close as I imagine I would be had I a biological sister. You've met Margaret.

Joe (3), aka Jody, was brother Jay's best friend growing up and was annexed by the Hardcastles in high school around the time his parents were divorcing. I could not love Joe more if he were my own blood. It was Joe who, being too close to Dad to call him Mister Hardcastle and too respectful to call him John, coined the appellation Papa John—the name of reverence and affection my father carried proudly and too soon unto the grave. Joe now lives in Birmingham with his family.

Also brought into the fold was T. Hartley (4) whose father was our pastor growing up and one of Dad's closest friends. Hartley married Carolyn, and through much effort produced Grace. With their parents absent, Mom and Dad became the "Designated Parents" and when Grace came along, Papa John and Franna joyfully became doting grandparents to one more.

This week two of my acquired siblings have lost their fathers too, and I would like to pay my respects:

Joseph Hiram Calvin, Jr.
From the Birmingham News/AL.com:

CALVIN, JR., JOSEPH HIRAM Joe Calvin died on April 3, 2012; he was born in Decatur, Alabama June 2, 1918, the son of Joseph Hiram Calvin and Bernice Jackson Calvin. He was educated in the Decatur City Schools and graduated high school from the McCallie School in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Joe graduated from Davidson College where he was president of the Kappa Alpha fraternity. He attended Harvard Law School for two years before serving in the army, from which he retired as a captain in 1946. Joe received his Juris Doctor from the University of Alabama and practiced law in Decatur for nearly fifty years. During this time Joe served as President of the Morgan County Bar Association, President of the Decatur Kiwanis Club, was a long time member of the Board of Compass Bank, Chairman of the Decatur School Board and was elected to represent Morgan and Lawrence Counties in the Alabama State Senate. He was named most effective Alabama senator. Joe was a lifelong member of the First Presbyterian Church in Decatur until moving to Birmingham in 2000. He was a deacon and elder and taught Sunday school for many years. He is thought of by all as the perfect gentleman. Joe is survived by his wife Juliet Given Calvin, and his son Joseph Calvin III, wife Jennifer Calvin and four grandchildren; Kalli Calvin, Elizabeth Calvin, Joseph Calvin IV and Virginia Calvin. Joe is survived by Juliet Calvin's sons Finis St. John IV, wife Gaynor Lee St. John, and William Given St. John, wife Elizabeth Gentry St. John. He is also survived by her grandsons Finis St. John, wife Virginia Givhan St. John and great granddaughter Mary Juliet; and John Jefferson St. John. He was predeceased by Juliet's granddaughter Emily Parker St. John. The family will have a private graveside service at the Decatur City Cemetery on April 4, 2012.

Al Griffin, Jr.
From the Atlanta Journal Constitution:

GRIFFIN, Albert, Jr. ALBERT GRIFFIN, JR. Albert Griffin, Jr., 77, of Atlanta and Flowery Branch, GA died peacefully on March 15, 2012. Al was born on March 10, 1935, in Philadelphia, PA, to Albert and Mabel Hilsman Griffin. He was a 1953 graduate of Druid Hills High School and a 1957 graduate of The University of Pennsylvania where he received a degree in Political Science from The Wharton School and was a member of Sigma Nu fraternity. He received a graduate degree from The Stonier Graduate School of Banking at Rutgers University where he wrote his thesis on the financing of professional sports teams. Al's entire 40-plus year banking career was spent at SunTrust. For years, he ran the bank's college recruiting and management training programs. He loved following the careers of those he had identified and taught, many of whom became leaders in the bank. In the late 70's, he transitioned to the bank's investment department where he enjoyed working with individuals who became clients and friends until his retirement. Al was a member of Ansley Golf Club and First Presbyterian Church where he served three terms as elder, twice chaired the church's long range planning committee and was a member of the stewardship committee. Al was instrumental in the formation of First Presbyterian's Broadcast Ministry, twice traveled with a group from the church to Kenya and was a devoted member of the Tuesday morning men's Bible Study at the church for more than 15 years. He also served on the boards of Young Life Northwest Atlanta, the Atlanta Chapter of Habitat for Humanity and The Ravina Club.

Al was preceded in death by his parents and his first wife Carol Gregory Griffin. He is survived by his wife of 28 years Martha Dickinson Griffin, sister Mabel Griffin Kichline and her husband Pat, and brother-in-law Bruce M. Gregory, all of Atlanta. He is also survived by daughter Carolyn Griffin Hall and her husband Hartley of Nashville, TN, and sons Richard H. Lindeman and his wife Charlotte of Lookout Mountain, TN, Kenneth L. Lindeman and his wife Margaret of Gastonia, NC, Peter B. Lindeman and his wife Celeste of Atlanta, and Henry V. Lindeman, II and his wife Amy of Memphis, TN. Also nephew James M. Crawford, Jr. and his wife Tracy of Woodside, CA, and niece Laurie Crawford Tolbert and her husband Tom of Lexington Kentucky. Al is survived by 11 grandchildren: Grace Griffin Hall, Richard, Ashley and Charlie Lindeman, Emily and Annie Lindeman; Claire, Bryson and Frank Lindeman, Henry and Russell Lindeman, and seven great-nieces and nephews: Kaylynn and Alyssa Crawford and Griffin, Jackson, Rachel, Benjamin and Bonnie Tolbert, all of whom brought him great joy over the past two decades. A celebration of a life well lived will be held on Sunday, March 18, 2012, at two o'clock at First Presbyterian Church Atlanta followed by a reception in Fifield Hall. In lieu of flowers, memorial gifts may be made to First Presbyterian Church, 1328 Peachtree Street, NE, Atlanta, GA 30309; The Westminster Schools, 1424 W. Paces Ferry Road, NW, Atlanta, GA 30327.

farewell Miss Patty

Miss Patty, and her sister Jane, were close friends and classmates of my grandmother. They lived next door to each other and across the street from my grandmother—where Mom grew up—over on Forest Park Avenue. They were wonderful women who played with and cared for mom when she was growing up. Miss Patty was very active in her church and cared for the three-year olds for the past 60 years, and played with us when we were growing up too. My brothers and I considered Miss Patty and Miss Jane "the aunts." Miss Patty was a close friend to FOUR GENERATIONS of my family and was just all around awesome. She passed away this week at 96. She was a pioneer of women's athletics and physical education, and was still coaching tennis almost to the end. Again, at ninety-freakin-six.

She was always Miss Patty. She was Miss Patty when Mom was a little girl, and so she struck me as some sort of external figure. It never occurred to me that she was mortal. I love that my mother—herself a woman with three grandchildren including one in college and sometimes called "Miss Fran"—until recently still had a mentor in her life she would refer to with the respected elder title of "Miss."

Thinking of Miss Patty makes me feel the heat and humidity of a southern summer and the smell of grass while chasing fireflies in her front yard.

She is survived by her sister Jane, and a legion of women—young and mature—who consider her a mentor and heroine.

By the way, Miss Jane still water skis. At 94. LOVE these women.

From the Tennessean: Harpeth Hall's Patty Chadwell blazed trail for girls' physical education

My brothers and I have received some notes asking how we knew Miss Patty. I had forgotten that most of my female friends knew her and respected her as the tennis and PE coach at Harpeth Hall (the girls' prep school) for, well, ever. Brother Jay writes, "She and her sister were really good friends and neighbors to my grandparents on Forest Park. They lived next door to each other and across the street from my grandmother and grandfathers 1 and 2. My grandparents had a crew over there like Sheppard place does. So the three of us grew up going over there when we were little and fondly remember homemade ice cream parties, Halloween, and Christmas Caroling (one of them played the accordion)."

Man, I still remember that ice cream. And Christmases over there. And my first memories of trick-or-treating.

vincent van flamingo

Tonight is another Out with ACT night, and it reminded me to post this. Leaving the last show and walking to my car parked over in freaking Chinatown, Kevin and I had passed one of the my favorite art galleries on the strip. I don't think I would every buy anything in there, and it's not really a place for art criticism, but they always have interesting, well done peeves in the windows. We always stop and to appreciate and discuss. This new painting in the window caught my eye:

Because this is the sign of the flea-bit, super-kitch hotel Kevin booked us into on our Mystery Date to Tucson so many years ago.

Very cool.

The place was hanging on by a thread, catering mostly to transients and students in desperate need of cheap, temporary housing. Kevin could not tell that from the marketing materials. What was evident was that the hotel was super campy fun with neon astro turf and an individual and specific western movie theme to many of the rooms. It turned out to be less than clean (sort of like a used petri dish) and in a state of decay. So much so that one of our number ditched for the Hilton. The rest of us appreciated the "charm," dead birds in the brackish brown swimming pool and all. We are those kind of people.

crapestry

From the wonderful Regretsy, where DIY meets WTF, do we find the artistry that is Crapestry.

Theo Humphries takes cross stitch patterns and adds a little something to zest them up.

Such as:

Let Big Red ask me where my mother's throw pillow closet is now.

See also:

not a peep out of you

Usually I get really into Easter. Mister loves a theme. I have a wreath for my door and decorations for the apartment, and usually host or attend some sort of dying cocktail party. Nothing this year. It's Good Friday and I have not gotten into any sort of holy spirit. My mood has been maudlin as of late and it will be all I can do to rise again myself.

I did, however, pay enough attention to send Easter treats to my niece and nephews and a centerpiece from The Tulip Tree to my mother who will be hosting all the family but me on Sunday.

Among the treats sent to little Leland (five and a half years old) were Cars and Toy Story sticker sets (he loves those characters), a large paper egg he can decorate with another set of stickers, and a couple of boxes of those little yellow chicks that I have always loved for reasons I cannot articulate.

His mother and father called me iPad to iPad using FaceTime to thank me and watch Leland play excitedly with his Easter treats. Risen Jesus that was cute. We played together for a while and then he asked if the chicks could go in the water. I said he could try it with one, but only one at first in case they did not do well in the water. It wasn't bath time yet so he tried putting one in the sink, and the chick looked like a tiny wet dog that loses 90% of it's volume when wet. It was pretty hilarious.

The chick, however, did not recover from the experience.

This morning his mother sent this pic to my phone:

"We told you you weren't waterproof!"

To me it looks like an intervention. "We are here as your friends. We really need to talk about your eating disorder."

Happy Easter

sacrilicious.

Here come the brides

My favorite pair are getting married this May. In Belize. I'm going. Brother Mac is officiating. Helena (pronounced Hell-Eeen-Ah, but I sometimes call her Helena Handbasket) is one of my all time favorite peeps, is laugh-out-loud funny, and Gets The Joke.

While on a minor adventure to the flea market with Interesting Grace, I stumbled upon the perfect engagement present. I am the WORST at haggling. Brother Mac could sell a drowning man a glass of water. I say things like, "You mean with that water I get TWICE as many hydrogen molecules as oxygen molecules!? Bargain!" I know flea markets are all about the bargaining, but when I found this item and explained to my companion, "Oh my God this is so awesome! I MUST have this!" I sort of lost all credibility in negotiation. Luckily for me, to the "vendor" this was just another piece of junk from the boxes of trash he took from someone else in hopes of making a penny out of other people's garbage, and the price he quoted, while exorbitant to his mind, was really undervaluing this literary find.

Helena received the rare book this week. After I dropped it in the mail, I had a moment of panic, thinking "What if she doesn't get the joke? She's going to think I just sent her garbage..." I should not have feared. In fact when it comes to gift giving, I may have over-shot with this one. She loves it as much as I had hoped.

Ladies and gentlemen, printed in a limited edition run by the Stevens department store of Chicago in 1940, the all-inclusive prim and proper guide for The Bride.


Seriously, the etchings used to illustrate this guide are pretty psychedelic. I hate posting large images in the blog but it's necessary to note the WTF details. Helena has indicated that she may post some scans of her own later.






There is so much ironic awesome in this book. It is so over the top it reads more like brilliant modern satire than genuine opinion and advice. I couldn't get it in my little shelf scanner at home, so I resorted to taking few photos. It really doesn't do it justice. Each chapter is written by an expert in the related field, some with a very high-handed and high-minded first person narrative of how absolutely perfect and flawless they are at such things, and you would do well to aspire to her level. In things like gift-wrapping or choosing negliges.

Meet Alice and Robey:


Alice H. Marks: "Known from coast to coast as an expert on what to give. Her packaging of presents is generally accepted as unrivaled."

Little known fact: Also played Mrs. Hathaway on The Beverly Hillbillies.

Robey Lyle: "Authority on merchandise for women. Expert on Manhattan's shops and shopping. Magazine writer on fashions, household furnishings, and good form and social usage."

Or in other words: Well get her.

And frankly, I am pretty good at getting used socially myself but I'm not going to brag about it. I keep that shit South of Market where it belongs.

The Bride is just full of useful advice, an almost never-ending litany of proper do's and don't that I imagine every young socialite poured over with obsession while wearing a corset and enough layers that the husband to be would have no idea what she looked like form the chin down.

Seriously, the book reads like this:

"In splashing colors of medieval Russian spelndor, a mingling of barbaric ostentation and religious pomp." (Honestly! That's not even a complete sentence. They throw sentence fragments and prepositional phrases around here like it's rice.)

"She let loose a phantasmagoria of pictures, movies, and stills. Yet there was nothing that really counted in her amazing show which is not at the finger tips of Miss All American Bride if she but fix her clear inquiring eyes on the seeming mysteries of a formal—yes, a smart top flight wedding if you will. Once a budget figure has been wrangled out of father—and it need be no astronomical figure—a beautiful wedding is assured, for family, for relatives, for guests, and most of all, a sweet proud remembrance for the bride of her day of days of her life."

You now see why this book begs for commentary. And an editor. The run-on sentences, fragments, stream of consciousness, haphazard use of commas, and what can only be described loosely as a sentence "structure" are completely forgiven by the use of the word phantasmagoria. Try working that into a conversation sometime. Bonus points if you are at work. Double bonus score if you are in confession.

"Once the theme of the bridal costume (Yay! Costumes!!) is decided it must be carried on through the entire wedding party, as to form, color, and material. The bride in satin cannot select organdie for her maids. What are known as period costumes, mist always maintain their theme through the entire wedding party."

(oh GOD, a THEME wedding!! I'm choosing Civil War. No, wait! Barbarella!)

"It is but a matter of planning that knows its way about town and country. Starting right at the beginning, and driving along the well posted route. Miss All American Bride may have her dream wedding with all the glamor of that super bridal, with the probable exception of a princeling. It is a good hunch (and every man wants a girl with a good hunch) that whoever stands in the groom's adding raiment, whether it be the blue jacket and white trousers of a summer country home wedding in the garden..."

Also try working princeling and raiment into your next conversation. While wearing a blue jacket and white trousers. Before doing so, look up "5150" so you'll know what they're referring to when they are talking about you in hushed tones.

With regards to packing for the honeymoon:

"I venture no suggestions for those of you participate actively in sports. You know what you need already. Last of all in addition to the fur coat and top coat already discussed, it is well to have another of the casual sport variety, not necessarily expensive.

Hats, gloves, purses and bags for day and evening, suitable shoes‚get these as you can afford them. But stockings, of course, as well know, can not be over done. No matter how modest the trousseau, it can well have two dozen pairs of several weights."

Almost nothing is mentioned about what is to be expected of the bride on her wedding night by her new husband. Much is written about the lingerie, but not why she needs fancy bedtime clothes, or the fact that the groom is expected to take them off. The closest the guide gets is a reference to the importance of the selection of the going-to-bed wardrobe as a "part of a young girl's preparation for her married life."

The perhaps more helpful sub-chapters on marital expectations entitled "fellatio" or "when your groom knocks at your back door" are markedly absent.

You can also imagine the author clutching her pearls, fan at hand, as she seeks to address the scandalous but unfortunate reality of "Special Nuptials." That is to say, second marriages. The mere thought gives me the vapors.

"Second marriages, or shall we say the frequency of them, have accentuated the need of a new chapter on wedding etiquette. Perhaps a whole volume is needed to meet all the many problems of good form that arise. But the regulations, conventionalities, or what we will, are still so vaguely defined that it is better to be brief and set down clearly those things that have become accepted."

Simplicity and informality should mark the wedding of a bride who has been divorced. Her marriage, if it does not take place in a judge's chambers, will be celebrated in a chapel, church, or her own home. She will not wear a white gown and veil. She may wear a formal afternoon dress, or a traveling costume if it is a civil ceremony. She will have one attendant or none. No children by her first marriage should attend her."

Whatevs Mrs. Havisham.

Furthermore,

"Just when a bride may be considered too old for bridal white is too delicate a subject for this arbiter to decide. But there is unwritten caution that where there is doubt, simplicity is in order. The older woman is usually married in afternoon gown and hat. If she is married in her own home she may wear a simple gown without a hat. In other respects she can follow the usual wedding conventions."

The last pages of the book are a blank catalog for the bride to be to register the gifts she received, from whom, from where, and when thanked. Thumbing through these pages from 1940 was almost archaeologically fascinating. Or in Helena's words, "They scored." The gifts varied from "silver server" to "five dollars, cash."


I was more impressed that the thank-you notes were typically next day. Nicely done.

So far, the only preparations I have made for Helena's wedding have been reserving a room, getting airfare to Belize, joining a gym, and starting a diet. And, of course, finding the best engagement present ever.

See how far we have come, and be confident in how far we can go.

there's hope for Texas yet

While the Texas School Board may want to teach students to bully any kids who are non-straight, non-white, and non-nutbag conservative, the kids at Cypress Ranch High School have a different attitude.



From the YouTube description:

On March 28, 2012, students at Cypress Ranch High School came together to create an original Lip Dub video and to Stand Up to bullies by asking "Who Do U Think U R?" The entire project was created, filmed, sung, and performed by actual students.

We'd love this video to help make a difference and to enforce that we, the students, the teens, want bullying to stop! Please share and pass the video on and help make a difference.

Video produced and directed by Triple Oswald, a Cypress Ranch Student. Filmed and Edited by Preston Cox, a Cypress Ranch Student. Song performed by Kaitlyn K (http://www.KaitlynK.com), a Cypress Ranch student. Filmed on location at Cypress Ranch High School, Cypress, Texas.

hulu hoops

I don't watch SNL anymore, and just assume if there was a sketch worth watching, I'll hear about it online and click through. Although I have been burned before as NBC's censors regularly edit out the funny for online consumption because it's too risqué for morons like Santorum supporters.

Now it turns out, a lot of the content can't be put online because of the restrictions to the rights of ancillary content, such as clips or background music. See: What You're Missing By Watching SNL on Hulu.

Like this awesome vision of Downton Abbey, if it were marketed by SpikeTV.

a killer view

Some super genius has taken all of the shots of the garden view form Alfred's Hitchcock's Rear Window to create a composite of the entire inner block, and inserted the video of each voyeuristic scene into the composite in the order it appears in the movie. The time-lapse creation is impressive to say the last.

Thanks to the GOP, Tennessee is officially the new stupid

How far will the Tennessee GOP go? Sigh.

The GOP-controlled State legislature has come up with the following over the past year: Pro-bullying of gay kids bill, don't-say-gay bill, guns in bars, displaying the ten commandments next to the constitution in state buildings, teaching biblical creationism in schools, "no saggy pants" in schools, protecting proselytizing to kids in school, and now preventing business from prohibiting firearms on their own property.

You know you're scraping the bottom of the liberty barrel when Iran has more personal liberty and progressive religion.

With all this sanctimony and gun masturbation, you would think there are no other issues before the body politic. How's that economy going? Corruption? Pollution? Education? Nope, all still suck.

iDoctor

I got a TARDIS iPhone case this weekend.

Because the iPhone is bigger on the inside.

be very very quiet

Best overheard FB exchange today—

Post: "I'm home from my hunting trip. I had an amazing time. I got 2 pigs and 1 turkey."
Comment: "So, you went to Powerhouse?"

no foolin'

Very excited for tonight's show!  Miss Coco Peru's There Comes a Time at the Victoria Theater.

blotto

Everyone, and I mean everyone, bought a mega millions lotto ticket last night. People in the bars were talking about it, and anytime anyone opened their wallet to buy a drink, or fumbled in their pocket for their phone, they'd invariably pull out a lottery ticket.

It has gotten insane. And the payoff is at over $600 million. A dollar for an impossible number is worth the price for the daydream.

I bought five.

By now, they've already identified the winning numbers. I haven't checked mine. As long as I don't check, I can keep the idea of winning without confirming the losing.

It's the Schroedinger's cat of lottery tickets.

chickhead

Feelin' a little cocky.

sex in the break room

Someone placed a full bag of popcorn on the empty work room table with a post-it reading "eat me."

A coworker had just used the compressed air to clean her keyboard an it was lying on the counter. I was unable to stop myself from placing them there together, but managed to resist attaching the post-it message.

The implied declaration here being: "Blow me."

says the guy who drinks a pot a coffee a day

The first step is admitting you have a problem...



Those are all empty cans of Diet Coke...from today.

Apple updates

The Jamez and I just both upgraded to nifty new Apple toys.  The got the New iPad, and I upgraded to the new Apple TV.  I've set up a MacMini as a sweet little video server and I've been space shifting my collection of movies and TV box sets.  Unfortunately the new iTunes 10.6 update really screwed up Home Sharing with the AppleTV.  In only two weeks but what seemed like ages, Apple has released a 10.6.1 update which fixes a lot of these issues.  Although Apple is still sorting numbers after letters unlike the rest of the world, and is now ignoring special characters like spaces or asterisks which are commonly used to push files, folders and set lists to the top.  Grr.

Still, if you are an iTunes user, go grab the update.

dutch auction

An Alert Reader asks, "How much is that douchebag in the window?"

The "Team in Training/Team in Dating" Date Auction is this weekend.

Joy.

 Lovely ladies, and maybe even men, can bid on one of these eligible bachelors. And by "eligible" we mean "doucebags," and by "bachelor" we mean "why would you date them?"

Here's the hottest of the bunch (actually, I would do Jason if I could be guaranteed he wouldn't speak). Meet Mark W:

This is the photo he submits for his bachelor auction profile—

Actually a nice chest, but maybe he recently lost a lot of weight because that bit above his belt is creeping me out.  Regardless, this pic does not say "eligible bachelor."  It says "My wingman is Rohypnol."

But, as an eligible bachelor up for auction for the lovely and monied young ladies of the Marina, I am sure his profile reads like the table of contents in GQ.  Ooops.  More like an application to DQ.

He also enjoys slow walks on a Summer's Eve to talk about the cleanliness of your lady business.

that's no moon

Obi Wan G'naw Me

ribbed for displeasure

So this huge guy picked me up in a bar. Literally. Right up off the floor. He was trying to crack my back, but cracked a rib instead. Four days later and I'm rooting in the medicine cabinet for old industrial strength post-surgery painkillers. I need to improve how I get picked up in bars.

The Commerce Clause

The legal challenges against the health care reform individual mandate relate to the commerce clause of the constitution.  A brief and interesting take on the history of the high court and the commerce clause is presented by a local professor on SF Appeal.

Also—  The Commerce Claus: Worst Christmas movie ever.

Tennessee: Call us Missibama

Nothing but more shame for my home state of Tennessee. The state legislature is well on their way to surpassing Mississippi and Alabama in bigotry and institutionalized ignorance. It's like they are competing in a competition to be the most arrogantly stupid and backwater so Jesus will love them bestest. "We're bigots who hate science! That makes us Christianer than you!"

This year the state went out of their way to override and strip metropolitan areas from the LGBT equality protections they had already enacted, and they keep pushing for approval of the "can't say gay" in schools bill.

And now: they've passed a law to teach "creationism" as science in schools.

And they still shoot down any effort to allow wine sales in the grocery store. (And don't even think about selling liquor. Praise Jeebus.)

They way things are going, their next act will be to change the state flag to a movie still from Deliverance.

spring break

Hey ladies.

Via Daily Awesomeness