full circle

Yesterday afternoon I ran into Bruce Rinehart on Haight Street. Bruce was one of the primary forces which pulled me to San Francisco so many years ago. Back when he was with e-line, he and Andrew Sullivan (and another guy I forget) set up the FirstClass BBS and online system for BookPage, where I was a graphic designer and system admin. Without getting into the complete narrative (I know, not my way), these guys looked me up and down and basically said, "What's a creative fag like you doing in Tennessee?" At this point I was waaaaay in the closet and was amazed/terrified that they sniffed me out like a fart in an elevator.

We all became friends and I spent a lot of time online on the Guardian's online system and getting to know them and SF. I came to SF in October to interview as an editor and content creator for the @Home network (working for a friend of Andrew's). Bruce was the guy who showed me around and gave me my first glimpses of the City. He fondly remembers dropping me off for my first ever trip to the Castro, and the sort of strange bewilderment on my face: "Uh, okay. What do I do now?"

I remember that he took me to my first Folsom Street Fair. I was in straight fratboy drag (as I was a 'straight' fratboy at the time)-- as the only one in color I did not exactly blend. He thought I would be SHOCKED, but I said there were only so many chaps 'n' cheeks you could see before you ask "what else is there?" Who would have thought then that ten years later I would have my own booth? Clearly I am not holding to that whole "not getting into the complete narrative" thing. Back to yesterday:

I ran into Bruce. We caught up. And he briefly interviewed me for his tv show Haight Free TV (airing the 4th Thursday's of the month at 9:30 PM on local channel 29). I even remember his old Rino e-mail address at the Well, but he gave me his new cards. Looking at it later I saw that he teaches at the Berkeley SIMS program (School of Information Management and Systems)-- a program I almost entered before pursuing the MLIS at SJSU (SIMS is much more programming intensive and is not ALA accredited-- it was formed after Berkeley closed their library school).

Anyway, cool to see you Bruce! Stay in touch!

Anderson Cooper, 369

There are not many things of which I am abashed. But I must admit my private shame and come out of another closet: I secretly swoon for Anderson Cooper. I realize I am not alone in this, but the company in this includes large numbers of midwestern housewives who cross-stitch bible verses on anything and love George Dubya and hate the godless gays. This is not company I need to keep.

But my secret jones for Anderson Cooper leads me to share this bit which is making the rounds in the blogosphere today--what is being called the gayest moment on CNN. Apparently while he was high, some exec at CNN thought Ryan Seacrest would make a good sub for Larry King. After his banter with Nicole Richie (who the f cares?), Seacrest shared a lead-in moment with Cooper. My lusting for Anderson Cooper is about as great as my loathing for Ryan Seacrest. The two poster men for won't-comment-on-orientation-tv-personalities bantered in a split screen for a minute or two. It is not nearly as gay as some bloggers would imply, but I must admit, from where I'm sitting the exchange did seem pretty gay. Maybe because it sounds like the sort of conversations I hear all the time out here. Including the words "Nashville" and "pounding," just not right there together. [bee ay bee ay are]


All told, worth a look.

From Towleroad

Anderson Cooper and Ryan Seacrest join mutual admiration society. Malcontent has the clip, in which Anderson compliments Ryan's big tie and then goes on to talk about something "taking a pounding."

Weird Science

Saturday morning, after coffee and before our hunt for appliques at the SoMa discount fabric place and all things sparkly at the creepily crafty Fantasitcos, Dr. B took me and RMJ for a tour of his lab down at the new facility.






Where do I apply for my grant?

Uh oh.

Oh my goodness.

Just when I thought no one was paying attention, I got a surprising e-mail. Sure, I keep the most sordid details of my life out of this blog as it is read by my family, strangers, potential employers, small children and blackmailers; but I have been feeling free to include some of the more salacious tidbits of my compadres in crime. It didn't occur to me that this might be read by their families. This morning, I received a comment from KEVIN'S DAD. Oh Lordy. It's like having your mother knock on the bathroom door when you were in your teens.

So Herman Koberle, welcome to the party. There's a full bar, and some good tunes in the jukebox. Stay a while. We're happy to have you. If not just a little mortified by our own behavior.

To:Wilson Hardcastle
From: Herman Koberle
Subject: Wilson Hardcastle Website

It was to cold outside and I was not inclined to do much so I thought I would spend time on the "love, hate" computer to get caught up and clean things up and along the way I thought, what the heck. Got your card that you gave me and decided to take a look see at your website. I will say it again, I am impressed! Looking at different items on your site and I got to Halloween. I was scrolling down and not paying real close attention till I got to pictures of Kevin. I thought, gosh I think I know him! Woke me up in a hurry. Decided that it was time for a cup of tea and Judge Judy is on. I'll be back to peruse some more. Very entertaining.

Strangely, amid the swirling thoughts on this revelation, one idea keeps vying for attention: Judge Judy as a cure for the flabbergasts.

Sparkle, Neely!

Sparkle!

next year

I have my Halloween costume idea for next year:

Phantom of the Oprah.

On speed too? Cruise control.

Man, I loved the last year of Tom Cruise showing the world exactly what a total nut job he is. And I heard it said more than once that he did more for the reputation of the professional publicist than anyone before. He fired his and look what happened. But apparently, those aliens at the Scientology Center have convinced him that this is not futhering their cause and would he just please go back to being pretty and harmlessly inticing and while your at it we'd like another check.

My favorite take so far is this one from a British site. Excerpt:

Tom Cruise Sacks His Rubbish Publicist, Spoils Our Fun

When Tom Cruise promoted War Of The Worlds earlier in the year, he embarked upon one of the strangest publicity campaigns the world had ever seen. He'd sacked his controlling old publicist Pat Kingsley, and under his sister he could finally be the real Tom Cruise. Only, nobody was expecting the real Tom Cruise to be such a freaking oddball.

Seriously, WTF?

Sunday afternoon I went out to the Clement Street Chinatown in search of a bag of army men to serve as Lilliputians for my Gulliver costume. I was mesmerized by one bargain store which featured such oddities as this clear rip-off of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Same bottle shape, same graphic design, but with NOTHING to help with dandruff. Just soap in a bottle. At least I hope it is soap. I took this grainy photo with my cell phone.

Notice it says it is "to rinse away loose dandruff." So this stuff could even be water. Or acid for that matter. Whatever, it scares me.

But not as much as this, which at $1.49 I had to buy:

WTF!? Made from or for?
For that fuller bodied afterbirth? Does your umbilical cord have split ends?

>shudder<

Boo!

Some say that Halloween in San Francisco is redundant. As Halloween, or the Gay High Holy Day, falls on Monday this year, the parties (of course) are on the Saturday prior. This year there seemed to be very few Halloween parties. But you know me, I'll make my own fun. Empact/Campus Life down the hall had been pushing their UCSF Masquerade Ball. Typically I think of school functions as not the best party on the menu, but in the absence of other offers, I put it out to the zoo crew—Kevin, Barney, RMJ, Marco, and Douglas. Four of us actually work at UCSF (but none on the same campus) so it was not such a far-fetched idea. The party was free for students, and a mere five bucks for faculty and staff. Tickets included a tour of the new Mission Bay Community Center, two drinks, and food. The two drinks alone would be worth the five bucks. With the right people, any event can be a fabulous party. And these are the right people. Ultimately, it was only Kevin and I who decided to go. But as always, we ARE the party of two.

The party in and of itself was a bit lame, but we had a fucking fabulous time. The worst: the frightening lighting and the scary karaoke. The best: endless beer flow, hot viking muscle and tight Hooter's "girl," and the other messy/funny staff who showed up. I wonder sometimes if Kevin hasn't ruined me for other men. We can always make our own fun out of anything. And the man understands the value of an event, a buzz, and a roadie. Clearly, I need a man who, together with me, is eager and able to spin straw into gold. Or perhaps, Goldschlagger.

Kevin's costume was just "70's Guy," which I suspect was just an excuse to pour himself into some seriously tight pants. Damn if they didn't look good on him though. I about lost it when he shared that he had to wear a thong to avoid the VPL. But as 70's guy in tight bell-bottoms, he found his fellow groove-things.

Me? I went as the Phantom of the Opry.


The student dressed as a viking was just tooooo adorable. His dimples were so deep you could eat soup out of them. And his torso was quite that of a Thunder God. I started calling him Thor. That would be to his face by the way. Later that night, Kevin and I were peeing next to him in the bathroom (not in the street-- that's another story). Either Kevin or I said something to him about being or asked him if he was Thor. Kevin: "Are you Thor?" Me: "Well it hurthz... He pulled a muthel and now he's thor."

Kevin started counting, "one...two...three..." It took to the count of six before Thor got the joke and laughed. Sometimes it is comforting that the beautiful/muscle people are also not that bright. Not that I am snotty and not that I am really into muscle worship. But still. Damn he was built. Kevin spent his eye-time on one of the "Hooter's Girls"-- every year some quartet of guys does the Hooter's drag thing. But one of these boys filled out his tighty-oranges really, really well.

Like I said, Kevin and I can make any gathering fun. It's a two step process: (1) find the bar (2) find the one or two other zany people and make it happen. Clearly, we made some friends:



(That's Michael, a Katrina refugee from New Orleans, as Tweety Bird.)
We caravanned with our new crazy companions to a party in the Tenderloin. If there is a scariest part of the tenderloin, this place was the creepy place next door. (Boo Radley would have been like, "dude, you guys are freakin' me out.") It was really crowed and really straight with very few costumes. We helped ourselves to some Heineken and nosed around. We went downstairs into the basement which was the office/bedroom of this "apartment" (term used loosely). There was a couple on the couch and there was a distinct air that this was supposed to be the makeout room. Lighting people! PLEASE. What is it with straight people and bad lighting? Kevin and I stayed at this party just long enough to fix the lighting (we are such good fags) and get another beer for the sidewalk. We found the only other gay man there who was in some sort of shirtless nature costume. He was very specific about what sort of wood nymph he was, but I had to question his faerie wisdom in affixing the leaves, ivy and bark to his flesh with superglue. I think he should have asked someone at Cliff's for suggestions. I think it would have been easier if he had just stapled the damn stuff to his body.

Ultimately we ended up in the Castro with the rest of the gay Super Saturday bunch, which is always better than Halloween night and all the bridge-and-tunnel looky-loos. It was a great night. You can count on us to keep the BOO in BOOze.

darkness with not yet sight of dawn

I finally understand it now:

Odo et amo.

And even its often companion:

Lacrimas.

Cat on a Hot Tin Roof

I had never seen the movie or the play before. Loved it. Kevin and I took in the show last night as part of our Out with A.C.T. season tickets. I may have missed the first 10 minutes of dialog as I was thoroughly distracted by Brick, who spent the entire first act in his boxers and looked really good doing it. I noted to Kevin, who shared the sentiment, that it was really difficult to watch someone toss back whiskey for three hours and it wasn't me. Boy were we thirsty for that bar at intermission. And as we walked out into the first intermission, after an hour of period Mississippi accents, I thought, "Lawd. I'm gonna be leavin' here talkin' like where I was raised." And sure enough it was so.

Our favorite line of the play, a little offhand, throw-away remark, which may have to find its way to a t-shirt:

"I never did trust a man who didn't drink..."

Why we love Denny's.

It's not the hash browns, or the biscuits and gravy.

a-pall-ing.

I can't believe I forgot to mention this. Well, yeah I can- I haven' t had much time to post anything so I am just throwing thoughts up when I can. I did take two pics I'd like to share. First of all, the florist was almost a caricature of the Good Christian Mountain White Woman. Ample proportions, big vertical bangs, and lots of White Rain to hold it in place. In this part of the country, Jesus and Bible thoughts aren't just cross-stitched on anything not nailed down, but also scrawled in Sharpie on notebook paper and taped up on doors and walls. Such was this florist shop. The "showroom" had many, many funeral arrangements on display. All of them plastic, and shiny with plastic, shiny ribbon. And disturbing on multiple levels. The worst was a big purple number never to be found in nature. I could not think, at that particular moment, anything I rather not have on my grave. (Give me time in solace and I may come up with something worse, but not yet). It was just so awful, I mentally dubbed it "the Wall of Appalling Palls." And as with so many WTF things, I had to snap a picture.

Also in this shop: a tragic display of teddy bears, presumably to send with ordered floral arrangements, arranged just so they all look like they had taken some pills and hung themselves in a mass suicide. I half-expected to find one bear with eyes bulging and tongue protruding.

It looked like for "The Teddy Bear Picnic," they asked Jim Jones to bring the drinks.

However I will say this-- her work with real flowers (and no bears) for the wedding was absolutely lovely. And the bouquets were flawless.

Treats in Montreat

Just got back from a fun but exhausting weekend in Black Mountain, NC. I stayed in bed Thursday to get over a cold before taking the nightmare red-eye to Charlotte, North Carolina.

Jen offered to give me a ride to SFO in Rob’s car as she was picking up an inbound Rob at about the same time. However, this meant I had to get to Paul and Jen’s place in the Castro with my luggage. Carting my backpack, wheelie-luggage, jacket, and pillow (the cabin we rented did not include bedding) up to the corner, on the N, then allllllll the way down Duboce, then up to 19th was a bit of a bothersome haul. And lugging my luggage around like that made me get “Delta Dawn” stuck in my head. (And all the folks ‘round Brownsville do say I’m crazy.)

It seems in their desperation to stay in business, USAir/ US Airways has revised their business model to make sure they fail. Of the three or four over-night flights leaving SFO to eastern points around the same time, all of them were "oversold." How many people fail to show up for a redeye flight? If they could take another flight, they would have. And of course they will significantly inconvenience any passenger they bump, because clearly the red-eye is the only flight that would get them when and where they needed to be-- at 11:00 at night, it's not like there are many more options. The flight was miserable and abysmally hot and crowded. I had packed some Jack and a pillow hoping both would facilitate sleep, but no such luck. I would close my eyes for periods and wish for sleep, but would be distracted by the crazy amount of hot in there.

Sharon, the bride, was kind enough to collect me at the ungodly hour of 6:30 the next morning. I got to take about a two hour nap at their new house before we started our road trip up to Montreat. Short version of the story: LOVE Sharon. A remarkable woman and much fun to be around. I can see a lifetime of happiness for her and Francis.

The road trip revealed several “I’ve got to blog that” moments which never quite encoded into long-term memory. But one glaring sign that made me bust a gut was that the powers that be who oversee the Gas/Food/Lodging next exit blue interstate signs now include Hooter’s as food next exit. As I looked up to the ridge as we passed, I saw that it was situated next to another restaurant called Hillbilly’s. Somehow that seemed fitting.

When Sharon and I arrived, the boys who had arrived the day before for the bachelor party were off to Asheville, so I was Sharon’s gal pal for the day—we went to finalize things at the florist, ran several errands, had a little lunch (ah! The land of “sweet tea”), and set up for the rehearsal dinner. Ultimately I returned to the house we had all rented and got to have a disco nap before the evening’s festivities. After the rehearsal dinner (to which I was encouraged to and did in fact wear sequins, and was beloved), we all gathered back at the cabin/house.

It was great to see the boys again. In the Fiji party house, we were Towner and his wife Holly (who organized the house and brought bedclothes, towels, etc.), Sean and his wife Meg (another stellar woman and party wife), Taylor and his partner Jimmy, Lee, and me. Jimmy and Taylor have been together for like 12 years, and 9 of them solid. Three cities now I think. Such a wonderful loving couple.


I am disappointed in myself when I find myself begrudging other’s happiness—those too cutesy couples with their matching BMWs or washboard abs and “we”ness. But not these two. These are just loving guys in love. And I suppose after nine years, they have settled into true couplehood, and not ‘boyfriends’ whom I usually encounter. Jimmy has been historically a bit reserved, or at least around the husband’s crazy fraternity brothers. I don’t know what has changed, if anything, but he was just one of the guys this trip and wonderful to have around. He doesn’t drink much, but managed to find a recipe he liked.

The new drink
Jimmy concocted a cocktail of vodka, ginger ale, lime, and vanilla. Yummy. A little like a cream soda. Jimmy, for the first time in his life apparently, became the bartender for the party. He didn’t have a name for these so I christened this drink, and Jimmy himself, the Jimmy Janga.

Hmmmmm. Jimmy Janga.

Hammered Boy made an appearance, and the next day was not so much fun. There was dancing on and peeing off of the porch. Lots of boozing (did I really drink the entire bottle of mandarin myself?) and lots of schmoozing.

I really should have followed Taylor’s lead when he bowed out at 2:30 when Sean and Towner got into an annoying hour-long discussion over the proper translation of some Greek terms. “Uh, guys, can we go back to talking about tits or something, because this is just killing me.” I poured Sean, thinking he was whispering but shouting in a stage whisper, into his bed around 3:30 or 4:00. Apparently he got up sometime in the night to pee, and tried to get back into bed in the wrong bedroom. Towner had to take him back to his room, where Sean then woke up his own wife and said, “Hey, they told me I’m supposed to sleep here.”

[redacted]
We did not see him for most of the next day. I was awake, but wishing I shared in his oblivion.

Oh yeah. The wedding was really nice too.

Tell time.

Okay, haven't blogged in a while. It's been a mixture of nothing exciting going on and very exciting goings on, but ones for which public reporting would be unwise. You'll have to guess.

I have been spending more time with "the Frenchies." Meaning Paul's boyfriend Frederic, his friend Emmanuel, and their cohort. Emmanuel quit his job teaching at The French School (where he s with Frederic) and opened a salon across the street from my place. Pitch is a cool place, and I have been trying to drum up some new clients for his shop as well as attract one or more gay stylists. Emmanuel himself is not a stylist; he just owns the place. He has designed the place to double as a nightclub on occasion. (Pitch was in fact the name of his former club from long ago.) Emmanuel hosts a circle of other Français for card night on Tuesdays. I've been invited to hang out, drink, observe this complex game, and practice my French. They play a game with looks similar to the American game of hearts, but with a deck of like 72 cards—and it's called Tarot but is not prognostic.

At any rate, Emmanuel is a cool guy with great music. He's buddies with a DJ from the Supper Club, which opened its U.S. location just a couple of weeks ago. Emmanuel has the Supper Club SF San Francisco CD set, which is great, and invited us to the second opening night. It's an invitation-only club and with high-concept design and cool music. Most of the place is white with mattresses for seating, and circe-du-soleil type entertainment during the dinner seating. Kevin came along with me (excellent wing queer for chi-chi straight clubs). We had a fun if not expensive time. It was nigh near impossible to get a drink in that place, and the weak cocktails were pushing $10 each. By adding just one or two more registers, they could certainly double their evening take, and keep their patrons happier. As Kevin and I noticed, it was clearly a straight bar. Gay bars know how to make strong drink, and how to keep them coming.

Visually, the place gets nothing but high praise from me. The music was a mix of excellent house-ish grooves and remixed vocals. We the over 30 (well, over 35) appreciated the 'classics.' The quality of interesting samples or house-stylings of early 80s songs was lost on the predominately early 20-something crowd.

Long blog short: very cool, expensive, and excellent company (the Frenchies).

I also got the opportunity to wear my LED belt buckle. I saw one in a shop in Copenhagen but was unwilling to spend the $130 for it. I found one online for $30. The red ones are even cheaper. They are made in China so the pre-programmed messages are things like "happy lucky" "good for you" and "good joy." The programming instructions are a bit painful to decipher from the Asian ESL.

My programmed messages included:
Howdy.
Single.
Cowboy Up!
and my favorite message for a belt buckle:
Your face here.

Bill, whom most of my friends know as Seattle Guy, arrived in town the next afternoon (Saturday). We met for lunch in my neighborhood before heading into Golden Gate Park for the Hardly Strictly Bluegrass Festival. As sunny was it was in the Castro, the park was cold and so foggy, at times opaque gusts would obscure our view of a stage. But the music, as always, was wonderful. And I have never seen the park or this festival as packed. Truly an insane amount of people, and clearly predominately bridge-and-tunnel. I shudder to think of the crowds that would descend on Sunday when Dolly would make her appearance. Unfortunately, I took ill during the afternoon and had to go home and stay in during the night. Let me tell you, sitting in a dense crowd of thousands is one of the worse places to realize you have to find a potty and quick. Not to mention the lines for the porta’s. And, ew, the porta’s. However, while waiting in line I ran into Bill Penuel—a friend from grammar school/high school/church in Nashville. He's been out here with his wife for like 8 years and we have never run into each other.

Only at a bluegrass festival I suppose.

Two final notes on the Hardly Strictly:

(1) The Dry Branch Fire Squad is always a pleasure. And they just get more and more charming the more I hear them. if you can find an album, buy it.

(2) To that extremely annoying girl sitting next to us—we are here to hear Gillian Welch sing. Not you. We get it, you know the words. You don’t have to belt them out like it’s your own personal karaoke audition. No one is going to discover you now. If any professional music people are in this crowd, they are here for the show too. I get it that you are trying to impress your friends and show that you, and only you, are the true Gillian fan and therefore better than they are. Shut up and listen: it’s not true, we don’t care, and you are seriously pissing off the people around you.

Okay, one more thing: Love Emmylou.

That's about 9/30 and 10/1. I am way behind. More on Bill, Bryan, Keith, Barney, Trannyshack, Midnight De Young, and fabulous Blog finds to come.

Go Go a Jimbo

Jimbo gave me a lift to pick up the car last night. Runs great. I'm very happy. While it lasts.

No Transmission

Saturn installed a used transmission Friday. It didn't work. Luckily, they figured this out before I had to deal with getting there and having it break on me later-- labor for repairing this repair is not covered by their service warranty. (Luckily? If I were lucky I wouldn't need another transmission). They ordered another one which should arrive and be installed today or tomorrow.

I have strangely gotten used to being without a car. But I am also without groceries and am spending too much time and money on buses and cabs. But perhaps in the long run less money than the $2k repair. Dunno. I have also been limited to certain neighborhoods and outings. Kind of a pain. Especially when I need to run to a specific shop or someplace like Target or Sausalito.

The main drawback is that there is just no easy way to get to Sundance without a car. And I think people have been killed on the bus route that goes by there. I think a one-way cab ride would be about 20 bucks. The city's cab prices/policies are ridiculous. (But hey, as I said in my last post, still LOVE this town.)

No Transmission.

LOVE this town.

I keep thinking about moving back to Nashville. And sure, Glasgow keeps competing for attention too. But there are these moments, distinct and pure, when I just love this town.

And it's nice to hear about it when someone else shares a moment like that, and expresses it well (from the SF Chonicle).

excerpt:

It was just then that the S.O. turned to me and said, "You know, it's days like this when I wonder if our fair mayor takes one look outside his City Hall window and says, 'Man alive, would you get a load of this, is this not breathtaking and divine and perfect and am I not in charge of the funkiest, strangest, most radiant and eclectic and openly progressive city on the goddamn planet and how astoundingly cool is that?'"

These are the things that make you proud. These are the things that make you stop and take a look around and say, You know what? Yes, we've got a nasty homeless problem and sure you need to make eight figures and sell your organs to the black market to afford a home here and sure it requires telekinetic powers to find a goddamn parking space and sure it's a little dirty and congested.

But holy hell, when this city rolls out the only-in-S.F. jamborees, one of those epic, unforgettable weekends with what seemed like 427 events happening simultaneously all over the city, well, what a vision it is, what a thing to behold and no other city can top us and take that you uptight regressive neoconservative national mind-set.

Man! SF is just the place.

Folsom, fondly.

Okay, I've put off writing an entry about Folsom Street Fair as there are some stories which while amusing are quite disparaging taken out of context. As my friend R said last year, "It's Folsom. Folsom doesn't count."

I love that idea. It's a day off from the rules. Of course the Folsom purists, or perhaps just any truly well-adjusted person, would say there are no rules so why aren't you enjoying yourself... and by the way that outfit could use some more leather and pass the paddle. But many of us have a reputation of some sort--an expected customary behavior which may or may not convey a sense of character. And so while people unnamed, including myself, may indulge in fun behavior behind the curtain, it is disconcerting/ embarassing/ disquieting/ unnerving/ [insert your own adjective or participle here] to be doing something/wearing something potentially salacious in front of or in conjunction with persons with whom you have a different relationship or mutually agreed upon expected set of behaviors.

Frinstance: It's a bit strange to see your doctor peeing on someone in chaps, codpiece, and a dog collar. Even for charity. Not that this actually happended to me this weekend mind you, I'm just sayin': While performing this behavior or witnessing it may not be intrinsically a bad thing, it would likely be unsettling for me to see my doctor doing this or for him to see me see him doing this. That's just not the relationship to which we are accustomed. Again, not that there is anything particularly wrong there, I'm just sayin'.

And Folsom doesn't count.

And really, we should be keeping a record anyway. It is always the falsely pious who keep track and judge others on these things. So once you've passed through the gates and handed your money to a sister, you should have left your school-girl giggles and snobbery against public nibble-tweaking and occasional crotch-grabbing behind.

And now that we have set the "Folsom Doesn't Count" premise, here are some selected memories from the weekend:

That morning, considering the sunshine and impending oppressive heat, I decided against the white-trash look and instead printed out a transfer for a grey t-shirt stating I went to Folsom Street Fair and all I got was this lousy "video head cleaner." (overheard statement by R last year at the NYD chili party, and something I vowed to put on a shirt or cocktail napkin one day.) Even though I have no leather vests/chaps/pants/uniforms; the grey shirt, cowboy hat, shorts, and combat boots were certainly in keeping with the dress code. This year's Folsom was way tame, with far, far too many bridge-and-tunnel lookie-loos. Thank goodness for Dore.

On a side note, R is the guy who, at last year's FSF, sent me the drunken text message, "Me too side alley me Powerhouse go." And no, he is not a frozen caveman lawyer.

JG had come in from Nashville to attend a wedding with a friend and stay the weekend. Unfortunately, his friend had to cancel the day before the trip but Jon came on his own to enjoy the weekend. Only after did they make their plans did they learn it was FSF weekend. This was not a cause for concern but rather further encouragement. JG enjoyed himself thoroughly and echoed my sentiments at my first Folsom, "Really, it's not all that shocking. There are only so many chaps and cheeks you can see before you ask what else is going on." While he did not have any leather or bondage attire, he was quite apt in his ArtRageous 18 t-shirt; the theme of which this year is "Bound," and the front simply asks "How far will you go?"


Kevin has an ongoing collection of me licking things (beer bottles, people, landmarks, foliage, tropical frogs) and so the tradition continues.


I am flattered that these photos have been forwarded and have generated...interest, in my abilities. Let me just say, I've got mad skills. I'm just sayin'.

After meeting up with Kevin and JG, I received message from another friend. It seems that DG was going to have to meet up with us later because he had been picked up by a porn star, well, "model," who had worked him up into quite a state and had managed to "grease his ass" subtly in the crowd. DG was going to go back to the new playmate's apartment as it was only down the block. Deciding that might be too far, instead they spent some quality time in the handicapped porta-potty. The crazy thing is that that's not the crazy part. The part that really cracks me up is that the porn guy suggested the handicapped porta-potty because that one was still in the shade.

I love Folsom.

In DG's defense, or maybe just on his behalf, he had had a cookie.

We ran into a lot of the usual friends and great people you only see three times a year at street fairs and generally had a great day drinking lots of beer in the sun and watching the show. And, occasionally, participating:


My favorite story of the day is about our departure. Somewhat embarrassingly, we closed the place down (you may note the lack of crowd in the above photo-- the place was shoulder to fleshy shoulder all day). Kevin had given me the keys to his car as I was clearly the sober one. Kevin had parked a couple of blocks away under the freeway, and on the corner next to a support- where he stopped to pee. The fence along the sidewalk was choked with ivy/kudzu and there was just enough space for him to stand between it and the support. As such, should a pedestrian pass by, he would have to walk into the street between Kevin's car and the support structure to get by (and their approach would be blocked from my view). Just as a joke, and keeping in the theme of the day, I shouted to him as he peed, "And I am not drinking it this time!"

Just as I said this a couple rounded the corner. The girl burst out laughing. I don't know if it registered with the guy as we literally bumped into each other as he made his way around the support.

"Excuse me." I said, as I swallowed a laugh and let him by.
"No problem." He said, turning and stopping.
"Oh." I said, "It's Justin Dragon."

He seemed a bit surprised and flattered that I recognized him and knew his name. Frankly, so was I as it was not a conscious sort of act. We shook hands and made small talk- we had met before (not that I expected him to recall) as I have had several friends work at Falcon over the years (business side, not models) and had been introduced to him at other events.

I remember talking to him and realizing that apparently it was my brain stem that spoke his name and started the conversation and my conscious brain was just catching up. My conscious side interruped my thoughts saying, "Hey! That's Justin Dragon!" And my brain stem rebutted with, "I know. We've established that already. Pay attention-- and start encoding. We'll want to remember this later." "Oh, okay. Sorry."

Generally my inner dialogs are much more deep.

At least I didn't end the conversation with "love your work." Which would, in all honesty, have been an understatement.

Folsom doesn't count. I'm just sayin'.

Saturn = Uranus

The auto drama continues. Thursday I spoke with Saturn corporate, hoping there would be some sort of warranty or "After Warranty Assistance" or "secret warranty" program as my car has only 60k miles and really shouldn't need a new transmission. I spoke with Diane in Spring Hill (TN) and she could not have been nicer. As a Nashville boy myself, and having purchased the car as close to the factory as possible, we became fast friends. She strongly encouraged me to request Assistance, but could not (quite understandably) actually tell me what that assistance would be. I asked for at list an example of some forms of assistance. In her experience everyone who requested it received some sort of help, and this assistance (also called "goodwill assistance") could be in the form of paying for the repairs, going half-way, or some sort of split among the corporatation, dealer, and driver (the most likely).

But, as with all things, there was a catch. No matter what my mechanic said, or how reputable the garage may be, to even have a conversation with the Assistance representatives, the car has to be examined by a "Saturn Certified Technician." Which is not entirely true. It has to be examined by-- and I have to pay to have it towed to-- someone at the dealership. It is entirely possible to certify someone and not have them work expressly for you. This is done all the time in other fields (from doctors to information technology experts). I was surprised that any mechanic with the ability to pay for and pass a certification course could not become "Saturn Certified" and yet not work at a dealership. This strikes me as preposterous. This is not so much "certified by Saturn" as much as "employed by Saturn." I understand that they cannot just take anyone's word for it, but it's not like I was calling from Cooter's. And hey, that Cooter knew cars.

So this was the gamble: Keep my car in the reputable and trustworthy Cole Garage and pay the estimated $1,800 for a rebuilt transmission repair, or tow the car to Colma and hand it over to the dealer for inspection and repair but possibly pay only half or a third of the repair cost.

As I understand it, the Saturn Assistance people look at your history of repair and relationship with the dealer. My recent repair history is not in their computers because I stopped going to the dealer for service three years ago. The reason I stopped visiting the dealership is that I felt that, and this is purely my opinion, the service representatives at Saturn of Colma are slick and lying sacks of shit.

While there may be none so fervent as the recently converted, is is also true that Heaven has no rage like love to hatred turned (and for those of you wondering, that's from "The Mourning Bride;" the next line is "Nor hell a fury like a woman scorned").

I was a fervent Saturn supporter. I bought all the hype when it launched. I loved all the Saturn homecoming bullshit. My housemates had Saturns. One was in an accident and after his Saturn was totaled, and he got another one. I was more than a Saturn advocate, I was an acolyte. But believer no more. I have had nothing but trouble with the people at Saturn of Colma. So much so I was even moved to put pen to paper. So ultimately I started going to Cole Garage or Ted & Al's, both reputable and both within blocks of my home (and both just great, wonderful places). And now I am dependent upon the good graces of the Colma service department to inspect and report back to Corporate whether or not I should qualify for assistance.

The car has only 60k miles. I have taken good care of it. It should not need a new transmission, and my record should reflect that-- and note that I stopped going to the dealer for service and that I expressed my reasons why.

Unfortunately, I am having to deal with the same slick who prompted me to avoid the dealership in the first place. His opinion is that there was nothing wrong with the transmission, but when I got the new clutch a couple of years ago, they tightened the plug too tightly and that cracked the casing. The transmission fluid has drained out, and that's why my transmission has burned up. And he is recommending to Corporate that I receive no assistance and pay for all repairs.

Which is, in all honesty, not a huge surprise as the dealer is motivated against assistance as corporate tends to make the dealer cover the repairs, or at least the cost of labor. (According to this particular story.) I am not wanting something for nothing. Really. Just a little help here. And this is not a design flaw? That tightening a plug cracks the casing? Aren't plugs supposed to be tight?

I received a message from Saturn Customer Service and I called her back. I don't remember this girl's name but she sounded as if she were barely in her twenties and would only read from a script. And was ZERO helpful. And completely non-responsive, offered no suggestions, no cooperation, and very little information other than "the dealer service inspector says this was someone else's fault and not a design flaw and so Saturn will not be offering you any assistance." I will say she was polite, but only because it is difficult to be rude if you don't actually say anything.

I asked questions. I pleaded my case. I offered for review (as previously mentioned) paperwork of a history of maintenance and repair. I explained that I also felt that this was a matter of trust in the Colma service department and that was a trust I did not share, as evidenced by prior communications. I asked if I could have another mechanic provide his/her opinion. All questions were met with silence or what I felt to be a non-answer. Nothing. Nada. Zip. Those who know me know I never get angry. I don't raise my voice. For goodness sakes I am a freakin' librarian. But I do assert a logical argument. I could only get a response if I asked directly "what can I do?" or "what can you do?" to which the answer was, and I am paraphrasing: "nothing."

Diane had said that towing is often part of the assitance package, but there would be none here. So instead of paying to tow it back to SF, I opted to let Saturn of Colma is match the price quoted from Cole Garage ($1,800. But this is for a used transmission, and with only a three-month warranty not inclusive of labor charges. And the oh-by-the-way that while they are in there it might need a new clutch and that will cost you a whole bunch more. Leave the fucking clutch alone. It's two years old. I'll be getting another car next year when I have paid off my hospital bills and the bulk of my student debt. I am already paying more than the car will sell for and feel I am being pennied and dimed/hundreded and thousanded to death.

And it will still be a week before I can get it back. And I have to find someone to take me there. Just more hassle.

On the bright side, it was fun shopping for used cars on Saturday with David Britt. I have decided that if I must have a new (to me) car, it might as well be a convertible. The Miata looked like the best deal. Until I sat in one. At 6'2" plus, and as big guy, I don't fit. The mental image I got was that I should be in the circus with a fez and making that little pipe-organ "doot doot doodle oldle doot doot doodle" sound. Kinda like the bear riding the tiny tricycle. There was not enough room between the door and the steering wheel to raise my knee to shift gears.

So as the Volvo C70 seems unlikely, I am focusing on a Mustang. It still seems a little "cruising the mall" to me, but it is size-proportionate and has a nice trunk.

A new purchase will have to wait a couple of years. But as always, I am open to suggestions.

As LHB said, I keep on listenin', but I can't hear a thing.

No Transmission.