Americana

I've just received some "action" shots of Big Rob.

Or "Uncle" Rob. Story-teller extraordinaire.




I love these photos, and the retro Americana of the town square gazebo and the 50's signage in the background.

Studio 1454

Did I mention that Rich from NYC/Phoenix is staying with me this week. he's here for a tour management class. I know I've mentioned Club Jackson here before.

Last Friday Rich was working late with his classmates, and Shilpa and I were in the office until around 9:30. We caught a SB-friendly dinner on Polk, waited for Rich, and headed up to Club Jackson for a Friday Night Chill (which is usually drinking, talking and ultimately messy dancing).

Ing and Verde arrived about a bottle later. Shilpa was preparing for a trip to Vegas and we had stayed too late at work to make our mani/pedi appointments, so she was doing her toes. We were all talking. Verde needed some hand-holding for her first Brazilian the next day.

The conversation went from there.

Favorite line was from the thoroughly nonplussed newbie: "I'm just..., just amazed at the lack of boundaries in this room..."



He has no idea.

What light shines

inside of you?

steampunk, revisited

I posted a little bit about steampunk works the other day. Today BoingBoing reports "Henry Jenkins, my favorite pop-culture scholar, has just posted the first part of a long essay dealing with the theoretical origins of steampunk. Jenkins connects steampunk to the eBay retro-collectibles urge and dead media -- themselves products of inhabiting a high-speed world where the things we love go obsolete and fall to rot in the blink of an eye."

Link.

thank God I've been inoculatted

Sweet. (and creamy?)


Link.

war of the words

Some people should just not write. They shouldn't even try. I've been Frankenediting all morning. The monster does not yet live.

workworkwork

gasp! I need some air.

And truly, this place is bonkers.

longing for SF in SF

The success of Kiwi Lance aside, there is no way to afford square footage in San Francisco.

Today in the Chronicle, Mark Morford sings our song.

I Do Not Have $1 Million
Ergo, I cannot buy a delicious home in San Francisco. Ergo, I am screwed forever


sigh.

Wellsian (Herbert George )

Not Orewellian (just George).

I remember a few years back they finally updated Disneyland's Tomorrowland and got rid of all the 70's plastic crap that made it look like "50's Furutist Land." The problem with designing a Land of Tomorrow is that tomoorow always comes, and it never looks like you think it will (Where are the flying cars? Alright, we do have communicators...).

I have not been back to Disneyland yet, but I remember a television piece interviewing the designers who took it back to a more lavish, fictional view of the future, rather than the 50's-70's/Jetson's futurist design. The designers tried to think in terms of H.G. Wells visions of the future: lots of polished wood and brass and sci-fi designs made of low-tech materials.

I have always loved that stylistic vision of the future (of course on the other extreme, I also salivate at Art Deco. I'm a little bipolar stylistically). And I have always appreciated (and envied) the DIY tech mods showcased at shows or on the Web. I have always wanted an antique typewriter for a computer keyboard.

I haven't really paid that much attention to the subculture (I really don't have that kind of time), and only recently realized the modern term for classical futurism is steampunk (proposed etymology). I've always considered it "Wellsian," but it looks like I'm the only one.

I have always thought that "one of these days" I'll have the workshop space and the free time to design and build this sort of stuff.


(That's a modded high-end computer and flatscreen.)
I have so many divergent interests and talents, I sometimes which that way gave on to ways that I did not end up performing analysis and writing at a desk all the time, but designing really fun things, and making the world a cooler place one room (or set) at a time.

The guys at Because We Can may have the coolest jobs in the world. They just recently completed a design and build out of a video game headquarters in SoMa. It's profiled this week in Wired News.

The company's loft, in the trendy South of Market district, has been painstakingly outfitted to resemble The Nautilus from Jules Verne's 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea. The offices have an attacking octopus couch, a secret lounge hidden behind a bookcase, captain's quarters and a steampunk bike rack, plus a ton of other Victorian details.

If I had a business, and the budget, it would be steampunked out.

attitude

The following is a caption from Viceland's Do's & Don'ts. This is an attitude I can celebrate:

We have no idea what’s going on here and it’s kind of freaking us out, but we’d rather be scared than bored so bring it on.

The caption was in response to this.

Right on.

I much prefer the barns.

See Rock City this ain't.

(And now I am all warm-fuzzy thinking about Tennessee camping trips with Dad in the Cumberland Basin. Sure, I suppose the other one has "warm fuzzies" too, but that's just gross.)

While we're at it...

This just in from PG&E.

south beached whale

Paul Day has fallen off the wagon, and into a bag of chips. He e-mailed that he had a box of animal crackers and a hot chocolate today (It's like 80 degrees. Hot chocholate?)

I am reassured that indulgences and some carbs are allowed.

Shilpa had a rough mother weekend in Freakmont and we went to brunch together at our newly-reopened favorite comfort food venue, Harvey's. Shilpa went completely off plan.

I was tempted and led astray. The eggs and chicken apple sausage were on plan. The side dish,



was not.

I resisted and only ate half of the plate. And every. bite. was. worth. it.

Ahhhh.

And all things considered, I could have done worse.



Deep fried sticks of macaroni and cheese? Lordy.....

it was a sultry saturday

This past Saturday night, the second Saturday in June, I was not at the Swan Ball in Nashville for the first time in 15 years.

I was, however, invited to a black-tie (but not white-tie) gala celebration at the Saint Francis, with a featured performance by the illustrious Rita Moreno.

"Illustrious" doesn't quite cover it. "Diva" seems ill-suited with its modern connotations. "Divine" evokes Miss M. "Miraculous" might be accurate. The Miraculous Miss Moreno. (I say "Miss" although she did wax poetic on her loving husband, Mrs. Moreno sounds odd, and Moreno, as I understand it, is not her married name.) I am a big fan, which is actually a little surprising to me as I am not a show queen.

But that's not the point.

The gala was lovely, if not fairly boring absent the after-dinner performance. And what's the deal with $10,000 a table, and no bar? Just wine. No bar, no music, no dancing. These people need to attend a southern ball or two and see a successful event. And southern gentleman that I am, you put me in dinner clothes and a social situation, I will, by habit and manners, kiss women on the cheek at greeting, and offer an arm to cross a room. I through a lot of women with that, but I do not feel inclined to apologize for good, if not culturally removed, manners.

I was a guest of a luminary at this event, and as such did not ask if I could bring a date. It was a pleasure to be invited, and I was honored to be seated with some notable donors. Later I was told that I was seated at their table as I was trusted to fit in with their crowd as well as provide conversational entertainment. Praise indeed. (True enough, but always flattering to hear.)

The meal was surprisingly SB-friendly, and exceptionally tasty. Being good, environmentally conscious Californians, we did wonder whence the sea bass was fished.

An unexpected pleasure for the evening was serving as escort to The Lady M. The Lady M, with whom I work, has become a good friend and was a fun companion for the evening. That, and she and her sister are somewhat known for their fashion sense. These women bring it, and Saturday night M was looking particularly glamorous.


We were the paparazzi for the night, taking many snaps to take back to her absent sister. At the end of the evening, I had to cross the room to speak to a wonderfully fabulous stranger who looked resplendent in a complete art deco look: floor length deco gown, 20's hair, and contextually appropriate accessories. And she pulled it off flawlessly.


Now, while this little narrative is all well and good, the highlight of the evening was the performance by Rita Moreno. She had a little cabaret-esque show in the Plush Room last year, and this performance was (I imagine) largely the same. But the Plush Room is period and tiny and perfect for intimate performances. This ballroom was enormous and cavernous, and she OWNED that room. She worked the crowd as if each and every one of us were a dear friend of a friend invited over to her parlor for a little light entertainment and personal tales of old Broadway.


We were all entranced. And I left feeling as though we were now close, personal friends.

And side note: the woman just turned 75. Seventy. Five. And she is as vivacious and spry as one could hope. And visually stunning. While she said that a lifetime of dancing in heels has taken a toll on her knees and ankles, she did manage to work in a soft shoe. And the tales she can tell. Love her.

Added bonus to being M's date for the evening: she was invited to a behind-the-velvet-ropes after party for luminaries, donors, sponsors, and honored guests, which was advertised to include personal time with the Miraculous Miss Moreno., and she included me as her guest.

The after-reception invitation listed the location as the twelfth floor hospitality suite. Now, most hotel hospitality suites are sort of an awkward combination of would-be rooms and suites. Not in the old building of the Saint Francis. The rooms were of San Franciscan wealth and antiquity: dark woods, heavy tapestries, walls of leather-bound books, a fireplace in each room, and fireplaces so large that the mantles were often taller than I am.

Miss Moreno sat perched at a single table in the far room, patiently attending a large reception line, and graciously giving her time and energy to anyone who cared to speak. I found her attentiveness even more endearing considering the hour and a half program she had just completed.

I introduced M to Rita (we’re all first names now), and with a “she would never tell you this herself” included her title. Rita had spoken to how deeply their cause had touched her and what it has meant to her life, and I thought she would appreciate M's service too. Giving some props. After I took their photo for the absent sister, it was my turn to pay homage. She very subtly maneuvered M to move on and for me to approach with the skill of an experienced celebrity or polished politician.

I knelt beside Rita and noted that she looks spectacular. She has the beauty and skin of a 38-year-old, and is a testament to a lifetime of yoga and what I can only assume is a very talented surgeon. She was polite and alert (it was past eleven at this point and she must have been exhausted from the performance) and took my hand when offered. She smiled politely and waited for my small talk.

I took her hand and thanked her for the generosity of her talent and her time for this event, and how gracious for her to remain afterwards for the reception. I told her that I had been looking forward to her performance for weeks, and that “I have been restraining my enthusiasm. When you came on stage it took all of my self control not to yell, 'Hey you guys!'”

She lit UP. Her expression went from a practiced pleasant expectation to sheer delight. She clapped her cheeks, laughed, and took my hands in hers. “Oh my goodness! That is remarkable! Oh dear thing, did I teach you to read?!” A young woman, who I believe was with the major foundation sponsoring (among other things) this event, broke from formality and leaned over, “The Electric Company!? I loved that!” As the only ones in the room anywhere close to under 50, we were the only ones who got the reference.

Rita loved it. We were all high-five-ing and she just sort of beamed and gave us hugs. She held our hands and turned to the onlookers and only explained “It was a little show way back when…I taught them to read…”

I also mentioned that I had just stared watching Ugly Betty and I caught her performance in the finale, and thought it was wonderful that the B-story of the episode was the nephew playing the lead in West Side Story. She had played a cameo basically and had not seen the show or the episode, but had heard something about it. Sensing waning enthusiasm and expiration of my time, I moved on.

Others had presented their program for her autograph, but I had not retained mine. I decided that I would in fact like an autograph, and reached for a calling card—but Alas! Which card to give her? (I have like 14 you know, all with different titles/tag lines.) I settled on Wilson Hardcastle, witty banter. This just seemed to confuse her though, as everyone else was workplace titled. I just said, “Oh, that’s just one of the things I do well, so I put it on one of my calling cards.” No less confused, she signed the back of the card. During her act she spoke of her various journeys and aging and performing and worked the “journeys” theme a few times. I said, “Considering all of your journeys, I think you just might appreciate this one.” I handed her the card reading “Wilson Hardcastle/ Good Lord willing and the creek don’t rise.” She laughed out loud at that one, put it in her pocket, wished me well, and I took my leave.

I am forever charmed.

And I now consider us close buddies and I can call her any time to talk about my love life or go stay at her house. I’ll keep you posted.

. . . .

I had MUNI’d downtown, and The Lady M had driven up from the peninsula. The valet parking was full at the Saint Francis, so she had to park down the street in a garage, and fear for her life as she walked back to the hotel in her gown. I insisted on escorting her to her car, and in kind she insisted on giving me a lift home. It was early yet for a Saturday (for some of us) so she dropped me off at Martuni’s before getting on the freeway.

There are only so many places you can go late night in a tux. (Well, there are some places you shouldn’t but do anyway). Martuni’s is a tux-appropriate venue.

I don’t know if it was the black tie, the beard, or the confidence accompanying the weight loss, but even though I entered alone, I was not alone for long. After the handsome but slightly spider-sense-tingling Forrest bought me a drink, I spied Ky across the room. It was his friends who were at the microphone, as they were all out celebrating a successful opening night of their new show Legends, now playing at the New Conservatory Theater. Some of his professional stage cohort were in messier shape than others, so everyone was entertaining at the mic in one way or another.

Walking out of the piano room after the pianist had packed up, a trio of guys called my name and called me over to their table. Dean and [embarrassed to admit I can’t remember his name] closed down Martuni’s with me the last time I was there in a tux (with Shilpa). Clearly, their date (then) went well as they were still together. Their third wheel was one of their friends visiting from LA/SoCal and intending to move to SF. His name is Evan, and is a very sexy if not a somewhat bear-cliché of a man. I thoroughly enjoyed his company and each other’s mutual attention. I gave him my card (trouble) and told him that I expect to hear from him. He commented that it sounded like I was telling him what to do. And that that was kind of sexy. I had never kissed a man with a full beard before. It was different, and he has some skills.



[side note: he called me last night.]

We closed the bar down and he and his walked up to It’s Tops for pancakes. I am trying to stick to the SBD and was only hungry for Evan, so I hailed a cab and went home. (That, and I have never heard good things about It’s Tops.)

Speaking of the South Beach Diet, it’s pretty easy to stick to if you don’t eat out too much, and allow vodka. Phase two allows some wine, but really that’s a lot of sugar and should be avoided. Vodka, not so much. There was no bar at the gala, only wine. I tried to order a vodka from the staff, but was sent downstairs and to a different building to order one from the bar. Which cost me $16 before tip. For an orange vodka/soda. I had ordered a mandarin & soda (natch), but they only had Hangar. Which to me tastes a little too much like pez. But still, $16 for a cocktail? The bottle costs less. I ordered one, then sipped the wine.

I’m just sayin’.

overdue

Finally. Dinner with the Jamez tonight.

It's odd that as we age the best friends we used to see or talk to five days a week, we now have to schedule dinners or afternoon meetings weeks in advance. James and I now try to have dinner together at Flore at least once a month.

Catching up, venting, leaning, supporting, laughing, and possibly eating and drinking.

And I've got some new toys. If we have time: geeking out.



But the way, James totally would have gotten this.

"Out & About", even though more About than Out, is out

I found this story via Queerty.

Out and About is a fun gay newslweekly in Nashville. It's incredibly tame compared to many other gay zines. Basically, it reports what's going on in the news and in the social scence of interest to gays and lesbians. You know, a newspaper.

Like most free newsweeklys/monthlys, Out and About is disctrubuted via free publication racks in bookstores, bars, restaurants, and grocery stores.

When the venerable and fabulous chain of H.G. Hill stores closed, Kroger became the only chain supermarket in town (Thankfully Harris Teeter has appeared and brought a clean and class grocery shopping option back to Nashville). Kroger stores have always featured enormous areas and stacks for many, many free publications.

Including Out & About. Until some religious nutcase (i.e. typical Kroger shopper in Nashville) threatened to "unleash a fury they had never seen if they didn’t remove the publication." Unsurprisingly, Kroger said, "Sure."

Now in the past, I would expect the gays just to be screwed, and not in the good way. But Nashville has changed somewhat over the past few years. Not only is the City more gay-friendly (in deed if not in legislature), but the gay Community in Nashville is no longer likely to just let something like this go.

And boy did it go-- all the way to NYC.

Queerty's blub provides a link to the Scene article (the Nashville Scene is the alternative newsweekly, akin to the SF Weekly or the Village Voice, and has always been not only extremely reputable, but gay-friendly.).

New York-based Troy Masters, who publishes Gay City News, caught wind of the story, he immediately called Kroger to complain. Not surprisingly, Kroger didn’t feel like chatting. So, Masters contacted the New York City’s Comptrollers Office to see if they invest in Kroger, which they do, but maybe not for long. From [the] Nashville Scene:

After receiving no response from Kroger, Masters, a native of Nashville, contacted New York City’s comptroller’s office, which has a policy prohibiting the city from investing in any company that engages in discrimination.Apparently, New York City is a major shareholder in Kroger, holding more than $89 million in the supermarket’s stock. On Tuesday, Masters asked a spokesman for the city’s comptroller’s office if this was worth investigating, to which he responded, “Absolutely. I’m going to call their investor relations people.”

I smell a showdown. And I am willing to bet New York's $89 million may have a stronger effect than a small (minded) and bigoted, yet hungry, congregation.

Updates:
Towleroad
Yahoo Finance News (AP)
Out and About

vanity plate

Spied on the way home from Chow, on 14th Street headed up towards Buena Vista:

GOM JBAR

LOVE IT!

Last night at Badlands

The music was so bad I thought the VJ was Amish.

Atten-TION

After this weekend, yeah... I'm keeping the beard.

coming attractions

I am now totally in love with Rita Moreno.



We had a moment on Saturday.

And a shout out to Evan (Almighty?), who was also impressive.



And a shout out to his buddies who remembered Shilpa and me from our night out a few weeks back. Thanks for calling me over, and for introducing us.