Joy Personified

Considering the length of the last post, I won't go on so much about my night with Chuck and Ginger. I'll go on, just not so much.

Ginger ("I woke up with all my jew'ry on") and Chuck ("I know I am pretty, motherfucker.") are two of my most favorite people in my life. The three of us get along like a house on fire. Ginger I've known most of my life, but we only got to be close around 1994. Chuck and I knew each other in high school, but weren't friends until I ran into him as a friend's date in a gay bar around 1996. Chuck was in Chicago when Ginger moved there (or was that the other way around?) and I arranged for them to get together. Before meeting, the only thing they knew they had in common was me (and Nashville). They went from zero to best friends in about five seconds. I love Ginger. I love Chuck. Chuck loves Ginger. Chuck loves me. Ginger loves me. Ginger loves Chuck. Big love fest here. And it is astounding that this Christmas was the first time we were all in the same city at the same time. Chuck has since moved back to San Diego. I see him in SF or SD. And Ginger is still based in Chicago but bought a lovely place in Nashville, and I see her there or in SF. As close as we all are, it amazes me it has taken us this long to all be in the same room.

And the earth trembled.

We had a freakin' BALL. Lordy, for the folks who know me- y'all should be very afraid. Chattiness and wacky adventure exponential.

We had drinks at Ginger's amazing new home before heading out to the new Cabana for dinner. We chatted about the house, her impeccable taste (with some furnishing assistance by the "magic attic"), local gossip, sadness of those we know who still feel the need to be in the closet, home ownership (Nashville vs. Chicago vs. SD vs. SF), etc. I mentioned that a friend in Nashville just closed on a condo and hopes to pay it off within a year. Ginger hoped she'd be able to pay off the fabric in a year. Of course, the furniture and the draperies are fabulous.

Cabana had some pretty amazing food, and a very cool design. I did not realize how drunk Ginger (and possibly Chuck) had gotten during dinner. We went through two (three?) bottles of wine at dinner. Which is more impressive when you consider I was just drinking vodka. While our original plan was to go Out after dinner, Ginger was adamant about taking a cab home. She was further gone than we thought, but we both know better than to argue with Ginger when she gets an idea in her head.

All in all, one of the most fun nights I've ever had. Absolutely stellar company. Highlights of the evening:

*Ginger getting a little miffed when I did not take the left at the next light as she instructed, which would have put us in the direction of the restaurant, but the route would have taken us over a curb and through the lobby of a nursing home to get there.
*SF and SD trying to chat with LA, who was too LA to deal with SF or SD in Nashville.
*Ending up at the Chute for open mic night and my bodily carrying Chuck on stage for a duet of Captain and Tenille's "Love Will Keep Us Together."
*While Chuck was still on his Blackberry speakerphone with a honey back home.
*Wilson making out with a fraternity brother (much younger) he met last year.
*Wilson only remembering making out with the fraternity brother because he had text messaged it to Kevin.
*Stopping at 4:00 A.M. for 24 cheese Krystals, four orders of fries, and four corn pups.
*And taking said Krystals to Ginger's house.
*Ginger calling Fran (my mother) to let her know Chuck and I would be crashing at her place (in the guest room with two new, incredibly comfortable queen-sized beds).
*Ginger: "Wilson will be home in the morning." Fran: "Honey, it is the morning."
-and my favorite line of the night/day-
*Chuck and I woke painfully the next day to the bright winter sun streaming in through the unadorned guest room windows. Chuck said, in his wonderfully deep southern drawl, "For all the money she spent on draperies, you think she coulda put some up in here."
*And of course, over breakfast juice and tale-telling, Ginger clucking at us to stop referring to her cleaning lady as "Rosario."

I'm afraid you had to be there. And I'm sure glad I was.

Oh 'Holy Crap' Night.

My Christmas vacation has been wonderful. Steeped in familial love, garnished with the best of friends, and marinated in vodka.

Christmas Eve (our big family deal) was wonderful, and Christmas morning pretty magical. I even got a full-body-tremor of excitement out of my niece Ellen with her gift. It's fun to give gifts which were not on their lists, and really special when they are visibly excited at the surprise. For Ellen, age 9, I gave a gift certificate for two pedicures-for her and a friend- at the Venetian "First Class Spa." (Two comments: Pedicures because manicured colors are not allowed in school. And while the Venecian may be the most popular nail spot in Green Hills, it looks like an over-accented sweatshop and they could learn a great deal from the ubiquitous nail spots in SF. Not to mention I pay $25 for a spa mani/pedi across the street. Venetian pedis alone are $30 each.) I also gave her GCs to the Maggie Moo's next door.

I love that Ellen is in that pre-teen period where she can play the young lady and the little girl. She has grown-up attitudes for many things, but still loves her stuffed animals and play time. And she still thinks her uncles are cool.

Which of course, we are.

Bradley's gift was not met with as much enthusiasm, as even though I had cleared this with the parents weeks prior, they forgot and got him the same thing. So he arrived at Sheppard Place wearing a Red Sox hat similar to what lay wrapped under the three. (The version I ordered was, of course, the cooler one. Thanks to my Boston connection RMJ.)

So Christmas Day was magical. Christmas Night was hysterical.

After Christmas breakfast and the stockings and presents under the tree, eventually Jay & Steff and the kids went home to Sneed Road to play with other kids, and Mac and Emily left to rest up before the big Christmas dinner with her side of the family.

So for the bulk of Christmas Day, in the afternoon and evening, I was the only child left at Sheppard Place. I enjoyed chilling in front of the fire with Mom and Dad, playing with the new toys, and spent most of the day helping mom clean up from the morning and our big dinner the night before.

However, Christmas Night has always been a Big Night Out for the southern homo. I am extremely fortunate that I enjoy time with my family. I know many people, and many more gay people, who find time with their families over the holidays to be more about quantity than quality. And sometimes the quantity is measured in fluid ounces.

As Buffy once said to Willow, "I think that much quality time with my mother would lead to some quality matricide." On the nights of Thanksgiving and Christmas the gay bars are to capacity.

I received several calls from friends to meet me at Tribe. I texted back saying I was on my way, but with the empty nest pangs of the day it was difficult to extricate my self from my mother. And then neighbors stopped by to visit, blocking me both bodily and vehicularly. Finally en route to Tribe I was a good 30 to 40 minutes behind. I got calls from Chuck (in from San Diego), Brad (in from SF), Jason (in from SF), Keith (local) and Scott (local), looking for me. All of them were hanging out in a crowded bar drinking alone(ish), and it occurred to me that all of these guys were sitting next to each other in a bar waiting for me but none of them knew each other.

Brad kills me sometimes. He is perhaps one of the sexiest men on the planet, with an easy confidence I can only marvel at and envy. I believe he fears nothing... except apparently being alone in a bar or a room full of people he doesn't know. Funny that. However, Brad being Brad, I would not expect him to be alone for long.

I arrived to a warm welcome with many more friendly familiar faces than I expected and felt oddly like a homecoming king. Added bonus: I got to spend a little time with great guy and club proprietor David. I was on the same flight out from OAK with his sister, bother-in-law, and their two kids. David had been in Mississippi with his partner Michael to visit his family, but had beat feet back to the preferable Nashvegas. (We are grading on a curve.)

The excellent Christmas Day continued. Brad had been approached by several men, whose attentions he graciously declined. One man bought Brad a beer by way of introduction, and was fairly attentive but Brad extricated himself kindly as he was "waiting for a friend." The gentleman went back to his buddies at the bar and commented, "Does anyone know if Wilson is in town? Let's call him." Brad had to ask, "Excuse me, do you mean Wilson Hardcastle?" And that's not the amusing part.

The gentleman in question was Scott, and when they told me this when I got there I couldn't help but laugh out loud. THAT WAS HOW I MET BRAD IN THE FIRST PLACE. Scott had tried to pick up Brad years ago in a slightly seedy gay bar on Franklin Road. Later that night, Scott introduced me to Brad (who had driven in to town to drink, be in a gay bar, and escape his crazy family out in the boonies) as Brad also lived in SF. So perhaps we'll just do this again every couple of years.

The entire night was a blast. But there is one shining moment which stands out-one of those laughing-so-hard-you-can't-breathe-and-have-to-hold-to-something moments. San Francisco, meet Nashville. Nashville, San Francisco. You may now butt heads.

Unfortunately, many of you reading this are not Nashvillian or particularly southern and so the confusion and humor may be lost on you. The standard drunk food in Nashville is Krystal's. In SF and NYC, you get a slice. In Nashville, you drive through Krystal's. Everyone does. When I came in at 4:00 A.M. from the Swan Ball with a bag of Krystals (after dropping off my drunken date at her home), my parents (also home from the ball) were in the kitchen eating Krystals. For those of you unfamiliar, think little square burgers a la White Castle. But that really doesn't do it justice. Nor justice to the corn pub, chili corn pup, and other artery-hardening greasy treats. When one has a Krystal, it seems like it was the best idea in the world. When you are finished, you are less convinced. The next day, your digestive system and exit tract have quite the contrary to offer on the matter. We do not phrase this condition as such. But I shall not invoke such base language as this is a family blog. Well, a whoring, alcoholic family blog. We have families too.

I have never known someone to eat a Krystal sober.

They are also open 24 hours. (My brother Mac once learned that the 24 hours are not necessarily in a row. But that is another story.)

The night went on. Fun, and cocktails, were had by all. As it was Christmas night, Tribe was closing early, and there was discussion about the next plan. Keith, unlike the rest of us, had not had a large Christmas dinner was not pleasantly stuffed as the turkey of the day. Keith was pushing a food agenda—preferably late night appetizers at Sunset Grill. The rest of us wanted to continue a little more festively, and overall we decided to head to the Chute (coincidentally the aforementioned slightly seedy gay bar). The Chute is, in fact, slightly seedy, but it is also the second nicest gay bar in Nashville. There are dozens of gay bars in Nashville, but only Tribe is quite nice (long time SF'ers can think of the AP). So with only one great, second best can be pretty far down the curve. I'm just sayin'.


After disjointed discussion, the Chute emerged as the new destination, so Keith decided he would rush ahead so he could stop for some food before joining us at the next bar. Brad asked, "What are we doing?"
"We're headed to the Chute."
"Where did Keith go?"
"He's going on a Krystal run and he'll meet us there."
"Oh man, that was the best sex I ever had."

uh, excuse me?!

I had to process for a moment. Unsuccessfully I might add. Once in high school, on a dare Gantt Bumstead walked into a Krystal bathroom, removed all of this clothes, and walked out. So nudity and Krystal are not to my mind entirely mutually exclusive.

"uh, What?"
"I mean, I'll never do it again but man, that was the most intense orgasm I ever had."
"Okay... I'm still on 'What?!' Did you like get sucked off in the bathroom or something?"
"Huh? Sex on crystal was just intense...but I am not into that really."

The light bulb of comprehension went on and I lost it.

In Nashville, a Krystral run means four tiny cheese burgers and fries for about $3. A "crystal run" in SF means finding a dealer before you dance shirtless and high in a club all night. Krystal Burgers ≠ crystal meth.

I was laughing so uncontrollably it took me several minutes to regain my breath before I could explain that the only high Keith was getting was going to be to his cholesterol level.



[Update: I went to the Krystal website to grab some images. They now offer WiFi. That scares me.]

Merry Christmas!

Santa always knows my size.

Merry Christmas!

And may all your days be merry and bright!

Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairies

Several months ago, EJ asked if I would be her date to a small birthday party the Friday before Christmas. Clearly, that far in advance I had not made other plans, and any reason to party with EJ is a good one. (President of the EJ fan club here.)

As it turns out, it's a big black-tie wedding reception at the BMCC for Lauren Hagen who got married in Spain. That was a detail that would have been good to have before I was picked up for the party.  I don't generally travel with a tuxedo. But I faked it acceptably.  Everyone just sort of blames "California" when I dress strangely now.


I will say, I do love my new brown velvet blazer. Very versatile (like me, ahem). It made a nice west coast fashion ensemble with the tux shirt (I keep a few in every port). Who knew I would get a chance to dance with Pat Patrick. Ever since Mac had encouraged Paige to sing with the PPB on other occasions, she has started singing with them professionally. Paige (who was in my class in high school and married Mac's best friend Bill) gave up her singer/songwriter career for family and motherhood now is back shining behind a microphone. Set of pipes on her. I am always grateful for an opportunity to hear her sing. She sang "Oh Holy Night" at a friend's Christmas wedding so many years ago and the memory still gives me a chill.


Wilson Hardcastle and Elizabeth James
Of course, I didn't know she was a formal part of the entertainment as she and Bill were also invited guests. She was a bit embarrassed that people would think she just wanted to sing and wouldn't get off the stage.

We had a fabulous time drinking and dancing at the club and I got to visit with a lot of old friends I would not have had the chance to see.


Mac Hardcastle and EJ
EJ, ever the trooper, joined me and Keith afterwards for drinks and dancing at Tribe and then Play. MUCH fun. I remember I had tales to tell about that night, but I only remember that I remember I had tales, not the tales themselves. Alas.

But still, love that EJ.

Frosty the Ho Man

I arrived in Nashville the Wednesday night before Christmas, and hosted a holiday party with Mac and Emily at their place Thursday night. I had mostly gotten over the crappy cold, but my ears had yet to unpop and it was driving me crazy.

One of Emily's presents to Mac was a wireless Sonus sound system. I got to their house an hour or so early, and clearly Mac (who was sleeping) nor Emily inherited the "how to throw a party" gene Mom and I have. There was much kitchen wrestling and preparation beforehand, which was of course after I had to wire their downstairs speaker system and install the Sonus servers. All told a cool product though-- I was able to use my iPod as a sound source to the unit downstairs, recognize it on the computer/server upstairs, and stream it throughout the house.

This party was originally planned as five or six close friends together for drinks and games, but expanded to much larger affair. I'm glad it did as we had a fab spread, lots of food and plenty of fun. And a nice mix of people-- new and lifelong friends, young and old, straight and gay. House full of love and laughter.

Some pics:
Bradley and Uncle Mac

Margaret McAllister, Ginger Hale, Susannah Brown Scott-Barnes

Wilson Hardcastle and Helena Lamb

Van Pond, david Glasgow, Jon Glassmeyer, Cynthia Warner

Sandy Nelson, Fran Hardcastle, and Paul Bond

Josephine calls for more wine for Papa John.

Ginger and Suzanne talk with air quotes.

Van, Wilson, and David

And while we are mostly pretty...


Eventually all of Mac's parties can get ugly.

* Sparkled *

The problem with journalling, I've found over the years, is the difficulty in starting up again after a break. There have been some great things to write about, but keep thinking that I should write about the older stuff before I write about the current stuff. And as such nothing has been written.

So for those who have been asking, here's the recent what.

Starting way back with Sparkle. December 10. (I am backdating these posts so they appear in the proper order. I am writing this on January 16, MLK day, while having coffee with a working Javits at Jumpin' Java.)

Kevin's place looked amazing. I only took a couple of photos, and none really do it justice (without the flash, too dark; with the flash, too stark). Upstairs, with the usual expectation of fabulous and sparkle, was an amazing spread catered by none other than Kevin (and really, wow), and a champagne fountain with the signature drink for upstairs: the Vodka Vixen.



Outside the house, Kevin really outdid himself this year. While I had ordered some magnetic LED flashers (see here) for my cuff links and to adorn select guests (it's always nice to have an excuse to touch someone). Kevin, however, covered the exterior of his house in these, and and could be seen for miles. There is a short movie clip of this here. Around the eaves, and up the stairs, Kevin had built suspension posts from which hung crystal beaded curtains, and four or five chandeliers he had found on eBay. The chandeliers had blue LED rods as candles, and were attached to rotating motors. The amount of effort and detail throughout the house was very Disney. We done good.


The main bar was downstairs as was the chill room. Unfortunately, photos don't capture the sparkle or the majesty of these rooms--or the lighting which worked out quite, quite well. Even the bar glasses sparkled. The mail wall I covered in black fabric with greenery along the ceiling. Suspended against the black field were a variety of silver or mirrored ornaments, maybe 40 of these, which reflected the colors from the christmas-tree lights below and behind the new Italian couch. Kevin had silvered eucalyptus branches for the corners. Overall a very nice effect. With of course all sorts of sparkle adornments, mirrored branch arrangements, flashing coasters, and more. The deep wall was blanketed in silver tinsel and underlit by blue and white lights. I was going for combination of Liberache and class. I felt I succeeded when I overhead a guest say, "I feel like I am in the VIP room of a club I'm not cool enough to get into."

The downstairs bar (seen here) had its own signature drink, the Wholesome Whore (aka Wholesome Hooker, but I like the repetition of the WH). Something that tastes very wholesome and innocent, but will have you whoring later-- vanilla vodka, coca cola, and a little peppermint schnaps. Also tastes very seasonal.


I was also responsible for lighting/dressing the newly completed downstairs bath. Which, if I do continue to say so myself, looked fabulous. I feel very gay in thanking my mother for teaching me at an early age the importance of good lighting. This is also where I decided to place Kevin's Christmas present.

I had told him before the party started that I left his gift for him in the downstairs bath, but it slipped his mind, and only around ten o'clock did I hear a stomp and a scream, "Where's Wilson!?"

On the vanity, there now sits a five by seven framed print of Kevin being Kevin:


He has an extensive collection of me "licking things." Drinks, people, trees, national monuments, anonymous passers-by, etc. Payback is fair play.

Update: the little LED flashers were sill going four days later. Impressive.

Boxcar Willie.

Okay, quick backplot on Boxcar because I know this will be coming up again.

Here's an excerpt from my e-mail to James of how we met:

Flashback a couple of months to the first Out with A.C.T. event for the performance of “The Overcoat.” During intermission and in the drunken aftermess, I met Boxcar. Boxcar moved to San Francisco from Seattle in the past year or so and is some sort of architectural big shot for Starbucks. Slightly older, barrel-chested, furry, and nice if not a little shy (grading on a curve here, I was with Kevin). I think I gave him my card. As I am want to do as I made them to be conversation pieces. Kevin and I then proceeded to drink lots of free wine, go out on the town, and get laid.

I saw Boxcar again at Folsom, where we made out and basically fondled each other on the street. He called me the night of the next Out with A.C.T. to find out if we would see each other later that night. Which we did. And we flirted a bit casually but nothing particular. Again, Kevin and I played hearty in the Castro. That’s the night I ended up with the 20-something power bottom and did the walk of shame the next day.

So, a few weeks ago, Kevin and I were talking about Boxcar while we were cleaning out the apartment of his recently deceased brother. I called Boxcar and left a message, and then we played phone tag for about 10 days. I tell you all this in the way of backplot for last Wednesday.

I talked to Boxcar before my meeting to touch base and see if he would be around for the weekend and what he might be interested in doing. He was driving up to Calistoga with his mother to his brother’s place on Thanksgiving morning, but was eager for a happy hour that night. RMJ, Barney and I had plans to meet at the Bar on Castro (T-BOC) six-ish and I invited him to join us.

As usual I was late but called RMJ and Boxcar to let them know. Boxcar had not yet met Barney or RMJ. Boxcar started drinking 5/6ish and was with co-workers at the Edge. When I got to the BOC, it was nearly empty, and certainly void of RMJ or Barney. I went out to the sidewalk to get cell service and call RMJ (Barney has no mobile). Boxcar walked up and kissed me hello. This was not so much an "hello" kiss, but the sort of kiss that makes ears flush and chills run down my sides. More like a "should we just forget the drinks and go fuck now because clearly that’s where this is headed." We went to the Midnight Sun/Midnight Slum b/c it is his favorite bar (I didn’t know anyone went there anymore). With my first drink there was lots of flattery from Boxcar and many efforts at "subtle molesting" (his words). RMJ and Barney appeared for a drink, and in time to witness Boxcar basically taking off my shirt (revealing the oh-so-chic v-neck t-shirt underneath). Then there was the making out. Keep in mind I had had one drink and just started my second. I had never been happier to be in the Midnight Slum because I didn’t know anyone in there. RMJ and Barn thought this was hilarious and made a their exit. Boxcar and I went to his place.

It was a warm, clear night and he has floor-to-ceiling views of the Castro and the City. I was amused being both the object of affection and at times aggressor. We had sex on the balcony which was v. cool, and made him nervous of watchful neighbors. We took the game inside and played around some more. And then took the game to the bedroom (aside, largest bed I've ever seen. About the size of my apartment. And comfy.).  I remember laughing to myself at the fact I had been out for drink(s), hooked up, had sex, and was going to bed, and it was just about 8:00. On the plus side, Boxcar is extremely comfortable to sleep with, a hot cuddler, and a hot playmate. But I was also detached enough to be taking it slow and not making more of it than it necessarily was.

The morning after was not awkward, but comfortable. Except that he is a morning person and I am so not. After a light breakfast, I left him to finish cooking his soup and preparing to take his mom to Calistoga. I went home and went back to sleep before going to Jeff and Bill's for Thanksgiving dinner.

Flash forward.

Boxcar joined me, Kevin, RMJ, Barney, and Douglas for Rent the Friday after Thanksgiving. A fun night, and revealing. Boxcar revealed in the car that his partner of 14 years had died of AIDS, about 20 months ago. Okay, that is two pieces of information which would have been handy to have.

We went to Pilsner later, but Boxcar was ready to go to bed soon. Even though he is only 42 (or was it 45), he refers to us as "the youngin's," "the kids" or "the boys." I offered to drive him home, and then I came inside, and of course we fooled around. I tried to start the HIV status conversation several times but it never got anywhere. Afterwards I took a shower and as he was getting ready for sleep and as it was still quite early, I left and met the boys again at the Powerhouse. I will say it did loads (no pun intended) for my self-esteem to arrive as a rockstar. Sex and a shower and back out again. (For a basic prude like me, that's something.)

The next week or two later, I was invited to see Autie Mame at the Castro theater (Wednesday 12/14) with a work friend and his husband. Such an opportunity is not to be missed. I invited Boxcar to go with us, and as in Rent, he was all over me during the movie.

I will at this point say he does know how to push my buttons. Woof. But c'mon, there are times that it gets to be inappropriate. (I fear the anonymous reader may find that ironic or hard to believe.) However, earlier in the week I had cut my cheek on a chip which resulted in a huge canker sore. Suspicious of his HIV status, I had no intentions of unsafe play later. I explained to him (and this was a weeknight after all) that I was enjoying his company I wasn't planning to come upstairs. He didn't really take no for an answer and was quite... persuasive in the car (who knew in my tiny Saturn two full-sized people can fit in the front seat?)

I finally had to tell him why I didn't want to fool around and forced the whole HIV status conversation. I'm negative and he's positive. I made it clear that I was still perfectly happy dating him and sleeping together, but I am also very careful and very safe and that there will be times that I cannot do things.

He did not take that well. He made it clear that he wasn't interested in dating me at all and just likes having lots of sex. That stance was later softened to not wanting to date anyone and not just me in particular, which as a widower I totally get. But he made it clear he is not interested in a boyfriend, just screwing around, and sort of stormed off and never looked back. The entire experience threw me for a loop and I met Kevin, Rey, and Lance at Martuni's for a debrief and consolation.

Awkward as that was, I had already invited him to be my date to a party last night (12/16). Long story with a short ending: Everything seems to be fine. No hard feelings. He is still charming and amiable and fits in nicely with the crowd. He will be a good friend to have around, and his continued flirting with me does, after all, make me feel pretty.

massive missive

Okay, so I suppose I do have things to post. LOTS of stuff.

Sparkle was a huge hit. And I hear that the thousand points of light on the side of the house are still flashing.



There are, I am sure, dozens of stories about Sparkle. However, as manic host I only experienced a few of them. Everyone seemed to have a good time, and it was well attended for being less than easily accessible. Over a hundred folks I'd say. And an interestingly mixed crowd. Who also mingled well. I'll get to the Sparkle stories soon.

At the risk of sounding like an 80's high school student, I will say that the place looked AWESOME. And I totally got to second with Kevin's sister.

Fnally, I have a story to tell about a guy. I've decided, through my own strange stream of consicousness, that he shall be known here as "Boxcar." However, that story will take a page or two. I'll try to whittle it down.

So stay tuned.

Alert Reader Mail

Alert Reader Herman Koberle sent this in this morning.

Wilson:Reading this morning's newspaper when I saw the magazine I thought of you!? anyway, the Life site is interesting. I watch him in the evening ever since he replaced ol what's his name on CNN and think he is a very good reporter.

Much appreciated! I wonder how it would be if my own parents supported my man-love manias. Honestly-- don't know if that would be a warm-fuzzy or a way-creepy. I'm pretty certain I'll never find out.

Dry spell?

No.

You may have noticed I have not posted in a while. That's not to say nothing has been going on. In fact, just the contrary. It was an interesting and at times intense week leading up to and following Thanksgiving, but tales of which are not wisely posted here.

Rest assured nothing traumatic, just dramatic--with the ususal supporting cast, some special guest stars, a dash of intrugue, cliff-(well, balcony-)hangers, overdose of drink, and overdue debauchery.

But I am not telling.

My Own Private I Da Ho.

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.

Me-No-Go to da Ro-De-O

Okay so this sucks: On the way down to La Honda for the Best Buck in the Bay, my transmission blows.

Short version of the story is that I spent my entire afternoon waiting for AAA to find me on a frontage road near the Crystal Springs resevoir. Not an easy location to describe to an operator in call center in Whoknowswhere. It was sunny, but boring, and I wish I had brought my book. The only up-side was that I managed to coast to a marginally recognizable intersection and into a space amongst a row of parked cars. And there were two other guys waiting in their trucks-- rescue workers who I am sure are shirtless on a calendar somewhere. Woof.

The bad news came yesterday afternoon. Cost for repairs: $3,500. If they use a rebuilt/used transmission: $1,800-$2,000. Minimum 9 hours of labor (sounds like childbirth, and just as painful).

So, having JUST had a tune up, flushed the coolant system, installed all new brakes and all new tires, do I spend the money to fix it, or do I look at getting a new (used) car? With the hospital bills/student debt, I am not in a financial position to get a new car. Or even fix this one. But even the $2k fixing option is a lot to spend on repairs which might be best towards something newer.

What kills me are these two things: (1) There was a crack in the casing so all the transmission fluid drained out and that's why it all went ca-blewy; I had an appointment to flush the transmission fluid this weekend. and (2) It's a Saturn, known for good service record, and it only passed 60k miles last frigging week.

Open to suggestions here. I have to make a decision soon b/c it is just taking up space in my mechanic's garage.

coinage

I want to coin a phrase. And, I think, I want credit for it. That's going to require writing it down and publishing it so this place is as good as any.

In the age of e-mail, the art of letter writing has suffered. As has the act. Who writes home anymore? Even my mother sends e-mail. Heck, Mom and I instant message. So the phrase "it was nothing to write home about" seems a bit obsolete. On the phone the other day (mobile, of course) I was answering a question about an event and what fell out of my mouth seems much more (tech) age-appropriate:

"It was nothing to blog about."


Oh yeah, when we hit Y2K and entered into a new decade, I wanted credit for referring to the 00's as the "naughts." And referring to anything pertaining to the 01-09 years as "naughty."

I'm just sayin'.

charge against Starbucks

I try to make mental notes during the day along the lines of "That's a great idea. I'll write about that or put it on the blog." What I have learned from this practice is that there is a reason 3M does not make mental notes. Post-its are much more reliable.

So the short of it is, when I get the chance to type something up, I can never remember what I wanted to write about.

So last night I wrote it on a cocktail napkin. Why was I writing on a cocktail napkin? I was having cocktails. Kevin and I went to see The Overcoat, our first show as part of the "Out with A.C.T" theater series (very, very cool). We started with a cocktail at the house. Then beer with pizza at a strange restaurant that was on Kevin's list of United Miles Restaurant Bingo, then we had a cocktail at the theater, and at intermission, then the after event was sponsored by a winery which was pouring freely, and then the train-wreck moved to Moby's until I could pour myself into a cab.

It seems, purely mathematically speaking, that (vodka + beer + vodka + vodka + wine + wine + wine + wine + vodka = crappy morning). You would think that this was not a formula one would have to test empirically. Yet, I was not the freshest flower in the vase this morning.

En route last evening, Kevin went on a rant against coffee cards (you never know how much is left on them, they are easily lost, and a pain to use when the cashier or computer has a problem), and then on to a general disdain of Starbucks. We had also been talking about renting DVDs from Superstar on 18th, which uses a pre-paid credit program to reduce the costs associated with credit card transactions (merchants have to pay VISA/MC/AMEX a fee for every card transaction, which makes low-dollar transactions a break-even or even cost-losing event). Tying the two thoughts together, Kevin revealed something I think is brilliant: He charges his cups of coffee at Starbucks so they lose money on the transaction. Subtle consumer activism? Dunno. But I think that's hilarious.

Lovin' my momanym.

My parents visited the Bay Area this weekend. They came out here to visit me (of course) and also to go with me to the wedding of a childhood friend and Nashville native in Healdsburg, California (Sonoma County). Sarah’s childhood and family history is, well, Faulknerian in its complexities and dramas. But many of the adults who took the role of parent in her life were on hand to attend, so there were my parents’ friends as well as my own in town for the event.

It was a beautiful weekend and perfect for a wine-country wedding. I love my parents and really enjoy their company—we had a wonderful time together. Sometimes when we get together in these sorts of settings, I am reminded that I forget how archetypically Southern they/we can be. And that we’re all nuts. I am closer to my mother’s type of crazy than my father’s but still, I have a lot of both. It seemed that every hour I made a mental note to write something down as it was laugh-out-loud funny and great material for the blog and/or novel. But now that I am in front of a computer I cannot for the life of me remember anything specific. It’s hard to pick out of the running sequence of events the particularly crazy/funny ones as when I am in these southern escapades, I lose perspective and it all seems contextually normal. Or, I should say, usual. But Lordy, it’s not. My family, and to some extent our friends, and nuttier than fruitcake. And I happily laughed through the entire weekend.

While I certainly exhibit a lot of my mother’s potentially eccentric behavior (hey—to me this all seems perfectly logical), I am grateful for the consideration of the pleasant detail which I have inherited from my father. I love that my father is the sort of man who packs a sterling silver vase on trips so when he brings the hotel’s continental breakfast to the room, he is able set a table with flowers for his wife. And a handkerchief for a tablecloth. While flowers were not readily available, we made do with the colored tissue from the bride’s welcome bag.





I once packed a surprise picnic dinner complete with flowers, vase, candles, and tablecloth and spread it out in a terminal in the Atlanta airport while on a long layover with Jennifer Caver (then Farnette). My tendency to have these sorts of ideas clearly comes from Papa John. And I thank him for it.


We returned to the City Sunday around five, and while Dad was taking a nap before dinner, Fran and I freshened up and changed our clothes and I was able to take her to Sundance Saloon for an hour of dancing. My mother never ceases to amaze me. Her first time in a gay cowboy bar (I’m trying to think if she has ever even been in any gay bar for that matter) and her first time two-stepping and she was, of course, fabulous. We managed several two-steps, a couple of waltzes, and a swing (and a glass of wine and two mandarin/sodas) before we had to leave to meet Dad for dinner at Zuni. She is such a fabulous dancer she picked up the two-step without dropping a beat. I had told her that I dance so much (and therefore sweat sufficiently) that I take a change of t-shirt or two when I go. She had informed me that she does not perspire (what is that line? “First of all: I do not sweat. I perspire. And second of all: I do not perspire.”). After three dances and a double-time swing, she did however take off her jacket and admitted, “I see what you mean about getting hot.”

Monday was their only day in the City and they had to leave this morning. Unfortunately, Dad was struck debilitatingly ill by either the salmon at Zuni or just some sort of intestinal bug. But he had to spend his only SF day in bed at the Saint Francis. We had planned to let Mom blitz the shops around Union Square while we did father/son square things like ride the cable car and play around Ghirardelli Square. So I shopped, as much as I could stand, with Fran the Man. I got a kick out of inserting between her trips to Nieman’s and Sak’s, a stop into Old Navy. She is so petite the little hip girlie stuff really fit her. Cracked me up.

Even though Dad was pretty much wiped out all day, he rallied for the Meet-and-Greet at the Metro. I small group of my inner-circle friends were able to meet us for an evening cocktail on the balcony. Everyone had a delightful time and I can’t think of a better group of people with which to share my family, the sunset, and a cocktail. And my parents completely held court at the Metro last night.

Fran holding her court:

And c’mon, who cannot be charmed by Papa John?

I am told that meeting my parents for the first time was a complete kick. And, for some reason, it explained a lot about me.

Wonder what they meant by that...