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...