Enjoying the vacation

way too busy to blog--and I have to fly back tomorrow. >sigh<

Fun, and exhausting, while it lasted.

Now off to exchange. And pack, and tech support...

by the chimney with care

I've had church, cocktails, fellowship, family, and loads to eat and drink.

And had a nice little text exchange with Ian in Cincinnati and RMJ in SF.

I've helped Mother strike the set and prepare for tomorrow's events.

I've filled all the stockings and laid a finger by the side of my nose.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good night!

Clausmopolitan

The fun continues and I have lots to get done before the 3:00 service, then cocktails at 5:00 and dinner at 7:00.

But before I rush off, here are a few highlights from EJ's party last night:

The snow machine above the entrance, and "snow" on the ground-


Clausmopolitans-


Funny People-Mark makes EJ laugh-


Mark O'Bryan and Wilson Hardcastle-


Paul and Paige under the mistletoe-


Leslie, EJ, and Wilson-


Lovely dining rooms-


And, of course, a Liberace snow globe.



Have yourself a merry little Christmas!

Photo web page. Flickr set.

No room at the estate

Seriously.

I know I am a Hardcastle, but I have GOT to stop being the last one to leave a party.

I thought it was so much earlier, like 10:30, and I had time to meet Keith and/or Scott to spend the rest of Friday night.

The four children, spouses, and parents and staff, were still reveling when I left. That was almost 2:30 in the morning.

Keith and Scott both did text me but I was in the throws of a Brown ball— a fantastical and magical experience never to be cut short.

But timely perhaps.

It's 2:45 and I am so awake. Tomorrow is going to suck.

Until EJ's party.

And Scott works until 10:30 and I am still trying to convince him to join us when he's done. I'm sure we will just be hitting our stride...


Jingle Brown photos

Winter wonderland

Last night was wonderful.

Mac's party was fun, and it was interesting to meet the people who work for him. Not what I expected. Living in SF I expect something more different of business people and particularly those in publishing. Everyone was very nice, but this was such a white and rural crowd. I don't want to say "unsophisticated" because I really don't know them. And I feel a little SF elitist, and ashamed, for feeling such distance from these good folks merely because their frequent shopping excitement is, and I am not making this up, Wal-Mart. But I was often searching for common ground for topics of conversation. I certainly felt like the "sophisticated urbanite" in the room.

I totally bonded with Townes' wife and we got along like a house on fire. Super box of fun that girl. (Townes owns Mac's company, among many other things, and is one of those genuine good guys respected pretty much by everyone who has ever met him. Including me. This is a guy you want to drink with—the sort of guy with whom you
d be grateful to be stuck in a broken elevator. Now that's hight praise.)

Afterwards, I met Keith at Tribe and played bartender roulette. None of the PYT regular bartenders were there, and those filling in were not pouring well. Keith, who is looking über-hot these days, had plenty of admirers. Unfortunately, three of these stalkers in the bar were all over him because they recognized him from his ManHunt profile. He was willing to string one or two along because you never know when you might need something warm on a cold winter's night. Looking around the room, I knew he could do better and tried to repel the creepy ones. DJ Ron was there, so the music was great. We know each other from way back when—he was the dance fag on Vanderbilt's student station 91 Rock and everyone loved him.

Next door in the dance club Play, there were the usual drag shows, plus the Student Body finals. While this crowd makes Keith feel old, I just thought it was something fun to do. Surprisingly I didn't feel old, but probably because I have that "older, wiser, and living in San Francisco" thing to give me confidence over the young, pretty, and not very bright. There was a good dose of young, and some bits of pretty, but very little impressive.

At Tribe I was impressed by the style of the crowd. Everyone clearly pays attention to fashion spreads, and shops and styles themselves accordingly. However, I am not sure of the fashion sources as in my opinion the faux-hawk and spiky hair thing is a little old now. And everyone has the same untucked, stressed/fitted shirt look. But then again, SF'ers know fashion but don't largely care. I have no call to be a fashion snob—I was wearing Old Navy for heaven's sakes, but I'm just sayin'. I'm glad SF is so cas'. There was a lot more fashion and grooming work in there than I'm willing to dedicate effort.

The music in Play was awesome too—I am of the school that dance music should have lyrics and I was not disappointed. Keith and I were busting our respective moves (to Bananarama) when Keith spied a nice-looking guy hovering by himself at the edge of the dance floor. He looked alone and slightly forlorn for it, so, as we do, Keith invited him to join us. We had a good time dancing, and when I touched his arm to talk to him it was like grabbing a tree trunk. Surrounded by gymbots and porn models in the City, I still don't think I have felt triceps so firm. It was a little distracting. I'm just sayin'. I needed a refill (having switched from mandarin and sodas to a fat bitch with a breath mint), and so did Keith, and I offered to bring Scott another, but he was on water and trying to sober up before he went home.

One thing I like in really hot guys (I mean other than me) is a lot of alcohol.

Scott, whose name I think is sufficiently popular as to protect his anonymity, turned out to be incredibly charming. And of course, he has handsome for days. We talked a bit and I found out that he is new to Nashville and not terribly happy about it. But I suppose growing up in Nigeria and traveling the world before high school and considering his chosen profession, one might find Nashville to be a little white, homogenous, and confining. We split up for a while and then came back together on the dance floor. Being me (is it the Virgo or the librarian in me?—perhaps one feeds the other) I managed a little information gathering in the meantime. It seems he is slightly famous, and being an out-of-towner made me a little more attractive as clearly I liked him for him and not because I may have seen him on tv. My own modesty (and while you know I can be a snob at times, with men I find attractive, my self-confidence drops precipitously) makes me think he still had the goggles on.

I couldn't take it any longer and I took his hand and asked if this bar had any dark corners. He said "I don't think Nashville has any dark corners." So we found a lit one and didn't care.

Lordy this man is hot. Wearing the typical-yet-fashionable untucked, fitted, black dress shirt, he looked fit but not defined. I almost cut myself while we were making out. The man could use his abs to grate cheese—hard cheese like parmesan. Yipes. Blond, built, furry, handsome, charming, intelligent, and articulate? Thank you Santa. Christmas would have come early this year, but it's not like I could invite him home—I'm staying with my parents. And I did not want to push an invitation to his house, but he made it clear that he wanted some alone-in-the-dark time. I was very, very interested, but I think coming home in the morning would have been improper and insulting to my parents. We exchanged numbers and kissed goodbye.

In our absence, Keith thought we hooked up and went on home himself. (Cingular service is crap in Nashville and I can never get calls or texts.)

Okay-- I have wasted most of the day and have all sorts of Christmas stuff to do. I need to cut this narrative shorter. (make long story short—too late.)

As Dad can't get around like he used to, I spent all day yesterday being Santa Claus. Or rather, his personal shopper. I drove all over creation but was an elf on a mission. I managed to get clever gifts to fill seven stockings in under six hours and six hundred dollars. I was happy to do this for my parents, who would have taken a week to get the same amount of stuff done. That, and by being out and about, I ran into all sorts of friends I wouldn't have had a chance to see otherwise.

I think the hardest thing a man can do, gay or straight, is ask someone out on a date. I grew a pair, texted, and finally called Scott. I invited him to EJ's semi-formal Christmas party Saturday. I though this was a good idea for several reasons—I am only here a short time, everyone at EJ's thinks I hung the moon and I could show off how popular and witty I am, it would be a great venue for him as a new Nashvillian to meet the fun and wacky people among Nashville's movers and shapers (also shakers, but these people shape the community in a variety of ways), and I believe that entering my circle would help Scott emotionally, socially, and professionally.

Typing that is seems a little arrogant, but it is also sincere. And to mitigate the arrogance, realize that these are the things I tell myself to think he might want to go out with me, rather than think he might want to go out with me for just being me.

Unfortunately, he is second string so he has to work the weekend and this weekend's nights. I left it up to him to call me during his free time if he'd like a coffee or company. The ball, as they say, is in his court. Which is a terrible place for it to be as it leaves me only ready to respond. I don't get to control the game.

Then again, maybe I just met a drunken hottie who wanted to get laid. I may have built up a fantasy around the handsome, and ascribed qualities of character where there were only cheekbones.

But it would be nice to find out.

Homeward bound. And gagged.

The flight out was something. Lance, whose parents left New Zealand for SFO last night, Tuesday, drove me to the airport today, Wednesday, so he could have the sedan to drive them all up to the house in Tahoe for Christmas. I am a stressful traveler, and while my friends note I am never on time (from their perspective—time is after all relative), I strive to be early for air travel. This may be a result of a decade of Southwest flights (they have the only non-stop from the Bay Area to Nashville) and having to wait for hours to check luggage and then queuing up for a decent seat in the cattle call. Regardless, I planned to be at Lance's by 8:00 so I could make it to OAK by 9:00 for the 10:55 flight.

I arrived at Lance's almost spot on, anxious about the chaos that is Oakland airport. Lance asked "Would you like a coffee?" I thought about the time it might take to pour a go-cup, and thought it was worth the three or four minutes. As it turns out, he meant "do you want to go down the block to the coffee shop and order a couple of lattés?" This I did not feel I had time for, but I know how a coffee jones works and agreed to the walk and coffee. How long could it be? The barista was terrible, and we did not get back into the car until 45 minutes later. Considering the state of the bridge traffic and the airport the last time I went over—not including holiday travel—I began to quietly freak out. "Now we just need to drop George off at day care on the way..." Thank God the doggie day care was in fact on the way.

The last time I went to OAK at in the morning it took over 45 minutes to get there. The last time I went in the evening, the line in the airport driveway was itself a 30 minute ordeal. This morning, from on-ramp to airport was just less than 20 minutes, and I arrived at 9:00ish as planned. And just in time to get into the baggage-check line with Genny Fraser Ferguson. I was hoping to self-check but I didn't see the kiosks (still there, just moved). It was a good thing I was there with Genny, as she had James, 9 months, and all of the luggage while her husband Hill was leaving the car in long term-parking and was shuttling in with William, two and a half. Genny is one of those freaky super-moms who can seem to multi-task a hundred things and still have life under control. Hill, however, would forget his head if it weren't screwed on, and I fear might leave a child somewhere were there not some sort of instinctive bond. Even then. As it turns out, Hill did leave a suitcase at the house, full of clothes, presents, and his much-needed laptop. So I played husband and father until Hill showed up, and helped Genny though the checkin and security line. When Hill and William arrived, I became the manny.

I generally love kids and these two make it easy. Genny and Hill invited me to help them out with the kids and such and to join them for breakfast, so instead of going on to the gate to line up (Southwest cattle call), I decided to stay and play manny and pre-board with the kids and play with them on the plane. Breakfast was spent calling Nashville ex-pats who might not have left SF yet to see if they could bring Hill's forgotten bag. When we ultimately got to the gate, we were in the pre-board area with Susi Cox Marriedname (also from Nashville) who was traveling without husband but with her nine-month-old Brit. For none months old, Brit is huge, comically giant even, and wild. I threw myself whole-heartedly into the role of manny and alternatively corralled Brit, William, and James. James is also nine months old, but very subdued, not very mobile, and just a little blue-wrapped ball of cute. With two under 2.5, Genny and Hill do not travel lightly. We were among the last to pre-board, and we were Susi, baby brit, Genny, Hill, baby William, baby James, and me. I'l holding onto one child and wearing like three bags of diapers and toys and such. The station agent wouldn't let me board because I was not any of the children's biological father. The guy was a huge prick about it and made a scene. Genny was pretty pissed, saying "No, he's with us. I need him to help me." This was compounded by the fact that Hill had already lost his boarding pass and had to go get another one. They said, "He's our nanny." The station agent said "All nannies have to wait in line." Which was a complete and total lie. Had I been a Guatemalan woman, it would have been fine, but a male child-care giver was out of the question. Even people in line were grumbling that it was ridiculous. It's not like they weren't going to save me a seat anyway, and then Genny had to double her burden of bags and children with Hill, while Susi was having a hard enough time getting all of her bags and the rampant Brit under control. The station agent made a scene, then made me wait to be the last person on the over-sold plane.

True enough, when I finally boarded, Susi had held a seat next to her so we could visit and alternate entertaining Brit, who as an under-two, did not have his own seat. While William and James were very excited about the whole airplane experience, Brit was not. Mostly Brit was distracted by food. I looked over just as he was grinding a blackberry into my thigh, but all I could think about was that this was the only pair of khakis I had brought with me. Susi also brought some ginger snaps, which turned out to be a bit too spicy for the baby who started screaming and then spit them up.

It was a long flight.

Susi was good company though. Favorite one-liner: No honey don't pull! That's Tiffany."

I had downloaded some tv shows from iTunes to watch on the plane, but my iPod crashed shortly after take-off, and it made repeated thumping and scratching sounds until the battery was exhausted. My iPod has never worked on a plane, and I had hoped to return it under warranty, but there are hundreds of post on the Apple support site from people complaining of the same thing, with no help from Apple (who say they have a warning that iPods are only certified to work up to 10,000 feet— but one assumes that is not with a pressurized plane around them! The short of it is, some iPods work on planes, most work above 10,000 feet, on freaking mountain tops no less, and about half won't work on airplanes. Which sort of makes them dicks as they market the ipod video as great for travelers.

But that's neither here nor there just a rant. Sorry.

Now Genny and Hill are not to be confused with Hill and Genny. I fear I am going to spend a lot of time writing how we southerners are connected. Lousie and Anny Mary are sisters. They are my mother's best friends. Anna Mary has a son named Hill. Louise has a daughter the same age named Genny (short for Genevieve). Which makes Genny and Hill first cousins, who are also close as family, neighbors, and classmates. Genny married a boy named Hill, and Hill married a girl named Jenny. So only those of us who know them know who is being referred to by how their names are said. The relatives (i.e. our friends) are said first. So Genny and Hill are Lousie's and Hill and Jenny are Anna Mary's.

See how easy this is? Pay attention, because this will come up again.

My entire trip here is frantically recalling names of friends from childhood.

When we finally arrived in Nashville, I stayed behind to help Susi and Brit was running wild and the crew couldn't find her stroller. At baggage claim, we were all met by our respective parents and I was happy to be whisked away home.

Until I got in the car.

It was rush hour in Nashville and the airport, interstate and local roads were insane. Mom was driving Dad's enormous Oldsmobuick TownBarge because she had convinced Dad that she needed to drive. We are all worried about Dad's driving— He is over 70, had a mild stroke a couple of years ago, and his reflexes, motor skills, and response time and not what they used to be. He's also a little sensitive about it so it didn't help when Dad complained that Mom was worried about his driving and I agreed with her. It also exacerbated the issue when I complained about Mom's driving as she repeatedly drifted too far to the right in what I call the "mailbox lane" because on two lane roads, we'd be swiping mail boxes. I was trying to be diplomatic but I would occasionally have to shout "Drifting! Drifting" as I felt us careen towards cliffs, guardrails, and enormous trucks.

Getting home was very nice, but it always takes us a while to acclimate to each other. I haven't lived at home since I was in high school, so my parents equate "Wilson sleeping at Sheppard Place" to "Wilson is 16." And they treat me like a child and not like someone in their mid-thirties. We go through this song and dance for day or two every time I visit. It's a little maddening.

Also, every time I return to my old room (with its tiny single bed), I have to spend the first 30 minutes sorting through magazines, mail, and press clippings Mother has set aside for me on every surface of the room. It's like having my own personal clipping service, with no filters or indexing. Anything remotely related to San Francisco, the Vanderbilt Medical Center, infomatics, libraries or library science, country music, events, random comic strips, or people I know, is set aside. But it's game to figure out which article on these pages or sections are the relevant ones to read. And I have to sift the wheat from the chaff to find things I really do need to know—such as obits or awards/profiles of family friends.


Asserting myself as a grown man and sorting through clippings is just part of the homecoming ritual, and I wonder if I will miss it when it's gone.

But for now I am treating the condition with vodka, which seems to work just fine.

Mac is hosting his office's holiday party at his house tonight and I am going to go crash for a while and have some eats and drinks. Emily is still in the hospital switching out blood thinners but should be back tomorrow.

I should note that Emily has been paralyzed from the waist down and in a wheelchair since junior year of high school. She and Mac are expecting a boy in a couple of weeks. So she is very, very pregnant and not up for a lot and they may not even make it to Christmas dinner.

After visiting with Mac, Keith is going to meet me for drinks at Tribe. Love my family, but being immersed into Tennessee and family so completely and quickly, I am gasping for air.

And by "air" I mean "gay people and cocktails."

I'm just sayin'.

BNA bound

Away home today. No posts. But hijinks to ensue.

Haus of Klaus

As I mentioned earlier, sweet, adorable Klaus was in town Friday night for a too-brief visit. Klaus used to live in SF, just up the hill from me actually, and moved back to Copenhagen in the summer of 2005 to settle down with his partner Jens. His moving back to Copenhagen marked the first time the two of them have lived in the same city at the same time.

Before Klaus left SF, Jens did the apartment hunting and found a fabulous new flat in one of the first buildings going up in an undeveloped area adjacent to the University. Jens has a very sleek, danish aesthetic, and he designed and decorated the apartment before Klaus returned.

In August of 2005, I took some time off to visit my cousin Clark in Berlin, Jan in Glasgow, and Klaus in Copenhagen. RMJ was on his own Scandinavian tour, hitting pride celebrates in cities across the region. We arranged to meet up in Copenhagen and were guests of Klaus and Jens.

Their apartment is spectacular. It is so coherently and skillfully designed I wound up taking about a hundred shots of various aspects of their home. I said I thought it looked like something that would be featured in Wallpaper*.

For Christmas last year, I thought about putting together a fictional Wallpaper* spread of their flat as a Christmas and thank-you present, but as things always get crazy around November/December, I never got around to designing it. Klaus' impending SF visit gave me a reason to revisit the idea.

RoMo arranged for a Klaus-centric happy hour at Badlands to be followed by Thai food next door, and further messiness at Moby Dick.


On the way there, we stopped at Kinko's to pick up the freshly mounted Wallpaper spreads.


And I was so pleased that Klaus went nuts over it. The pages were very well received.


I did feel bad that Jens' role was so downplayed when he was really the designer, but (1) Klaus was the one visiting; (2) Klaus is my good friend; and (3) "Jens" doesn't rhyme with "house." If he wants to yen for something, write a novel with a pen, or produce a photo spread (through the Lens of Jens), then I've got something to work with. But Klaus tells me Jens is impressed by the pages too. He knows he's the designer. The apartment spread is made more special as it will serve as a reminder of their first place together. They have just found a new flat (their area has now been built up and the designer places are a bit cost-prohibitive) and will be moving shortly to another place nearby.

Also "well" received this night: the Badlands two-for-one cocktail happy hour.

The two-for-one happy hour always a hit, but then one tends to get hammered by dinner. It is not unheard of for folks to go out at 5:30, be drunk before 8:00, go out to a nice dinner in the neighborhood, go out again, sober up, and be home in bed bed by 11:00, feeling like it's the crack of dawn.

Dangerous thing that happy hour.


We were all very happy.


Joining the fray: Barney May, Jeff Javits, Robert Michael Joseph, Klaus Koefed, and Wilson Hardcastle.


As well as the lovely Shilpa and Jeff Baker.

Shilpa and the Jeffs:


I also brought Klaus some Christmas Medley CDs to take home, which are modeled here by with me and Jeff Baker. I am mid-sentence. Big surprise.



After Thai next door, we finished the night at Moby's, as you do. By this point I had switched to ginger ales and sodas and was ready for bed. I was completely exhausted from the week, but alert enough to notice Moby's nativity scene, in the aquarium.





All photos over at Flickr.

No room at the estate

The marvelous Browns—the parents, their four children and their spouses—are hosting what promises to be a magical black-tie holiday dinner affair at Wildwood (their home) this Friday. (This is in Nashville. Two of the daughters live in SF and like me will be home for Christmas.)

Sadly, my brother Mac and his wife Emily will not be attending as Emily is due in just a couple of weeks. Being mere days away from giving birth, being that distored and trying to get around in a wheelchair, in an antebellum (i.e. not terribly accessible) house, and trying to stuff yourself into a ballgown... well, you can see why they are politely declining the invitation.

Well, Mac being Mac (or just being a Hardcastle), "politely," may not be the best adverb to describe his regret.

I received an e-mail from Mac this morning saying, "This is the regret that I'm putting in the Brown's mailbox tomorrow. So sad that we'll miss it."

To the tune of Jingle Bells starting with the “Dashing through the snow” part

We will miss the fun
At the Wildwood chic par-tay
But Emily’s got a bun
She’ll deliver any day

We’d accept the invite
but she’d deliver at your table
you’d lose your appetite
but, hey, it beats a stable

0hhhhh,
Jingle Bells,
Emily swells
With our unborn son
Christmas time with the Browns, what could be more fun!

Jingle Bells,
Betty tells
Yarns, fact and fable
Your party is a regular Algonquin round table!

Jingle Bells
Emily swells
Missing your par-tay
If she did pop
I’d get the mop and we’d be on our way!

Everybody now, slowly with a lot of gusto, not to mention Jack Daniel’s:

And we’d be on our waaaaay!

Drinkie!

Story and pictures tomorrow.

serfs in the animal kingdom

Giraffes and zebras may get along in the wild, but these patters make for a painful fight in the salon.


>shudder<

the new mix tape

Ah, the mix tape. It says "I like you."

Of course, tapes have been replaced by CDs.

Or if you are really post-millennium, you make a Web site for the object of your affection, and list yourself as the Webmaster.

Uh huh.

You SO know who you are. And yes, I am talking about you.

And yes, I am mocking.

[link to "Mix Tape" from Avenue Q,- launches iTunes]

In the interest of full disclosure, I have become way prolific with the mix CD thing, but that's more of a DJ thing and "don't arrive empty-handed" thing than a "check the box do you like me? yes or no" thing.

Hankering for home

After recovery this morning, I drove Barney down to his lab to retrieve an exceptionally large box he had delivered there, but was far too large for carrying home on his bike. After our enjoyable afternoon in the freezing cold SF greyness, he took me to lunch/dinner at Memphis Minnie's. Barney had been hankering for a monster plate of ribs all day. And as a true Tennessean, I don't turn down an offer for good barbecue.

Memphis Minnie's is consistently praised by foodies, locals, papers, magazines, tv shows, and displaced Southerners.


Yum.

I may be from the deep South, but I suppose Barney is from the far, far south...

Fruits and nuts

Between the sun and the moon

I forgot to take my camera to Kevin's holiday party this year, but I got some snaps from his camera. This year's fete was intentionally smaller than last year's which was a blast, but an enormous production effort. This year's theme was eclipse, with a hint towards light and dark attire (a break from the hot pinks of the Cosmopolitan Christmas and the sequins of Sparkle).

I, of course, always have to have my own take on a theme.


Turn around, Bright Eyes.

iTunes link


[Pictured: Jeff Javits, Wilson Hardcastle, Tony Koester]

Homo for the holidays

I was flipping through radio stations on the way home last night, and stopped on KALW (one of the public radio stations). Although I didn't know it, I had tuned in midway through "Out in the Bay," an LGBT-focused local news program.

KALW often has great bluegrass and local urban country shows, and I stopped to listen to a catchy folk-ish sort of song (when it finished I learned it was just a bit between the segments).

I was so taken by this song I sat in my car in the parking lot until it was done, and then repeated the chorus to myself until I was inside and firing up the laptop to find it on the Internet.

I bought it off iTunes. [iTunes track link]

This may be my new favorite holiday song.

The lyrics are cute, but so much more catchy and endearing by the melody and the performance.

The Christians and the Pagans
by Dar Williams

Amber called her uncle, said “we’re up here for the holiday.
Jane and I were having Solstice, now we need a place to stay.”
And her Christ-loving uncle watched his wife hang Mary on a tree.
He watched his son hang candy canes all made with red dye number three.
He told his niece, “It’s Christmas Eve, I know our life is not your style.”
She said “Christmas is like Solstice and we miss you and it's been a while.”

So the Christians and the Pagans sat together at the table,
Finding faith and common ground the best that they were able.
And just before the meal was served, hands were held and prayers were said,
Sending hope for peace on earth to all their gods and goddesses.

The food was great, the tree plugged in, the meal had gone without a hitch,
'Til Timmy turned to Amber and said “Is it true that you’re a witch ?”
His mom jumped up and said “The pies are burning.” and she hit the kitchen.
And it was Jane who spoke, she said “It's true your cousin’s not a Christian.
But we love trees, we love the snow, the friends we have, the world we share.
And you find magic from your God and we find magic everywhere.”

So the Christians and the Pagans sat together at the table,
Finding faith and common ground the best that they were able,
And where does magic come from? I think magic’s in the learning,
‘Cause now when Christians sit with Pagans, only pumpkin pies are burning.

When Amber tried to do the dishes, her aunt said “Really, no don’t bother.”
Amber’s uncle saw how Amber looked like Tim and like her father.
He thought about his brother, how they hadn’t spoken in a year.
He thought he’d call him up and say “It’s Christmas and your daughter’s here.”
He thought of fathers, sons, and brothers; saw his own son tug his sleeve,
Saying “Can I be a Pagan?” Dad said “We’ll discuss it when they leave.”

So the Christians and the Pagans sat together at the table,
Finding faith and common ground the best that they were able.
Lighting trees in darkness, learning new ways from the old,
And making sense of history. And drawing warmth out of the cold.

Morbits

The Foxy Librarian has been a little morbid as of late. She's running with it (and perhaps with scissors). Check out her bit on obits, and a reprint of her favorite.

Kevin Koberle, starring in...

Not Without My Drag Queen.

Remember Remember the Mighty December

It's that time of year when every evening is busy.

This week I have three dinner dates to spend quality time with good friends whom I don't see as often as I used to, and not nearly as often as I'd like.

Monday night I worked past 9:00, so really wasn't in the mood for anything but food and drink, so Shilpa (also working late) and I took the train to Fuzio for cocktails and comfort pasta.

Tuesday night I was very excited to spend the evening with James and Kate. We used to pal around together all the time, as they say- back in the day. Now we are all too busy with our new jobs and other activities, and what free time they have, they spend with their respective, co-habitating significant others. We made a plan to try a new restaurant, but something casual and not costly. We settled on Crave. When we got there we found Kojak parking, but no seating as it was closed for a private party.

While pondering on the sidewalk a passing Jorge called my name for a hug and holiday wishes. He was on his way to his "special friend's" house with a little Christmas cheer of his own. Jorge himself is a professional photographer, but this sight was so cliché and iconic, I had to snap my own pic.


We walked aimlessly for about an hour, no one willing to make a decision, and no one eager for anything than the others' company. We thought it was silly that such SF veterans as we (each of us celebrating our decade anniversaries in the City) could not come up with a dinner plan. Ultimately, we wanted comfort tastiness, cheap eats, a full bar, and good energy. The latter two are harder to find than you think.

We went back to Fuzio. As we were three we had to wait about 30 to 45 minutes for two twosome tables to open up next to each other. But we were happy with our cocktails and conversation while we waited.


Yes, I had just eaten at Fuzio the night before, but every time I go there I agonize over the menu and ultimately order the same thing. I was actually excited to go again in quick succession because as I had just had my favorite the night before, I was free to have something else. Sure, that Caramelized Mushroom Linguine was good, but it's no Shanghai Curry Chicken. (Shilpa does the same dance every time too-- studies the menu intensely but always orders the roasted pepper chicken sandwich on focaccia.)

While we were waiting, the conversation turned to how long we've been in the City, how we met, and how long we've been friends-- which is basically since we made our homes here ten years ago. We also started talking about what brought us to the City by the Bay, and I had to confess that, in large part, what moved me to move here was feeling lost and unfulfilled in Nashville, and watching the Tales of the City mini-series (which I had to rent from Blockbuster because the Nashville PBS affialiate censored/banned it), and then reading all of the Tales of the City books.

In true Tales of the City fashion, it was just then that someone tapped my shoulder and asked me if we had put our names in with the hostess yet. It was Armistead Maupin, author of Tales of the City.

I love San Francisco.
. . .
I was in work meetings yesterday from 11:45 to around 6:45. and was again in need of a beer and some comfort food. Paul Day e-mailed last week to schedule a little holiday quality time with just the two of us, sans boyfriend. We both wanted casual, close, and cheap, so we met in the middle and thoroughly enjoyed a stress-free and carbo-loaded meal at Crêpes on Cole. I have been too busy and over-scheduled to make it back to the Funky Door, but after all of these holiday meals, I need to sweat.

And last night I stayed up late designing a little Holiday present and belated thank-you gift for Klaus--my former SF friend now back in Copenhagen, who hosted me and RMJ in his home last summer. Klaus is in San Diego for the week for a conference and is flying in/out of SFO so he can visit me and RMJ. RMJ is organizing thing for tomorrow-- another quality time December dinner date for me.

But the December Dining experience I'm really looking forward to is a repeat performace with Chuck and Ginger in Nashville.

We've set a date for the 26th. Ginger has already placed her order:

Date: Tue, 12 Dec 2006
From: VPHale
Subject: Re: xmas cocktails
To: chuckr, wilsonh

btw, make sure you get me three krystal cheese and a chocolate shake.
oh yeah, and a pack of cigarettes. thanks.

note to self

through the fog and drizzle

...I race between meetings. And we are soon off to the painful, awkward, and painfully awkward office holiday lunch. So no posts today. And unless the pain is funny, I won't be writing about lunch. (Yes, yes. Pain is often funny, but not to the guy getting hit with the anvil.)

At least we are headed to Houston's--yummy. Steak and fries may not be good for my body, but they will certainly feed my soul today.

Pitfalls of Christmas shopping for video games

It seems that retro is still metro, and with the new video game consoles being so ludicrously expensive some recommend giving nostalgic game systems.

From the San Francisco Chronicle:

The one rule I'd follow when choosing an older game system is to go back at least three generations. Right now, the GameCube is no more nostalgic than a 1993 Ford Escort, while playing a Sega Genesis is like motoring around town in a Dodge Charger (which would be about 50 times more cool than an Escort even if the Dukes of Hazzard never existed).

As a guy with a ColecoVision, with the Atari 2600 expansion unit, stored under my television right this very minute, I can attest to warm fuzzies/remembered frustration of a Gorilla throwing barrels.

But all of a sudden I wonder, why was the ape named Donkey?

jive turkeys

Or, "If you've ever wondered whatever became of me..."

This bears repeating. Almost 30 years later and still funny.


Shout out to Ian.

Flatterly

In its sincerest form.

Personized M&Ms by GuyTV. Does this look familiar to you?

lights please?

Oh Linus, thank you for teaching us the true meaning of Christmas.

Loo loo la loo, loo loo la loo, la loo loo loo la loo loo loo.



Charlie Brown's pathetic Christmas tree. On sale at Urban Outfitters.

I'm still looking for gift certificates for psychiatric help at five cents.

you copter; you brought her.

Ever since I saw this over at Think Geek, I've wanted one. I asked brother Mac and brother Jay if they thought this would be a good gift for nephew Bradley (son of Jay). Mac said he wanted one himself, but that was giving Bradley stock.

Now, while at 36, I'm wishing I had uncles who gave me stock way back when. But Bradley, at 13, I think would rather have a cool gadget.

Last year or the year before, Papa John bought us an incredibly expensive RC helicopter that never worked. The video on the Think Geek product page looks good, but they say it takes lots of practice to keep from crashing. Think Geek: $50.

Today I saw the same helicopter featured over at Gizmodo, with a link to a Hobbytron product page: only $40. (plus $7 shipping)

$50 worth of stock may appreciate, but an indoor remote control dog/sister/parent annoyance device will be appreciated.



Heh heh heh-- "only indoor use." The parents will love that.

Just ordered one.

Injun lubricant

Poor Shilpa. TraDDitional though she may be, she's just not that into Indian guys. The majority of Indian women are hot. The majority of Indian men are not. (at least to us, 'beauty in the eye' and all of that.)

While crossing campus the other day we were behind a group of about five Indian guys in lab coats, every one a dork and not one of them shaggable, even in clever lighting.

"See?" She said dejectedly, "This is my pool."
"Hate to tell you, somebody peed in your pool."

And now, poor things, they have this to deal with. The media frenzy has got to be so...emasculating. I expect a lot of "it's not the size of the ship but the motion in the ocean" sort of campaigns.

This could be why the society is so controlling of women and whom they see naked marry.

Condoms 'too big' for Indian men

Have a cow, man.

From Alert Reader Kate Rausch:

I wanted to pass along a web-site called Heifer.org in case you are thinking of donating funds this holiday season instead of gift giving. It’s a non-profit that allows you to purchase animals-- pigs, chickens, cows etc. or help families establish farms in impoverished countries so they can feed their families and grow their crops.

My mother has been doing this since I was little. Georgi and I have always “given” a gift basket of baby chicks to a family and my mom always bought a cow in my father’s name. Now it’s all on-line! In case you’re scrambling around trying to find last minute gifts, this is a neat idea. You can give a whole animal (pigs only $120!) or give a partial $ amount and other donors make up the difference.

Heifer.org

Samta Clause is coming to town.

Sam gets in Thursday night, works Friday day, is able to play Friday night, and is off again Saturay morning.

Photos to follow?

We love green eggs and Sam.

Update: Apparently Sam had an article in the WSJ yesterday. Page B4. I don't have a copy and don't subscribe online, but I'm looking for it...

Very impressive.

There is a voice in the wilderness, crying.

Many of us (SF'ers) have been following (and blogging) this story since Thanksgiving. A tragic end.

James Kim Found Dead
Body discovered in steep canyon near river

I keep thinking about the old adage: if you are lost in the woods, don't wander but sit down and someone will find you. I think waiting a week trapped in the snow with his family shows remakable restraint before trekking out for help.

His family was rescued a couple of days ago.

Today his body was found in a ravine.




There's a voice in the wilderness crying, a call from the ways untrod.

Headed home for the holidays

And am I not excited to be flying to BNA:

Flatulence brought 99 passengers on an American Airlines flight to an unscheduled visit to Nashville early Monday morning.

Because of the smell of burnt sulfur and smoke, a flight was forced to land in Nashville for security concerns, everyone was evacuated and seaerched, and dogs were sniffing everying, "getting all up into people's business."

Apparently, a passenger was striking matches in the lav because she was, according to one witness, "way stinky." The witness' husband, who himself could benefit from a bar of soap and a good hosing, corrected her by saying, "That woman's shit STANK! But if we give in, then the terrorists win. They hate our freedoms. God bless dubya."

G.I. Joe

I have to have a follow up exploratory colonoscopy because of my earlier diverticulitis and occasional flare-ups. I have been playing phone tag with the GI department for a month and still have not set an appointment, largely because I am not looking forward to the experience.

With a friend or two the description of colonoscopy or GI investigation has just been shorthanded to a half-rotating twist, finger-up motion a la Tony the Tiger declaring that his flakes are great, but with much less flourish and infinitely less enthusiasm.

Today the hand sign gained audio accompaniment. The procedure is now referred to as a "hoo ha" or, frankly, just a "yipes!"

From there it just degraded into expected metaphors, such as "you need to schedule that cruise up Moon River."

Ugh.

Some might accuse me of using an elipsis to postpone the colon.

And they call him Sandy Claws!

Yes yes, Santa is an anagram for Satan. And he knows more about you than the Bush administration (when you've been sleeping, if you've been bad or good, etc.)

But really, it's just a Jolly Old Saint Nick-- What's there to be afraid of?

The Scared of Santa Gallery.







Update: I take it back. Santa is scary. Maybe these kids are attune to something. Like that kid in the Sixth Sense.

It seems, at least in Finland, the Santa Clause tradition started out as a bearded guy named Joulupukki (iterally "yule goat"), who "donned horns and an animal hide and covered his face with soot or a bark mask. He travelled from house to house frightening children with his wild dancing and singing, and expected offerings of food and booze. The form this Christmas-time character took varied greatly in different parts of the country. According to some versions of the legend he also brought sticks with which to whip naughty children. Stingy households suffered the goat's insults."

The Reuters story from Yahoo News India.

And if that doesn't creep you out, see the line "At Santa's cabin, age is not an indication of status. While in the days of the yule goat the focus was on the adult pleasures for the often virile young "Santa", children are now at centre stage." Have yourself a NAMLA little Christmas. Yikes.

At the holiday party

"Cocktail weenie?"
"No, I 'm quite experienced at drinking."

Come back, shame.

Lance was going to come with me to a show Friday night, but it seems I got the date wrong, so at 8:00 we sat ourselves in a front corner of Moby Dick. We were shortly joined by Shilpa and Dean, and while Dean hasn't had an alcoholic drink in more than a year, the rest of us proceeded to get roundly and thoroughly hammered. We enjoyed our perches and our admirers and basically just let the booze and boys flow to us.

Lance stumbled his way home and Shilps and I poured ourselves into a cab. We didn't think we were that drunk until the hangovers the next day. I had lunch with Paul and Fred at Harvey's where a greasy burger and curly fries was a successful treatment for the morning-afters. We ran into Brad Young while walking around, who had "enjoyed" a similar experience at Moby's as well. Considering our mutual inability to remember our conversation the night before, he introduced a new metaphor to my vocabulary: the rolling blackout.

I just remember being so amused at my own quip, when chastising and calling someone back to me:

"Hey hey! Turn around, Bright Eyes."

Shameful photos will be posted once Shilpa Flickrs.

And we're running out of quarters

Video game flags:

US Invaders


Link

go to your happy place

and rock quietly in the fetal position.

The "Hide Away Cozy"

Thanks to Alert Reader Barney May.

All dressed up and know here to go

This week Kevin and I finally got together again for some fun. And for me and Kev, fun usually ends up in adventure. This week did not disappoint.

After a slow start, Kevin and I got dressed up and went down to Union Square for some light Christmas shopping, but mostly window viewing and reviewing. We got typical Kevin-Carma parking on Powell in front of H&M, the store that doesn't care if you shop with a coffee and Bailey's in hand. Kevin poured over the astounding amount of shiny things and finally found something for a caring coworker.

If Christmas time is when retailers expect to make all their money and go into the black for the year, this holiday shopping scene tells me one thing:


Retailers are screwed.

Macy's has extended Holiday hours, but apparently not on Tuesdays. We got there without about 15 minutes to close, which was fine because I was on a mission.

Over the past eight or none years, my Aunt and I have developed a little Christmas tradition just between the two of us-- it is a challenge each ear to find, in addition to a thoughtful gift, some new and unusual animatronic Christmas-carol singing critter. Nothing common, mind you, but something the other is not likely to come across in their usual shopping venues. (It all started with a horrendous, overalled gingham frog who ribbits "Jingle Bells" when you press his foot/flipper. It is now my favorite holiday decoration.)

I have always been able to count on The Cellar at Macy's to have some such battery-operated animal. We made a bee-line downstairs and found no such creatures on display. I walked over to the counter to ask of the two black female sales clerks where I could find "any holiday-themed annoying animals that sing or dance when you do something to them."

The first woman started, "Well, we used to have..."
But before she could continue the larger woman shoved her aside, batted her away and quickly asserted, "We don't have any this year!" and sort of smirked. I just looked at her. She smiled snidely, then I looked at Kevin and he smiled. At the same time we looked at her and said, "It's just near closing time and you want us to go away."
She said, "No. We used to have a buyer but she went back east so now we don't got any anymore." She could not say this with a straight face. I called her out on it, slightly softened by my own slight laughter I said, "I don't believe you. You can't even look me in the eye when you're saying this. You're lying." She hemmed and hawed and I said I would just come back and look again another day.

On the way upstairs, Kevin suggested we try the Christmas Village on the sixth floor. I've lived here ten years and had no idea Macy's had a Christmas Villiage. I usually only go the the Macy's building next door--that's the Men's store. I only some into this one at Christmas-time to shop in the Cellar for photo frames and dancing reindeer. While there were no animatronics upstairs either, there was lots and lots of Christmas crap. Some of the ornaments were rather impressive though, but those also ran around $60 each. When I first noticed these, it was out of the corner of my eye. And with my mental associations, at first glance I thought this was an ornament of a pig wearing a Bjork-style dress.


Falling also into the category of "imminently breakable," I passed on the ornaments ornate.

I was amused by this sight--


into the display of those eerily wholesome some family-value, white-Christian, monchromatic winter figurine scenes, some smartass snuck in figures of Ernie and Bert and put one of Ernie's rubber duckies in the birdbath.



Leaving Macy's empty-handed, Kevin finally got his Christmas Department Store Window fix. The Macy's windows are better than some others around the square, but Kevin was largely unimpressed. This year the windows all have live puppies and kittens in some sort of movie or Christmas theme. I thought it was cute, but apparently this is what Gumps used to do for years and years and now Macy's has just adopted the practice. I did think the set designs were well executed though. I gave high marks for craftmanship and design, while Kevin gave low marks for the concepts.

Kevin, Holiday Window Display Connoisseur, became my guide. He complimented the Neiman's windows as they focused on the fashions and the products, and lambasted the Disney Store for being the company with the most potential for greatness, and the store with the least and lamest effort to holiday displays.

Saks, as always, was intricate in concept and execution, fantastic in narrative, and expressed in sound as well as sight. Now these are holiday windows.

Or as Kevin said, "You know some fag has been working on this diligently all year."

And then it was time for dinner. And at ten o'clock our options were limited. Kevin, however, is a closet foodie, and keeps a list of cool, niche spots in his phone/pda for just such occasions.

We hit the new Brick on Sutter at Hyde.

High marks for atmosphere and even higher for friendly staff. We chose the low, cosy seats at the upper end of the bar and quickly ordered. It was half-price-wine night, and after the requisite initial cocktail ordered a punchy little New Zealand viogner we would not have ordered otherwise.



It wasn't as crowded as we expected, but there was some people watching mocking available. The young man, trying so hard to woo his young female companion, fell off his stool. The female bartender later told us it might not have been entirely his fault as those stools tip over all the time. They are a bit top-heavy.

Kevin and I had been watching because it was such a clichéd late 20s mating dance it almost looked staged. He had the eager lean-in and the overly interested attentions, and she had the giggle, side glances, and regularly-timed hair flicks.

It was their drinks though that completed their style-- they were so...amateur. She had the "I have the 'Sex and the City' box set cosmo," and he was drinking a Budweiser from the bottle.

There comes a time, young man, when you leave the Bud behind and grow up. It's time for a mature man's drink. Be a man and you might get the girl. Entre nous, Kevin and I considered this might be an opportunity for education, and deliberated ordering drinks for them. The female waitress/bartender returned to give them another round and Kevin and I started muttering under our breaths "don't get a Bud" "no Bud" and the like.

She heard us. Not only that, she got the joke, and agreed with us. She started shushing and rolling her eyes. Later she chilled with us for a while and talked about style in the choice of beverage. She also let us know if we wanted some serious bad-drinking spectator sport, we should come on Wednesdays when the package-tour buses stop by. Apparently, they are loaded with Brits and Irish and there are lots of spritzers, iced beer, and nauseous concoctions to go with the dark socks and sandals.

Later, an office or bachelorette party came in and occupied the opposite side of the bar. Some of those girls were serious bar women. Not only in the size of their drinks, but within minutes there was a legion of glasses along the bar.



The menu items at are described as "designed to share." But what appear to be entres are really just urban, high-end tapas, or small plates. The prices are reasonable if just this side of pushing it, but the portions are not what you'd expect. In retrospect, more than small and slightly above tiny. We ordered the herb-fries first, which filled us comfortably so we enjoyed our meal selections for their flavor and texture without the distraction of nagging hunger.

The menu is inventive and exceptionally well executed. We had, among other things, the seared black cod, and the "chicken and waffles" (Kevin: "with a name like that, you gotta.") The chicken and waffles were lightly battered and fried quail on a foie gras thyme waffle with huckleberry puree and warm honey on the side. All was tasty, but the bones in the quail were unexpected and problematic. It looked like a small poultry filet, but one has to eat around the carcas for not all that much meat. But again, tasty.

And Dear God--the apple tart pie thingie we had for dessert. It featured homemade-by-someone's-Italian-Mother pastry crust and tasty, tasty goodness.

The manager joined us later and hung out for a while too. I threatened to put her photo on the blog, so here she is.


We also loved our young, and if not attentive, exceptionally cute bartender.


But then again, we always love our bartenders. They give us drinks.

We also like candy from strangers.