Three nuns and a drag queen walk up to a bar...

Okay, I know I have not yet regaled of tales of Tucson, but this is too good not to share. I'm at Kevin's, and his roommate started this story from Coronation (where I was Saturday night as well...'n'other story). I just happened to have my laptop open and to be online as he started this story and how could I not post it?

Seriously. A true anecdote that starts with "Three nuns and a drag queen walk up to a bar..."

He started, "So, three of us nuns and the drag queen walk up to the bar... the boyfriend of one of the nuns decided to come in drag, so that's where the the drag queen came in... So he's buying the drinks..." (We had already commented on how alarmingly weak and alarmingly expensive the drinks were.) "...and then the bartender said, 'That'll be three dollars.'
'Three dollars!?'
'Yeah. The nuns drink free and it's three bucks for the drag queen.'"

Apparently, Rodeo drag didn't count.

That would have been me.

Like I said, whole other story.

Mystery Date: Wild Desert Animals

It's been a week since Tucson (TUCSON!) and this is the first chance I've had to put some pics together. Stories with photos to follow soon, but until then here's a little preview!


A better quality, non-flash video is also presented on my personal site over here.

Didn't you know?

Never mess with a librarian.

Apparently two zealous yahoos from Homeland Security (who the hell is screening employees over there? Doesn't Homeland Security have any security of its own?) marched into a branch library, shouted for attention, and announced that, for reasons of National Security, patrons could not use library computers to look at porn. It may just be me here but fundamental religious zealots willing to kill for their conservative beliefs, beliefs which abhor female nudity, are not likely to be at the library surfing for Girls Gone Wild. But it's not like our security agencies have a proven track record for being real good with the thinkin'.

The agents asked patrons to step away from the computers, then they checked to see what each person was reading. One man's site was deemed objectionable and the agents asked him to step outside.

My favorite part of the news article is this:

It then appears that the Homeland Security officers encountered a force which was considerably more powerful than any charter they may have been given by the President. A librarian approached them and told them to be quiet.

Ultimately, "The police were called and the men were asked to leave. Homeland Security has moved to distance itself from the pair's action. It has confirmed that the two worked for their local county office but said they were operating way outside their authority."

Seriously, don't fuck with a librarian. Don't make me go Medieval Literature on your ass.

I'm just sayin'.

Tucson Baby!

Tucson? Yes, Tucson. Random destination I know, but Kevin had his reasons. And Kevin and I can make a screaming party out of a gunny sack (even the lamest event can become an exciting experience with the right company).

The trip was an absolute BLAST!! Plenty of pics and many, many stories. But I am too busy to post about it now.

Here's the sitch: Kevin flew me to Phoenix where we met up with special surprise guest Kelly Carlson, and we rented a convertible and drove through the back desert roads to Tucson, where we were joined by our fourth, Bill (whom after this trip I will refer to as Eyore). The archor event and precipitating idea for this trip was the premiere performance of the touring company of Kevin's favorite musical (he's an unabashed show queen): Bombay Dreams.

Three days, gallons of liquor, two parks, a cave, a rotting pidgeon, three trannys, and lots and lots of commentary.

Photos and anecdotes to come.

Update.

Mystery Date

Tomorrow's the day! Kevin has planned a mystery vacation for me. All I know is that I have to pack a bag and be ready to go to the airport by 6:00 tomorrow morning.


Course set for adventure!

At your cervix.

Best line overheard in a staff meeting:

"My vagina is not making this better."

We love green eggs and Sam.

A little follow up to the Mr. Smarty-No-Pants post.

Sam was in town from NYC, and a little thrown by the 75 degree, sunny weather here while he had two feet of snow on his balcony back in Manhattan. Sam [friendster] briefly lived in the flat above Lance and is an all around wonderful guy who has become an all around wonderful friend. I joined him and Lance for brunch in the Castro, arriving after Lance's slapstick routine in which he elbowed a waitress with a tray full of drinks. By the time I arrived, they had (quite literally) been sent to the curb. I joined them at the sidewalk seating, which was much nicer anyway with the dog and the sunshine.


Lance and Sam at Catch
The three of us spent the day doing the gay/Castro shopping thing with Sam, which was excessively pleasant considering the weather and the company. Lance, who had taken two-step lessons with me years ago, asked if I was headed dancing that night. Both he and Sam thought that gay country/western dancing sounded like a lot of fun. And they were still committed even after I told them it was also their first underwear (optional) party. In addition to t-shirts and a pleather jacket, Sam also bought some snazzy underwear from Injeanious. The tighty-yellows matched his new t-shirt, and considering Sam's physique, it was our loss he never got to the point where he would drop trou. He did get some fun snapshots though (he took the one of me and Kyle at the end of the previous post).

In between shopping and dancing, Sam was anxious for a haircut. Lance went home to do some work on the house and get some work done for the office, and I stayed with Sam at the only salon in the neighborhood that could take him immediately. At It's All About You (which really, it is), Sam and I both experienced the tranny in training. Not training to be a tranny, she had that down, but training in cosmetology or whatever. She started on Sam's haircut, but had to be corrected reapeatedly by the Master of the House until he could take over. The owner/master of It's All About You is a caricature of a stereotype (if such a thing is possible) of the effeminate, fey, aging asian homosexual-- waifishly thin, loose wrists, mostly unintelligble accent, and lots of giggling. We would learn later that he used to work at another salon called "the Look of Love," which the neighborhood affectionately referred to as "the Rook of Ruv." (Don't get all PC police on me. I am told it was said with affection.)

The Rook of Ruv
After he took over Sam's haircut, the tranny convinced me to get a pedicure while I waited for him. After she drew blood, the senior pedicurist took over. Looking over the vast menu of services (what the hell is "nipple enhancement, men/women" and why does it cost over $200?), Sam thought he would also get his slight monobrow waxed. (To be honest, the hair between his eyes was barely perceptible. But I suppose if you feel a Bert coming on, you might as well wax that bit.) The sort of spa day was sort of nice, only to be defiled at the end. After the Rook of Ruv had cleaned Sam's brow, he leaned down into the chair, grabbed Sam's package, and asked if he needed anything else waxed. The offer was politely, and rapidly, declined.

The salon time was followed by sunset drinks at Club Jackson (aka Barney's) overlooking the Golden Gate with Barney and RMJ, Ing and Ing's fab girlfriend Ainsley.

RMJ and Barney
Now I mention all of this so I can talk about last night (Monday). Lance invited us all over for drinks after work as Sam and he were leaving bright and early the next day (different destinations). After a volley of e-mails, we settled on cocktails at 7:00 to be followed by beer and pizza and porn. Apparently, Lance's roommate has a new plot-intensive Falcon double-disc DVD set filmed in and supposedly about New Zealand, and Lance and Barney are Kiwis. We were looking to mock it.

Also, during the all day volley of e-mails, I had gotten sufficient grief (largely from Barney) about my dacing around in my underpants. I had threatened Barney with a reprise. And so I pciked up RMJ and Sam and arrived at the Dolores Park B&B (aka Lance's house) in my boxers.

The Freshmaker

By the way, Guys Gone Wild is the funniest damn thing I've seen. Although it must be viewed communally, with lots of beer and commentary. This was Spring Break 2005 Cancun. Or was it Aruba. We thought that perhaps that girl wasn't kidnapped at all, she is just getting laid. I am afraid, however, that next year we will see Girls Gone Wild: Girls Gone Missing!

So until Spring Break 2006 comes out, I've got my favorite wild boys right here.

And I’m not wearing any pants.

With possibly equal amounts of mischief and glee, I was able to send the following true text message to several people Sunday night:

It’s almost 11:00. I’m in the McDonald’s drive through. I’m not wearing any pants.

Those who know me know that I do, on occasion, crack myself up. This was one of those moments. Academically, I believe the humor in this lies in two parts: (1) the lack of any explanation and (2) “not wearing any pants.” I think the phrase “not wearing any pants” is inherently funny. As with Gary Larson's use of cows in The Far Side, it’s funny for any occasion. Or akin to Steve Martin’s hypothesis that any news will be perceived as just fine if accompanied by the banjo. (He posited that the banjo could have saved Nixon if he had just come out and said "Everything’s great!" while strumming. Or "I’d like to talk about foreign policy, but first, a little Foggy Mountain Breakdown.")

Such is the power of the pantless. Never apologize, never explain.

If this were an episode of Alias, we would now segue to "4 Hours Earlier" for the backplot. (I am explaining, but not apologizing.)

Sunday night was the Sweetheart's Ball at Sundance Saloon. It was also it's first underwear party ("Briefs, Bras, and Boots"). I had been very against the idea. And indeed in practice it was very much like "Sundance Saloon Goes to the Powerhouse." With a warm day, no A/C, and hundreds of dancers, the space quickly grew opressively hot. (And there was some serious O with the B's.) It was truthfully like trying to do an exercise class in a sauna. It was so hot and humid in there I got dizzy and even had to sit outside with my head between my legs for a while. There was sufficient playful peer pressure to lose the pants. But it was the heat that finally got me. I sweat completely through four shirts before I said F it and took off my heavy, wet, sweaty jeans.

Of course, ever in theme, I had heart boxers on. And man, as fervently against the idea as I had been, I became equally fervent in favor. Dancing in boxers is the only way to go. I love louging in boxers. I'm considering coming to work like this.

At the end of the night there was a big crowd at the clothes check trying to get dressed. But I was still warm outside and I didn't really care so I just took my bag of clothes and walked into the night—a vision in red tee, pink cowboy shirt, heart boxers, bare legs and boots. Then I joined the caravan jonesing for soda and fries in the McDonald's drive-through.

And I'm not wearing any pants.

Settle down, Beavis.

Alert reader Lee Pennington recognizes an absoutely necessary photo opportunity when he sees one, even though his boyfriend may think he's crazy.
(Look closely at the name of the shop. Click to enlarge.)



Thank you Lee!

I am Cornholio!

I need TP for my bunghole!

Why gay men will win any drinking game.

The truly horrible and tragic story of the young man on a murderous rampage from Massachusetts to Arkansas is finally over. The story ends with the boy shooting his female companion in the face before he himself was finally and fatally shot by police officers.

For those of you haven't been following the story, last week a teenager entered a New Bedford, Massachusetts bar, Puzzles, ordered a drink, and asked the bartender if it was a gay bar. The bartender said it was and the young man then went ape shit on the customers with a hatchet and a hand gun. He struck one man in the head with the hatchet, and the man who came to his aid, and shot a third man before fleeing. He left behind the axe and the machete he did not get a chance to use. Very scary.

Somehow getting to Arkansas with a female companion, he then shot and killed the highway patrolman who had pulled him over for speeding. Ultimately, the gunman was fatally wounded on Saturday when he opened fire on police at a roadblock following a high-speed chase.

I'll stop with the summary there as (1) there is plenty of news coverage of this online and (2) he doesn't need any more fame.

This morning's San Francisco Chronicle online edition featured a story by Pam Belluck of The New York Times. What struck me most about the piece was the final paragraph in which she cites an AP report:

At Puzzles Lounge, New Bedford's mayor, Scott Lang, paid a visit on Saturday night to tell patrons that Robida had been caught in Arkansas and was in the hospital. Several patrons expressed relief, mixed with regret that others had been killed by Robida. The patrons included Robert Perry, one of Robida's victims, who showed up at the bar after his release from the hospital, with a black eye, a 5-inch gash on his face and a bullet hole in his back, according to the Associated Press.

That's right my friends, this guy was attacked my a madman with a hatchet, then shot. And the first thing he does when he gets out of the hospital: HE GOES BACK TO THE BAR.

It's one thing to be cliche and "get back on the horse after you fall down," but to get back on the bar stool "with a black eye, a 5-inch gash on his face and a bullet hole in his back," THAT'S a man I want buy a drink.

Those Duke Boys

My previous post regarding the atrocious and not-even-so-bad-it's-funny Dukes of Hazzard movie generated some response.

I gleefully submit mathematician Vance MacDonald's proposed equation for what makes a bad movie really, really bad. Check out "An Initial Attempt to Derive an Equation That Can Be Used to Measure the Worst Movies of All-Time" over at Babblog.

The general equation looks something like this:

SR = Pb · (Sp + Sc)
Q
Where the Stinker Rating (SR) is a function of the Production Budget (Pb) times the sum of the Star Power (Sp) and the Script Factor (Sc) divided by the overall Quality (Q) of the picture. Cult Status (Cu) plays a part in there somewhere, but mostly as an elimination factor. Read Vance's proposal. It's very well done and frames the discussion of really, really miserable films quite well.

Please, altert readers, submit your answers. And as for all math tests, please show your work.

And for extra credit, here is a photo submitted by Sean and Meg in their Bo and Luke Duke Halloween costumes from last year. It seems the Honda was also Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Banged into the General Lee.

Enabler Feeding Frenzy

Kevin and I feed off of each other like DG and HB. As happy as I am that the soul mates Kevin and Shawn have gotten back together (again), I was actually very worried that I would lose Kev to the boyfriend as so many friends have disappeared before. But Shawn, also a friend of mine, knows that Kevin needs his playtime. As Kevin put it, it like having to let the dog run loose for a while. You got to let them out for a good romp pretty frequently. (It seems this has taken a linguistic turn for the sexual--this is not sleazy romping mind you, but out on the town, trouble-causing, whiskey-drinking, comment-making, sometimes bail-requiring romping. Although now that Kevin is back to being a one-man-man, I am still free to flirt with reckless abandon.)

Kevin and I are each other's enablers, which may be why we have so much fun together. Anything is possible and nothing is forbidden. After an exceptionally brief heart-to-heart, I basically summed it up like this: It's nice to know that Shawn's love won't interfere with my drinking.

And to that, Saturday was a joint birthday party for Ron (a friend of mine/ours from Sundance) hosted by Dana at his place in Danville. And Lord knows I am not about to cross a bridge, much less deal with a bridge AND a tunnel, without my wing man. I couldn't understand why someone would like to live way out way out WAY out in the boonies like that. Then I saw the inside of the house. To call it a sprawling mansion would not be entirely inaccurate. The house is big and beautiful, if unfortunately a little too thematic in its decor. Dana, also a good dancer, is big and beautiful too (tall big). And I am happy to be a new addition to the pool party list.

The party ultimately moved from Dana's place to 1220 in Walnut Creek-- the tiny gay bar behind a 7-11 that plays C/W on alternating Saturdays. After leaving with minimal mischief at Dana's (Kevin's line: "Here. I'll do it. You have more of a reputation to maintain...") we had a little trouble parking outside of 1220. Across the street between the seemingly endless red zones, was space for two large cars, and someone had parked in the middle so there was not quite enought space in front or in back to park another car without jutting into the red zone. I parked first in front, sticking out about a foot into the red. While guiding me from the sidewalk, Kevin suggested it might be better to park in the space behind, so I tried that. And yelled to Kevin out the window, "Am I better in front or in the rear?" To which Kevin went into an apoplectic laughing fit and fell into the ivy. All I could do was sit there mumbling "oh for heaven's sakes."

Hot boy primer

Apparently, A is for A-hole.

Winsome, lose some, and win some.

I had mismarked my calendar and came very close to missing the spectacular show "Odd By Nature" this weekend (subtitled "An Evening in Sean Owen's Shorts"). This collection of short scenes written and directed by Sean Owens is amazing! I tried to rave to some coworkers earlier and just came off sounding like a lunatic. Is it any wonder when describing a witty, wicked, urbane dark, light, orgasmic, frigid, and exceptionaly clever collection of theatrical bits. The wonderful concoction includes such diverse elements as "Climax" in which there is none and is rather an amusing piece about how a couple will avoid any serious discussion about their miserable relationship; a monologue from an enthusiastic twink who has been buried alive by the hottest guy; a hilarious piece imagining if the woman who swallowed a fly had done so as part of a prix fix menu; the secret sex lives of Rob and Laura Petrie; and a rousing showtune to finish off the show: Everyone Loves Porn.

Read the SF weekly review here. My WORD that show was funny.
Very winsome.

In fact, I loved the show so much, I am taking RMJ to see it again tonight. Afterwards we're going to catch Suppositori Spelling's show "All That Spaz" at the Deco (and oddly by nature enough, Spaz was at last night's performance as he too is friends with the playwright.)

Where I lost some last night-- highs and lows seeming to cancel each other out-- was feeling (or actually being) dismissed by love interests A and C. (I'll get to a little narrative about A, B, and C later when the shame wears off.) I had invited A to the show, albeit only with a day or two's notice. A works 8 to 9 Fri-Sun and loves theater and I thought this would be the perfect date night. The show started at 8:00, but ultimately he couldn't make it because his yago class didn't get out until 7:30. WTF?! You only work Friday to Sunday. Here's an idea-- take another class, work out earlier in the day, or bloody well just don't go to this one. I understand he looks as good as he does because he keeps fit, but to turn down an invitation for dinner and theater for a work out is a little too "I have to wash my hair that night" for me. I wasn't sure if A was interested or just interested in being my new friend. I have my answer. Clearly I know how he prioritizes time with me.

After A had bailed (the first time, it was off then on then off) I cast all self-esteem aside and invited C. C was also unable to go because he was going to the Bare Chest Calendar Competition at the Powerhouse. C and I have been very friendly and I have been trying to take it up a notch, with positive feedback to continue. However, a couple of weeks ago I was made to feel pretty much lower than dirt when while talking to me, he turned mid-sentence to make out with someone else. Had I known he gave away deep kisses like lollipops at the doctor's office, I probably wouldn't have wanted one so badly. Or taken it to mean something it clearly was not.

I went from the fabulous show, ditching the tie and sequined dinner jacket in the trunk, to the Powerhouse for the last hour of the competition. My friend Bill was a semi-finalist and working the room quite, uh, handily. C was holding his own court and working the room, but we chatted briefly. Ever friendly and charming and hot that C, but he made it clear that there was no interest in me beyond friendly. So I lost some there too. But the only sure thing about luck is that it will change. While neither A nor C were interested in returning my affections, there were several men at the bar who were interested in at least some limited quality time with me-- including a handsome shirtless flight attendant who was interested in some infidelity. While I was interested in going home alone, it was nice to know I had options. Made me feel pretty. Win some winsome.

Part of the competition for the calendar contestants is selling raffle tickets. The are a dollar each, or $10 buys you the length of your inseam's worth of tickets (well, belt to heel). This is a seriously, uh, hands-on experience, and Bill was outselling his competition. To be supportive, I bought $20 worth (and it goes to a good cause), which bought me both down the front and up the back's worth of tickets. And at 6'2", that's a handfull of tickets.

There were only two more drawings of the night: the remaining general prize basket of porn, lube, and this year's calendar; and the grand prize, a 2 GB iPod Nano.

I won both.

I may have lost at the game of love, but I got some lovely parting gifts.

Need a diuretic?

Cause this will make you pee your pants.

Blatantly lifted from another blog, this is too good not to share. David Hasslehoff is hooked on a feeling.

You might want to sit down for this one. We here in the office almost fell over.

Look carefully for his catching a big fish (thrown at him, not with a rod and reel), and then stuffing it in his mouth. WTF?

Power Nap

I used to joke about slipping a dog bed under my desk/desks of coworkers for the occasional but much needed after-lunch power nap. Who knew I was thinking small?

This, my friends, is the NAPMOSPHERE. For the hard-core napper. (Although generally I think that people who would be described as 'hard-core' would not be big nappers.)

From the website:

Four groups of Architecture students at the University of Stuttgart have developed products and prototypes for the relaxing nap, the so called Power Napping. Many studies show that a short rest during the day improves productivity. Up to this point there have only been a few firms that have integrated Power Napping into the course of a day.

And this is what it looks like on the inside:


Sort of like Dreamland meets Chuck-E-Cheese.