Absolutly not

While I'm on the subject, what is it with the freaking vodka label queens who tout Absolut and Stoli as the be-all and end-all and think they are cool, or somehow impressice, by ordering labels such as Grey Goose? (A Grey Goose Cape Cod? If a vodka is supposed to taste so good as to merit the price tag, why mix it with cranberry juice?)

It's all just marketing, people. Grey Goose wasn't some new vodka which tasted so smooth it rose to the top and became expensive-- it is just another brand from an old company created to be marketed as high-end. Whether it merits the reputation or not.

The same label queens who tout Absolut turn up their noses at Smirnoff. This cracks me up because in Europe, particularly Scandanvia, Absolut is the swill and Smirnoff is the label of choice. It's all in the branding. Personally (with the notable and detestible exception of the black cheery and cranberry flavors) I I believe that the Smirnoff Twisted flavors taste much less artifical than the Absolute "infused" options. And as much as I like to support local businesses, the HANGAR vodka flavors taste like PEZ.

To wit, I love this ad from 42 Below. 42 Below won a prestigious vodka taste test, and in the same taste test Absolut was the clear bottom of the barrel (if vodka were made in barrels).

Larger, legible version here.



In the interest of full disclosure, I should say that I am a steady "mandarin and soda" drinker. So much so it says so on my calling cards. These are being replaced with Wilson Hardcastle: Vodka soda, with a twist of limelight.

Well (42) below me down.

A year or three ago, my favorite little kiwi Barney, proprietor of Club Jackson, introduced me to a cheekly little New Zealand Vodka he brought back from a visit home. The Vodka label is 42 Below.

Now while fruit-infused vodkas such as Absolut Mandarin or Stoli/Smirnoff Rasberry may be all the rage here, the super special fruitty 42 Below is feijoa. An acquired taste to be sure, but after Barney introduced me to it, I sought to acquire all I could. (Feijoa, like the kiwi, is a native New Zealand fruit. It may be that feijoa only grows in NZ actually. You can go wikipedia it up if you want to.)

The 42 Below ads are indicative of their cheeky attitude:


(larger, more legible version here.)

And because it's all natural and stuff, it won't do crazy shit to your body.

42 Below became near and dear to my heart, and to the hearts others in my circle, with their viral flash video ads. This one was originally made for a Hero party (circuit sort of party in NZ) and has been tweaked a little for the Christopher Street event. Still effing hilarious. You can CO the other viral ads on their website under "Virals" to the left.

42 Below is now a treasured treat at Club Jackson. All the more precious as one can only bring in one bottle at a time (stupid US Customs). We have just gotten word that the nearby Jug Shop will be carrying bits of 42 Below. Here's hoping for both a moderate price and a case of feijoa.

I was considering ordering a t-shirt, but I have no idea how much $95NZ is in USD.



That, and it appears that my and my 42 Below Brethren have made its creator stinking rich.

From today's The New Zealand Herald:

For two days this week the 42 Below website read: "We are totally f***ing loaded." This was a statement of the obvious - it was also an obvious thing for the company to do.

Gloating, showing off, or, as Geoff Ross, the bloke who founded the company and who is now totally loaded would prefer, taking the piss is what 42 Below is very good at. "We've won more awards than you've had hot women," is one of 42 Below's previous boasts.

So when Bacardi buys your little vodka company, the one you started in a shed in a Wellington garden, for $138 million, you're going to shout about it. And the first question I have to ask Ross is: "How totally f***ing loaded are you?

My favorite revelation in the article: The corporate office reception desk is a bar.

The ACME Bat Costume

And how to make your own from an umbrella.



The ACME bat costume*...


*only to be worn by bats.

I can hear the police captain now.

"No, seriously... Where's the car?"

Now I am far too familiar with what a pain in the ass it is to have your car stolen, but this is ridiculous.

From the Dallas Morning News this week:

Sometime between Friday and Monday, a car outfitted with cameras, tracking capabilities and a remote engine-kill system designed to catch auto thieves was stolen somewhere in Dallas – police would not say where. They also would not identify the make and model of the car, so that if it is recovered, it can remain part of the undercover fleet.

This stinks

This paragraph is taken from one of my favorite blogs. She paints quite a striking olfactory picture.

Here's my game for you: Read the paragraph, and guess the location.

The air is thick with the smell of hair grease, fortified wine tinged sweat, unwashed body, clothes that haven’t been changed in months, perhaps years, wet wool, and that curious metallic odor of mental illness. It is a heady symphony of odors both acrid and cloying and it permeates your nostrils, your clothes, your hair and your memory. The odors overwhelm our HVAC system and I could make a case that the odor situation is becoming an OSHA issue.

Here's a hint: it's her workplace.

She continues her musings:

Smells are life. I enjoy rich, pungent odors: Morbier cheese, the carcinogenic smell of gasoline when I fill up my car, the odor of books burning and decomposing from acid treated paper, the smell of mulch, horse sweat when I worked at the stables, but I often wish I could shut my nostrils like I do my eyes. That way I wouldn’t have had to endure at an old job a colleague who doused herself with some cheap, chemical perfume that clawed at my nostrils and choked my throat. I could never identify the brand, but I’m suspecting one of those awful ones named after a celebrity, like J-Lo. How depressing that anyone buys that shit.

The answer.

Liver let die.

A limited edition piece of usable art-- wherein form is truly married to function:

The Bad Liver Tiki Mug.



"This unusual mug, designed by Stuckie, is shaped like a rotten liver."

Too bad it is limited to one to a person, and on a first come, first serve basis. I certainly know some people this would be perfect for.

Oh deer.

From an e-mail with the subject "Montana Living"

>Georgi hit a deer coming home from Glacier National Park going about 40mph.
>The deer walked away...




Everyone was okay.

But SHEESH. We have deer all over Tennessee and we sometimes see them by the road at night, but in the "wildlife versus automobile" incidents, it's generally the opossums who participate. And lose. This deer, it seems, won this round.

it's quiet.

...a little too quiet.

You may have noticed the lack of new posts. Not to say there has not been a lot going down, just a lot I am not at liberty to blog. There have been a few bright moments, but basically all my time has been comsumed with (as we say here) being the Grand Marshall in the Shit Parade.

Hell is breaking loose and and it is breaking all over me.

Happy Fun Time will resume when I have the time and the emotional wherewithal to have happy fun times.

In the meantime, I will strive to entertain you with brief bits and amiable amusements. Longer narratives are going to have to wait.

Peace out.

Help wanted

Sign in a pizza shop window, on Castro Street:

Reigning Queen Retains Title

ironically, no cream

We like to get a running start on our evenings out with a cocktail at home.

And on the way.

Nothing makes a muni/cab ride more pleasant than a roadie.

But you don't want to carry a proper glass with you (well, "want," yes, but "wise," no), and open Solo cups are just messy and a little too tacky. Covered tumblers are great, but the best roadies are disposable (and preferably recyclable). So my response to my party's call for roadies:

Mix your cocktail in paper coffee cups and snap on the lid.

Looks like latte, tastes like vodka.



And on this cab ride, we Christened this togo the Whore's Coffee.

bi's on bikes

Sent in by alert reader (and straight man) Vance:

A link to a pair of bicycle shoes on eBay:

Item number: 330030331334

The eBay headline:
Northwave bicycle shoes. Gay interest.

Vance's comment:

Please explain.

"Gay interest" for bike shoes?

I got nothin'. Anyone else?

Shout out.

You know who you are.


Gay rodeo bits and snaps finally posted here.

technical difficulties continue

The Blogger photo server is still not working. And what fun is a Gay Rodeo recap without photos? Such as they are.

And my connection to blogger.com is hinky at best. You would think now that they are owned by Google they would be more stable. At any rate, posts will resume when I have the time and the connection becomes stable.

Arrrg!

Avast ye mateys! T'was an intense weekend it was. After the crew barely survived the brutal attack of the Bloated Harpie on Friday, this Dread Pirate strode ashore for a weekend full of cowboys-- steer riders, barrel racers, and dancing boots. There was even a break for this cowboy to take his Indian to an Indian/Irish/Bitter Queen Summer birthday roastin' (pigs and chickens) and boiling (well, also pigs and chickens, but these were men in a hot tub).

And, as ye well know, plenty of ale.

Yo ho ho and and a bottle of rum I say!

By the way, it be the annual International Talk Like a Pirate Day.


The Jobby Roger


And a little etymology from our friends over at Wordsmith.org:

buccaneer (buk-uh-NEER) noun

1. An unscrupulous adventurer in politics, business, etc.
2. A pirate.

From French boucanier (buccaneer, barbecuer, hunter of wild ox),
from boucan (a frame for smoking meat), from Tupi mukem.

Buccaneer comes from a French adaptation of a Carib Indian word bukan, a way of slow-cooking meat over a low fire on a grill. The first bouncaniers were interlopers in "Spain's" Caribbean, and the Spaniards tried to drive them out. It was only too easy for England to recruit the buccaneers into attacking Spanish interests. So modern day barbecuers, with their Webber gas grills and comical aprons, are actually descendants of the classic Caribbean pirates.

And as for sounding like a pirate, John Baur (guest Wordsmith) writes:

I've often heard people talk about pirates' "cockney accents." Wrong! The stereotypical pirate has a Cornish accent, based on the performance of Long John Silver by actor Robert Newton in the 1950 Disney version of "Treasure Island". He was from Cornwall, and his over-the-top performance and native accent are the reason people think that's what a pirate sounded like. Of course, pirates came from all nationalities. But the pop culture image is firmly embedded, and Robert Newton is the reason why.


Photos from the Rodeo weekend to be posted once Blogger's image upload starts working again...

Blogger unresponsive

The Blogger service has been unresponsive all day. Very frustrating. Posts to resume when Blogspot is working again...

More bars in more places...

If only that were true.

I could so use a drink.

The Gilded Moose

I don't know where you go to get your fix of bitchy/ironic photo captions, but I feed my need over at The Gilded Moose.

This week's favorite:

Liza Minnelli Replaces Albus Dumbledore at Hogwarts

Something for the Straight Boys

I have been accused of publishing photos of my hot accomplice/co-conspirator good friend and co-worker as a ploy to keep straight men interested in the blog.



Whatever works.

Calendars for sale this Christmas.

Taco Flavored Kisses

As noted over at Metroblog, the Chronicle has a new food critic who took the daunting task of reviewing the City's taquerias--eating at 85 taquerias in only 70 days. Yipes.

Jess Hemerly writes:

Addison writes about our beloved taquerias with the wide-eyed enthusiasm that only a newcomer could show. He even includes a top 20. Bay Area newcomers take heed: gorging yourself on tacos and burritos is a great way to get to know San Franciso!

SF Chronicle/SFGate story: In search of the transcendent taqueria

Breaking news: Kate Moss to eat something

Maybe. If she wants to work the runways of Madrid.

From the BBC: Madrid fashion week, one of Spain's most prestigious shows, is banning underweight models on the basis of their body mass index (BMI).

So it looks like those waifish models will have to take their fingers out of their mouths and insert a sandwich or something.



[The photo to the right is just for illustration. I know that is not Kate Moss.]

How 'bout them Apples

Apple announced a new iTunes and new iTunes Music Store and a the cool new iPods yesterday at the WWDC. The Nano is all new--up to 8 GB, brighter screen, longer battery life, and now in five bight brushed steel colors.

They have a sleek new ad.

And I love that less than 24 hours later, someone has posted a parody to YouTube.



Made on a Mac no less. Natch.

Driving me crazy

How much fun can you have with a steering wheel?

Well, you've seen this:



And this:



But how about this?

Props to Tony

Okay sure, as a Leather Daddy of renown, Tony already has lots of "props" for his little theater. But this morning while updating last night's post, I was looking for a potentially better link than the MySpace one for his alter ego in the Order of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, Sister Gladys Pantzarhoff, and I found something very cool.

Back in April there was the crazy driver who collided with several cars and caused explosions and a fire in the Castro. What I didn't know is that Tony was in the thick of things, and had distracted his friend into conversation preventiong him from getting on his bike, which was promptly hit by the out-of-control driver.

From MetroBlogging San Franciscio, here is a link to the "live updates" and comments to the crash in the Castro, written by Tony's Mother in the Order, posting here as Violet Blue.

back to the board

Hey kids. No big fun drama to blog or photolog from this weekend. It was a long week ending in a working Saturday.

The bad mood from last week came from Labor Day Sunday night/Monday morning. After a lovely Saturday brunching and shopping, and hunting men and matress pads at Bloodbath & Beyond with Barney, we picked up RMJ and spead out on Dolores beach for a lovely late afternoon of wine and sunshine. I had some great pics I took with my fab new phone, but I can't post them and I'll tell you why later.

I left the boys in the park to make their way to a rooftop party South of Market so I could rush home and get ready and pick up Kelly to go to Shawn's Big Kevin Birthday Night. NB: Kevin HATES birthdays. His own, others, planning, dealing, all of it. Too many bad birthdays in his youth. Shawn spent about 72 hours, a chunk of cash, and lord knows how many candles and bottles of lube to break Kevin of that association. (Successfully I might add.)

It turned out to be a very expensive night though: We started out at Medjool ("Bringing the Marina to the Misssion since 2005"), which has a nice rooftop deck but crappy cocktails at are-you-freaking-kidding-me prices. Two drinks and shared nibbles were about $50 each. Shawn pulled a major super-boyfriend surprise by calling his aunt for an old raisin pie recipie, and baking one, as that was Kevin's favorite part of their recent trip to visit Shawn's family in Lima, Ohio.



The pie was awesome. It was a lovely night with lovely people.



And Tony almost blew a gasket (heh, heh, heh. I said "blew") over some Long Island tourist's shoes. He wanted the suede fucia numbers for Gladys.



After drinks and nibbles at Medjool, Shawn had planned for us to go to a cabaret sort of show. Long story short, it was very much fringe-community theather of people who were theater-geeks in high school, then aged, moved to SF, and never developed any talent beyond growing breasts or extensively mimicing Monty Python, depending on gender. It was so below amateur black box only Dante would be able to place it. With the notable exception of the comedic/retarded cow-bell-playing freaulein. Now she was funny.

This should give you an idea of how sophisticated the space was:



En route, Kelly and I were certain that we did not have enough alcohol in our bloodstreams to enjoy the show. So while the others were finding our seats, Kelly and I surreptitiously slipped out to the Beauty Bar next door for shots. There was only the bartender and some British bloke there. We ordered "shots, right now." After downing the lemon drops, we started to bolt back to our seats when my phone rang. Tony called, "Did you bitches ditch me?" Se he ran next door and we had another shot.

And during intermission, so did we all, along with the random Brit Collin:



After the show we went to the also insanely expensive Foreign Cinema for dinner and then a few more rounds at the recently remodeled diner (whose name I foget and and is now super-swank) before calling it a night.

SUNDAY
I finally got to catch up on some sleep and wasted a lot of Sunday by lounging in bed. I did finally get out and go over to the Hairrison Street Fair where I volunteered at the Rodeo booth. It was a fine afternoon, but nothing really exciting. The “fair” was really “blah” actually.

For those of you who do not know, the HAIRrison Street Fair is the Bear Fair. “Bears” are burly/hairy gay men. As opposed to young and/or hairless “twinks,” “clones,” or muscle queens. Guys too slight of build to be “bears,” but hirsute and into the scene are “otters.” There were too many non-bears for the bear fair.

Bears:


Bear rub:


Pretty little leather twinks, but not bears:


Bears not shitting in the woods:


And just plain "freak."


That night, Lance and I went out to Sundance Saloon. We didn’t get there until after 8:00, and were annoyed to learn that they were closing early to accommodate another event in that space (being Labor Day). So instead of staying late with these guys, we were only there for an hour, which sucked. Afterwards, Lance went home and I went looking for a good time around town.

I failed.

I stopped in the Powerhouse and the Lone Star thinking there would be some fun tourists in for the Big Bear Weekend, but no. After a while I just gave up and went back to my car, where the window had just been smashed in. My brother Jay had called earlier with some tech support questions (he just bought a new iMac for the family!) and I didn’t put my phone back in my pocket but left it in the cup holder. Some meth-head threw what looked like a brake shoe through the window of my new "I have no business paying for this" BMW, scoring the leather seats, chipping the trim, dash, gear shift, and panels, and spraying shards of glass everywhere.

Soooo pissed. I walked to the corner, where there were two useless uniformed cops who told me “yeah, that happens a lot here” – apparently only 20 feet away—and I had to go to the police station down the block. After picking out enough glass so I could sit inside, and slicing my fingertips in the process and dripping blood all around, I made my way to the police station. There were two other people in line at the window waiting to make similar reports.

The bathrooms at the courthouse/police station were locked and one officer let me back behind the glass to wash out my fingertips. While we were chatting, he said, “Oh yeah. Even our car windows get broken.” My only thought was, “Then how useless are you? The police cars get vandalized in front of the police station? I can see that criminals respect and fear the SFPD.” While the complete and total apathy of the police department was frustrating, it was not surprising.

What followed the rest of the night was a seemingly endless series of annoying circumstances that underscored the point that this night I would not be getting a break: I found a service station open where I could vacuum some of the glass out, and paid my last dollar in the machine, which wouldn't work. I begged another dollar, used the other maching and got a lot of the glass out, but glass dust and splinters remained a problem. I finally made it home and tried to call Cingular (I had the SLVR for what? Two months?) and report my phone stolen, but of course by then it was 1:30 on the morning of Labor Day and no one was staffing the call centers. My online account showed three phone numbers dailed by the theives. I called these, but that act was as futile as I expected it to be. And the damn phone has a GPS locator, it would be nice if the cops would care to look it up and catch the assholes breaking block after block of windows. I was finally able to find a "report phone lost or stolen" option in the Cingular voice jail. It was then I remembered I had some great photos from the weekend still on the phone.

I also tried to cancel my second FastTrak, but met with the same holiday problem.

Completely exhausted, frustrated, violated, angry, and sad, I was ready to call it a night. But the fog had rolled in and I needed to cover the window with something. So I got out the Saran Wrap and took my tired ass downstairs with some tape to cover the window. Only when I tried to cover the window, did I discover the roll had only about six inches of plastic left on it. I actually said aloud, possibly loud enough to wake the neighbors, "Are you fucking KIDDING me?" So after another trek up to the third floor and back did my night culminate in a very white trashy white trash bag taped to my new BMW.

Labor Day, what should have been a fun day, was spent wallowing and trying in vain to find someone open on Labor Day to replace the window.

So you can see why I was not in the best of moods last week, and not at all peppy enough to blog. Someone came out and replaced the window for $200, which after calling around seemed average. I have not been able to bring myself to pay for yet another phone. I am using my crappy old one at the moment which an extremely nice and helpful guy at the Cingular store on Van Ness (props) activated for me for free. But this phone does not work well and doesn't take a charge so I will have to get another one. It's not like I didn't buy the formerly new one for a reason.

This most recent weekend? I had to work. So no fun tales to tell there.

This week includes dinner dates, a happy hour plan, the Rodeo, the Rodeo Buckin' Ball, and an Indian Summer-themed birthday party I am helping Kevin create for Shawn's 40th birthday.

So: silly mindless stuff during the day this week, and hopefully fun/salacious tales and photos next week.

Y'all be good.

Wayne "the Train" Hancock

I took the recently located John Lambert with me to meet up with Coco, Patrica, and Walter at the Hemlock last night for a little rockabilly lovin'.

Much fun. And a hot upright bass player, Patrick Swayze hair circa Dirty Dancing notwithstanding.

Pics from Patricia's Flickr:

Family Circus

Sure, we're all creeped out by the psychosis which is Bil Keane's distubing little single-circle drama of Billy, Jeffy, Dolly, and PJ.

But it could get creepier. And if you thought your in-laws were a nightmare, it could be much, much worse:

From BBC News:

Woman guilty over 'naked slave'
A mother-of-six from York has been found guilty of beating her former sister-in-law and keeping her as a domestic slave.

Antonia Pearson-Gaballonie, 36, of New Lane, Acomb, denied false imprisonment, making threats to kill and assault. During a two-year period she beat Veronica Sandeman, 26, and forced her to work naked, York Crown Court heard. ...

Feather boa?

No. But possibly wool...

Sure, gay men love a boa, but even those with the slightest ophidiophobia will be freaked out by this HUGE FRIGGIN' SNAKE in Malaysia: a five and a half meter python ate a pregnant sheep, and was so big, and apparently immobilized by its gluttony, that workers had to remove it from the road.

Not your father's Oldsmobile,

But it is my mother's comic strip.

While the SF Chronicle is not the best city paper in the world, it was almost worth the student rate to subscribe just for the comics. Now I get my morning/evening fix online (however, I do miss being able to take the Datebook/comics section into the private reading room).

My favorite comic these days, hands down, is Pearls Before Swine (if you tune in now, it's a running gag of what packs of Meerkats do in the burrow while the lookout stands watch).


I remember my mother was a loyal reader of what I considered the "non-comic-comics": the likes of Mary Worth and Apartment 3G. Now some clever and creative people with way too much time on their hands have greated mini movies of Mary Worth--acting out the strips into daily dramas, and imitating the poses of the panels in a grainy, black-and-white style evocative of old existential German cinema.


Mary Worth: the Movies

Sorta shows how asinine the dialog is. And it's a little surreal. Keep watching; maybe Mary will play chess with Death or something.

If you don't stop licking at it...

...it'll never heal.

Hmmmm.... candy scabs.

Birthday Blog

Okay, so it was over a week ago but here is the quick recap to the Birthday Bonanza which was August 28th.

Pics and flicks of the b'day over here.

It was a shaky day at work (Shilpa and I picked something up over the weekend as we were both up with a fever and chills the night before), including a doctor's appointment and a Davidson Alumni luncheon where I reconnected with the delightful Davidsonians E’beth Reed, Duncan Fraser, and Beth Ford—Beth is a Presbyterian minister getting her PhD and will be preaching down the road at Seventh Avenue Pres soon. Unfortunately, I may not be able to attend as that is the Rodeo weekend. And you know me.

It was a long work day with a heaping helping of work stress and abuse. Happily, cousin Barry sent me the BEST e-card from Blue Mountain. It totally made my day and help beat back the attack on my psyche from crazy ass work people. Big hug to Barry.

And big hug to Shilpa for insisting on hosting a birthday party for me. She tried her hand and baking chickens. Many guests were disappointed the menu wasn't Indian. Shilpa claims even her bland ("I left out the green chilies!") curry is too hot for white folks like me and Amy Day (uh, there are OTHER ingredients hot as lava, let's pull back on those too...). Actually, it's just that curry smells so much we thought we would rather not leave with our hair and clothes reeking of curry—to say nothing of all of Shilpa's wardrobe if she had the kitchen door open while she cooked.

It was a very small dinner party, so apologies to those who were not invited. We were only about 8 or 10 total I suppose. And of course, even on a Monday and with a light crowd, craziness ensued.

Did I mention the Brazilian who was working the crowd at Sundance Saloon the night before? No? Well, there was this hirsute Latin guy who took off his shirt at the end of the night and, while he did exude sexuality, he was seriously working the room. And he looked pretty good doing it. He was particularly attentive to Kevin, which was just evil as (1) Kev is now in a committed, monogamous relationship, and (2) muscular, hairy Brazilians are like his effing dream fantasy and his own personal kryptonite. Kev soaked in the attention, and enjoyed flirting back, but ultimately resisted. The Brazilian hottie, we'll call him S, slipped his card into Kevin's pocket and asked to see him.

Flash forward to the parking lot later as Kev and I are among the last to leave/be kicked out. He recounts his experience with S, and pulls out the card: it is four-color glossy with contact numbers, a shirtless photo, and everything but rates. He is a freaking PROFESSIONAL.

We now resume our story in Shilpa’s living room.
Me to Jim: “You know that friend of yours ‘S’ you introduced us to? Yeah, he’s a whore.”

Jim: “I believe the term is ‘escort’... He’s staying at [whatever] B&B for the rest of the week if you are interested in making an appointment.”

Apparently, he was in town to see some clients and stayed the week for other events, appointments, and new business. As you can imagine, this line of conversation went on for a while to much, much amusement. Later in the week Kev did a little online digging and found one of his Web sites. Kevin added “Quite the little movie career!” Check it out if you dare, but seriously, this is what you’d expect so don’t blame me if it offends you. You know what you’re clicking into. And it should go without saying that this is NSFW (not safe for work). I might also add that he looked much better, from the neck up, than he does in these photos. But that may have had something to do with the booze, thereof, and the lighting, lack thereof.

And now back to the party. A lot of the conversation centered around the weekend, which, as alert readers know, included lots of Country/Western lovin’. As you can see to the right, Shilpa's new hat made the rounds.

I don’t recall if it was before or after dinner, but in addition to his other presents, Kevin brought, as a quasi gag-gift (with a handle of Mandarin and the Death Race Steering Wheel), a bottle of Just Desserts' “Chocolate Chip Cookie Cream Liqueur” he found. He insisted we each give it a taste. And I will say, how bad can chocolate booze be? Not bad at all—and we decided it would be excellent on vanilla ice cream.

Digital camera freaks that we have become, Kevin got action shots of the action shots. Which I have put together into this groovy slideshow. [Quality version over here. Grainy YouTube Flash version below.]




The night progressed with lots of love and continued sampling of Amy Day’s Amazing Bloody Marys, Greyhounds, and more chocolate cake and booze.

Which might explain what happened after most of the guests left and it was just Me, Shilpa, Ruby, Kevin, James, and Jeannette.

Kevin has some sort of pathology. Actually, I believe he has many. But recently the most amusing is his inability to remain still, or sane, when Tom Jones is playing. Combine in equal parts: Kevin Koberle, Tom Jones, Bloody Marys, and stir with a flaming steering wheel. Not only it is combustible, but as you will see, it is contagious. [Again, quality movie over here. It was actaully really dark in the room, as you might imagine, it's just the flash that makes it look so bright.]




A good time was had by all:










And by GOD there was dancing. Kevin was Tom Jonesing. I taught Amy Day how to shadow dance to “Son of a Preacher Man.”





And Ruby and I got down to some serious swing!




Clearly, a hair-raising experience.

If you can stand it, you can browse 153 Photos up on Flickr.