This kid is only fifteen. At first I thought, "Man, he must get the shit kicked out of him every day." Then I was informed it's an act. And he's cracking me up.
But man, fifteen. Fifteen!! I was not CLOSE to coming to terms with the gay then. Of course, we did not have home computers, or the internet, or digital video then either. And gay was invisible, or beaten.
Hello YouTube, FaceBook, and MySpace.
Kids. Today.
And I would kill for his metabolism.
I should not have done the math. If he's fifteen, he was born in 1993.
The One Man Star Wars Trilogy was actually a great show. I would call it a must for all Star Wars fans, and thoroughly entertaining for anyone who (1) liked the original trilogy at all; or (2) enjoys fun, simple theater.
His combination of vocalizations, character impersonations, physical expression, and wry commentary do make for a good show. I would have personally preferred more smarm, and some more adult commentary, but that would have pushed his bit into Robot Chicken and Family Guy territory—which is probably where it best belongs.
Not to mention, this is very family fare. And, truthfully, fun for the whole family (which is why the humor is very much rated G).
And like any true Star Wars function, there will be fans in costume.
And as a family yet. Whatever keeps you together these days.
Afterward, Michael wanted to avoid the weekend Folsom factor so we eschewed SoMa and the Castro for a low key beverage at the Pilsner. Some guys left their six-month old chihuahua with us to watch for a moment while they went to the bar. Michael really wants his own. He is determined to get a tiny yappy gay dog like this.
I've really enjoyed getting to know new friend and great dancer David Kearney, who invited me for a little bit of paradise in his garden Friday evening after work and before theater time.
We've all seen the cute redesigns of the Google logo the company pulls out for various occasions. I've always enjoyed the whimsical retakes.
The Google logo on the home page today is the standard one, but the little person in the Street View of Google Maps is on his way to the Google birthday party!
I've always loved the CAS. The temporary digs were underwhelming, and I am looking forward to exploring the collection again in the brilliant new design. Check out this video about the living roof.
I had planned to walk over tomorrow afternoon, but James will be beating my body to a pulp with a new Crossfit workout down at the G.
Hotelier/Concierge Michael Harkin and I have enjoyed some good random theater in the past, and tonight he's taking me to another random event which promises not to disappoint: a one-man performance of the Star Wars trilogy.
One Man Star Wars Trilogy is a hilarious, high energy, nonstop blast through the original Star Wars trilogy, but with one catch: there's only one cast member, Charles Ross, a writer and solo performer who spent way too much of his childhood in a galaxy far, far away. Ross plays all the characters, recreates the effects, sings the music, flies the ships, and fights both sides of the light saber battles, making for a side-splitting evening.
I met David Barton and his significant other John Ledwith years ago. For a while (ages past), John was at Citizen in the Castro and I would stop in and say hi whenever I passed. He's now at Landor, an ad/branding agency where several of my friends have had careers in the past. I know David better than I know John, perhaps because we've had a chance to talk more intently on a range of topics, and because I see him more often. David (a wicked smart guy with an MDiv) tends bar and manages at 440.
At Ladonor, John received a company-wide e-mail calling for freelance writers. Even though I haven't seen John in years, he remembered a conversation long ago wherein I mentioned how much I love writing copy. He was kind enough to think of me and wanted to pass the call for submissions on to me.
One problem: he couldn't remember my name exactly.
He called his hubby (this part of the story comes from David, who might get into trouble now that I am writing it down).
John called David and asked, "Hey, what's the name of that friend of yours who writes? Something like Winston Honeysuckle the Third?"
That's not my name. But sometimes, I kind of wish it were.
If you ever find a romance novel written by Winston Honeysuckle III, you'll know who to blame.
Last night was the first Out with ACT performance of the season. Rock N Roll is not so much about rock and roll, as it is the history of communism in Czechoslovakia. And how the regime hated rock or punk music. And expats at Oxford. Knowing some of the history and stories from Cousin Clark and Carrington from the early 90s, I had a lot of context to draw on which helped me get it somewhat better than others. It was a good show, with a talented cast.
New to my experience and with a relatively smaller part was the lovely Marcia Pizzo.
Marci, Marcia, Marcia, wow does your hair look good. (I would add "Gee, your hair smells terrific." but I would sound (1) old and (2) like a stalker.)
Last night Kevin and I also enjoyed the company of non-thespian Out with ACT regulars we love. Shouts and inappropriate touching to producer randy Taradash, Legal Hottie Rob Forni and his significant other David (also Rob's mom, who loves free wine and sequins as much as the gays do), and our always attractive and always attentive bartenders Darren and Kristy (aka Pretty Pretty Kissy Face).
As is our way, Kevin and I closed the place down with Randy, but this time we had the benefit of the handsome and charming company of a few newbies who were offered tickets at the last minute and didn't know what they were getting into.
Shouts to Michael, Mark,
and especially to Wil.
The next show will be November 5: The Quality of Life. We're looking forward to that one, even if we got word that Laurie Metcalf won't be able to perform the night of the Out with ACT performance. I'm sure she'll make up for it by inviting us over to her place for drinks another time.
The guys behind the Big Gay Frat House are presenting the hilarious Jungle Red at the Victoria Theater this month. Jungle red is a musical satire of the original (not the wretched remake) play/film The Women. Varla Jean Merman headlines, and the cast is superbly rounded out by Trauma Flintstone, Katya Smirnoff-Skyy, Ethel Merman, and others.
Oh my God is this show funny.
It's a bit low-rent, and in a full house it's a little hard to hear the performers who aren't miked. RMJ and I made a date of it Saturday night, and we had a pretty full house. Mostly gay men, and all seemed to have had plenty to drink ahead of time. The crowd to our left was hammered, and a bit distracting (dropping cups, talking at the show as if it were television, that sort of thing).
There were clever lines, perfect expressions, dead-on comic timing and some wonderful scene stealing by "Zips Up the Back, No Bone" (I'll have to look up who that was later). Varla of course owns whatever scenes she's in, which turns out to be not all that many. But honestly Katya serves heaps of praise for filling Rosalind Russell's role so adroitly.
Along with Kevin, RMJ and I are sort of Plush Room/Cabaret/Drag cohorts, and this was a must-see with RoMo. RoMo also has a shared connection with Varla as he was dormmates with the likes of Hedda Lettuce et alia at FIT long before they donned makeup and falsies.
Much fun.
Go to the show while you can.
Another pleasant surprise was the company of Canadian Guy, who joined us at the very last minute on a whim. (He is not "a" Canadian guy, but Canadian Guy. His name is Guy, and he's from Canada. Kevin had an acting partner Sharon, who recognized me at brunch and introduced me to her new roommate Guy, who had just moved here from the "Canadia", who I then I invited to the Feathers and Fringe party.)
Neither RMJ nor Guy had seen The Women so a lot of the jokes must have been lost on them. But they still loved the show. Guy is clearly new to the whole SF scene, and while he is certainly charming and fun by his own devices, it was also amusing to pair a someone fresh off the beaver truck with the likes of me and RMJ.
We had to stop by a wedding/engagement/bachelor party at Mecca. They were having a Swank night, and it was the usual AoF sort of crowd (i.e. a little shallow for my swimming). At least DJ Christopher was spinning and he had a great set going on. I got to see some wonderful people (shouts to Suzan and Doug) as well as some others I'd have just rather not talked to, and we made enjoyable enough small talk with roughly 60% of the crowd we knew. Such is Mecca. That goes hand-in-hand with the $9 cocktail.
A good quote from the night was the exchange with Guy, who had only us as lifeguards in these shark-infested waters. I had just said something admittedly bitchy regarding someone I didn't care for and sought to avoid. To his credit, Guy called me out on it. He basically said, "You're being a snob too. You call these people snobs, but then you criticize them."
I explained my point of view, "See, the guys I'm calling snobs discount anyone without the right body type or bank account (and either will do even though both are preferable), regardless of who they are. We have gotten to know a lot of people, and there are those we don't like as individuals. Tonight, they just all happen to be in the same room. Being a snob is denigrating a class or group of people you don't know for superficial reasons, whereas I feel that I made the effort to get to know them before not liking them for who they are."
Guy was also impressed by the non-verbal RMJ and I have developed in social situations. We can totally read the other, and I enjoyed frustrating RMJ when I knew he wanted to move along but I was having too much fun watching him alternatively squirm and deftly dig for information.
Okay, now I am feeling a bit bitchy.
We ultimately took our fun and our Canadian for a Castro crawl.
It's Oracle Open World or whatever its called has SoMa is brimming with techies this week-- so much so some blocks are closed off. Super Master of IT thingamawhatzits and Alert Reader Rick Marshall was back in town last week for some work-related tech goodness and stretched his stay into a long weekend.
We enjoyed much silliness over the weekend, and Rick kicked things off off by inviting me along to a tech/software company's reception/post-User Group party on Potrero Hill. They were launching their US offices or something. I wasn't very clear on the deal. I stopped listening to Rick's invitation at the words "open bar," which sadly turned out to be mediocre margarita's in small plastic cups and room-temperature Coronas. Anyway, it was so very reminiscent of all the launch parties we enjoyed in our late 20s/early 30s during the dot com boom.
The open rows of desks though made the space look like the modern version of the secretarial pool in 9 to 5.
There was also "dinner" that looked more like "turds."
I suppose they were meant to go with these,
which we were calling "rabbit poo tarts."
As a young-ish tech party, there was also the entertainment we had come to expect: high-end video games, bean bag lounges, and, of course, a burlesque silk performer and a little person.
Actually, I'm pretty sure the little person was just a User, but standing so close to the trapeze artist, he lent a certain circus atmosphere to the whole thing.
I've been loving the post-game analysis of Sarah Palin's train wreck of an interview with Katie Couric (and Kate is hardly hard-hitting). Even after weeks of media shielding and intense training, she still comes across as a moronic sycophant to McCain/the Uber-conservative Right.
Even Katie's expressions look like "I can't believe I have to deal with this fool."
Via JoeMyGod, the best clip yet. (If you think you've seen this before, watch it anyway. Trust me.)
Brother Mac just called from the road. He felt he had to call me because he was passing through Dumbass, Arkansas.
Actually, it's spelled Dumas, but he was pretty sure he was in Dumbass. He stopped for gas and asked the woman at the register where he was. In a thick accent, she said, "Dumbass."
Mac replied, "Look Lady, you don't have to be rude. I was just wondering where I am."
Nuthin'.
He thought at least the locals would have a regional pronunciation as not to sound like "dumbass." He once had to inverview a woman whose last nae was Kuntz. He politely introduced her as Candy [Koontz]. She corrected him, "Oh no no. It's [Cunts]."
Mac was thinking "Even if my name was MacDonald Penises I would be saying thinks like "Oh no. That's Penossis." (Rhyming with Onassis)
Mac also reports in this stretch of nothing—he's driving to Jackson Mississippi— he's seen only highway patrols and lots of cops. I'm guessing traffic/speeding tickets are a major source of income in those parts. He's always wanted to say this when pulled over by a highway patrolman and asked,
"Do you know why I pulled you over?" "Because I'm black?"
I kept thinking of the poor kids at Dumbass High School. Even their Valedictorian is a Dumbass. And they have that painful rivalry with those sarcastic kids over at Smartass High.
I can't go to bed with a dish in the sink, or leave the house with the bed unmade.
The management office of an apartment complex in Houston did not receive rent payments, outstanding payments, nor any response to calls or notes, from one of their tenants for over a month.
They went inside to check it out.
This is what they found.
Oh dear Lord.
This is not related to Hurricane Ike.
As I scrolled through the photos, I felt physically ill. What sort of lifestyle leads to this squalor. This absolute filth sullies the good name of squalor.
At first I was dismayed at the number of soft drink cups and the amount of daily corn syrup intake that implied.
Then I saw the cigarette butts. WTF? And all over the computer? Why even have the computer then.
And I DO NOT want to know what the fossilized foaming substance is taking over the bathroom.
All of it: so nasty. I can't imagine cleaning that place out without a backhoe.
I haven't posted the most offensive photos. You'll have to check that out for yourself.
And WTF with this?
Sure, the tenant is waist-deep in their own refuse, put he or she is worried about ironing their clothes?
Maybe he/she just uses the iron and ironing board for making grilled cheese sandwiches or reheating pizza slices (as evidence by the hundreds of pizza boxes).
The Prim and Proper Tea Party will again this year be setting out a proper Victorian tea party amidst the Folsom Street Fair:
Last year throngs of leather-clad daddies swooned in shock and horror, when they discovered that MODESTY IS THE NEW KINK. Please do join me again this year, for a delightfully ostentatious picnic in the heart of the world’s largest leather event.
Yes, indeed, dear gentleperson, I am hosting a redux of the most photographed event at last year’s Folsom Street Fair — Miss Nifer’s Prim & Proper Tea Party. I’m inviting all my queer ladies and gentlepersons of all genders, to join me at Folsom Street Fair on Sunday, September 28, 2008 from 1:00 PM to 6:00 PM, for the not-to-be-missed *2nd Annual Prim & Proper Queer Tea Party*.
Please save the date for this VERY CONSERVATIVE affair. We will drink (spiked?) tea from little china cups, and eat little cucumber sandwiches seated upon our quilted blanket, spread out right in the middle of the action.
There is, of course, a dress code. See their web page for details.
I am not saying all landlords are evil. Just all the ones I've ever heard about in this City. I'm guessing the good ones aren't talked about. Or he's just a shy guy. A non-random sample seems to indicate that SF landlords are in fact evil.
And when they don't get their way on one issue, they'll spend a fortune as a group to destroy a new hospital for the needy.
I don't believe landlords wonder why everyone who is not wealthy despises them. I think they just don't care.
Just when we started thinking that the SF General Hospital overhaul would go off without a hitch, some landlords have jumped in to ruin the fun for everyone. Why? Political spite, of course: It seems that city law allows property owners to pass on a portion of a water system tax to their tenants, but despite repeated promises from the Newsom administration, they are not permitted to do the same with a tax for sewer-related projects. This, they feel, is unjust, and a lobbyist for the city's landlords had promised to take their frustrations out on the hospital bond — and now that's exactly what has happened. So The Coalition for Better Housing has mobilized a well-financed committee to work against Proposition A, the $888 million bond that will fund the SF General update.
Curbed SF even reports that Supervisor Aaron Peskin actually said regarding the landlord lobby: "I'm not interested in negotiating with terrorists."
It should also be noted that fixing and expanding the General is entirely necessary for the security of the City--and for all of its citizens. (I.e. including the landlords who are spending money to stop it because they are bitter against the City for not being allowed to pass sewer taxes through to tenants.)
The San Francisco General Hospital is the only trauma center in or near the City. The nearest alternate trauma center, you know if you get shot or a building falls on you, is at Stanford.
Fixing the General is not only a good idea, it is essential to the survival of a metropolis built on a fault line.
This action makes it look like the landlord lobby is greedy enough and bitter enough to want us all to suffer and die in the case of an emergency. Perhaps they thought their reputation couldn't get any worse, so why not?
How is that not a new drag name yet? Sarah Palin Bi-Comparison.
This woman is a joke. And it is scary as hell that morons might actually vote for her.
There is currently a PBS poll regarding the qualifications of Sarah Palin. The Right has had a massive Internet mobilization voting in the online poll. The blogosphere is responding with its own call to respond.
Nashville is a great town, except when it acts all fcked up.
My Nashville friends' FaceBook updates kept talking about the dearth of gas in Nashville. I asked Jonny about it and he said that the city was out of gas. I asked why, and he said, "For the same reason stores run out of milk and bread whenever there is a forecast for flurries."
Oh for Heaven's sakes.
Nashvillians, in general, tend to panic. And then do stupid things.
Seriously. When Sno Bird warns of a cold snap (honestly, who gets their weather from a freaking bird puppet?), everyone from the city center to the Boonies rushes to the stores and stocks up like they will need to survive eighteen months in a fallout shelter. I used to work in the family grocery stores. The onset of winter is just insane.
So, now hits the news of a possible oil shortage. Nevermind the time it takes for global factors to actually affect local supply, Nashvillians panicked and stocked up on gasoline.
I couldn't believe this one.
And now, no one can find gas in Nashville/Metro Davidson County.
Jonny recognized it as a self-fulfilling prophecy: The Chicken Littles claimed there was going to be a gas shortage—when there wasn't one—and everyone panicked and rushed out for gas, causing a gas shortage.
This is just nuts. And kudos brother Jay and his family who drive a hybrid SUV.
There is some local humor that may be lost on non-Nashvillians, but trust me, this is funny.
If the embedding is still acting twitchy. Here's the direct link.
UPDATE: Mom informs me that the reason the city is out of gas is that Hurricane Ike destroyed regional production and production lines to the area. Refineries are again operational, but regular fuel deliveries will not resume for a few weeks. What stores do have gas, have rationing (5 gallons) and very long lines. And police to manage the can't-get-on-the road rage.
Kate, James and I are very tight. But our schedules are very tight too so we only get to have our family dinners twice a year. And James couldn't even make the Christmas dinner last year.
The stars aligned this month and James and Kate and I managed another Ploy II rendezvous.
The other night I was stuck in traffic behind this A-hole.
(click to embiggen)
What pissed me off was the "Yes on 8!" bumper sticker, with little stick figures and the slogan "Protect our Families" (or it might have been "Protect Our Children!"). Prop 8 is such an extremely hateful, cruel measure to deny equal protection under the law for gay sand lesbians, and their families; this is the proposal to amend the California constitution to specifically exclude same-gender couples from marriage laws.
That someone in my City would be FOR such a thing enraged me, and that they fell for the "protect the children" bullshit argument steamed me more. I nearly blew a gasket.
Sure, by all outward accounts, this guy was poor, stupid, Latino immigrant (and one presumes Catholic) and ghetto. How nice that he is not the tool of the same right wing that wants to deny his rights next.
I alternate between security and worry over Prop 8. Some polls indicate it won't pass, some say it might. Some analysts are worried that minority voters will come out in droves to support Obama, and will then turn and vote against marriage equality (see The New York Timesarticle).
At least there are some good ads being produced out there. They are not airing here as this market hardly needs convincing. They are, however, featured on YouTube and other blogs. (There is even a Republicans Against 8 channel.)
It does scare me how much money, and insane amount really, is pouring in from other states. The most money put into Yes on 8 is coming from Utah Morons Mormon. That shit seems unAmerican to me. And I REALLY don't get why churches have their vestments in a wad over this. Religion in America should be CELEBRATING the separation of Church and State.
Proud Parenting has produced a video using mostly kids with gay parents, putting a human face on those who will be affected by the same-gender marriage ban:
I remember watching them make taffy in the windows on childhood camping trips to Gatlinburg, Tennessee. That was very much a Gatlinburg thing. So were crappy tourists shops like magic stores, candle stores, make-your-own-wax-bear machines, and off course, Ripley's Believe It or Not.
For SFists, I describe Gatlinburg as Fisherman's Wharf in the Smokies. For Tenneesseans, I describe Fisherman's Wharf as Gatlinburg with crabmeat.
Although I loved to watch them make the taffy, and would always buy some, and eat it, I never really liked taffy.
