Zoology

So, I was called at the last minute to volunteer at a new fundraising attraction at the Folsom Street Fair: The Petting Zoo.  Or in this case, the Heavy Petting Zoo.  It was, in theory, a good idea.  There were a series of carnival-like tents with hay bales, a gate, and sexy sideshow stages out front, advertising hirsute, muscled go-go-ish sort of boys dressed in a variety of animal-themed furverted outfits inside, with a farmer out front enticing passerby's to venture inside the tent full of other fetish/scantily clad "animals" .  Fair-goers would donate $5 to enter, get their photo taken with the animals, and could heavy pet, fondle and get as frisky as the personal boundaries of the individual animals would allow (which at Folsom is saying something).   As it turns out, half of the animals didn't show up, everyone was late, and no one wanted to wait inside the tent  to entertain the paying customers when they could see their friends at the fair walking around outside.  While it was fun, and finically successful for the charities, for a couple of hours, it quickly devolved into a barnyard clustercluck.  Not that the animals were not beautiful, and purrfect for petting.  Especially my little NYC puppy who helped me out front.

While I do not have the muscled nor furry physique required to participate in such a Heavy Petting Zoo, I was recruited to stand out front and take donations and give out tickets.  I was asked if I could dress like a farmer.  Leather fetish gear I don't got.  Cowboys drag?  I got closets full.  It was raining all morning then the day turned to very humid, so the starched gingham quickly wilted.  Here I am relieving Steve as the frontman.  And the favorite of the full-costumed furries, PedoBear.


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As I did not have the same silent sales attributes as Steve, I thought I should take an active role in recruiting donations and entrants. I became a sort of carnival barker, and pretty much exhausted my repertoire of salacious animal puns. I cried out:

"Come visit the Heavy Petting Zoo! Re-live that first romance down on the farm!"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Pat the bunny! Spank the monkey!"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo, where you can get it straight from the horse's mouth!"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Learn a new meaning to the term hay, ride."
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Inappropriately touch the animals!"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Milk the Mad Cow!"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Ask the horse, why the long face?"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Lie down with dogs! Get up with pleas!"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Eee, Aye, Eee, Aye, Ooooooh!"
"Come visit the Petting Zoo! Give the dog a bone!"

I actually got a bot light-headed from all the shouting. It was also humid. And there was vodka.

I did not take any more photos though—wish I had. But there were shutters flying all day and I am sure my herd and I are all over Flickr. These are the only other pics I took: My NightMare sidekick who was giving carriage rides, and this woman's whom I had to applaud for her ironic/obvious wear, knowing as many drag title/sash queens as I do.

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cookie monsters

Meaghan Mountford has concocted some devilishly delightful Halloween treats: mummy cookies on a stick and Frankenstein marshmallow pops!   Check her stuff out over at The Decorated Cookie.

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My dessert-baking little niece better get on this.

Via Laughing Squid.

Lady in Red

Go Grizzlies!

The Nashville Grizzlies (gay rugby team) annual Red Dress Rampage fundraiser is pending. Via HotToddy, this shirt of awesome:

Want.

Happy XMCA-Mas

Unattributable, from the Interwebs, and sacrilicious.

voitures

Sitting in my phone and waiting for upload have been these little bits for the family.  My nephew Leland is obsessed with Pixar's Cars characters. He was ecstatic to be able to build his own Cars car last holiday season at the new Disney Store in Union Square.

At my neighborhood's farmers' market last week, the voice of the singing French car in Cars 2 was performing for tips. I took a pic and clip for Mac and Emily. They are still debating on whether Leland would this think this was cool, or if it might destroy the illusion that the Cars are real.

apologies

Links to Paul Rudnick's new humor piece in the New Yorker have been making the rounds. "I'm Sorry" is a satirical take on the "politician's apology for [sex] scandal" which I suppose by this point has become a meme.

It is kinda funny. I would have thought it all-the-way funny, if Steve Martin hadn't done it first.

In 1998.

The New York Times even has the selection entry from Pure Drivel online.

A Public Apology
*

Looking out over the East River from my jail cell and still running for public office, I realize that I have taken several actions in my life for which I owe public apologies.

Once, I won a supermarket sweepstakes even though my brother's cousin was a box boy in that very store. I would like to apologize to Safeway Food, Inc., and its employees. I would like to apologize to my family, who have stood by me, and especially to my wife Karen. A wiser and more loyal spouse could not be found.

When I was twenty-one, I smoked marijuana every day for one year. I would like to apologize for the next fifteen years of anxiety attacks and drug-related phobias, including the feeling that when Ed Sullivan introduced Wayne and Shuster, he was actually signaling my parents that I was high. I would like to apologize to my wife Karen, who still believes in me, and to the Marijuana Growers Association of Napa Valley and its affiliates for any embarrassment I may have caused them. I would also like to mention a little incident that took place in the Holiday Inn in Ypsilanti, Michigan, during that same time. I was lying in bed in room 342 and began counting ceiling tiles. Since the room was square, it was an easy computation, taking no longer than the weekend. As Sunday evening rolled around, I began to compute how many imaginary ceiling tiles it would take to cover the walls and floor of my room. When I checked out of the hotel, I flippantly told the clerk that it would take twelve hundred ninety-four imaginary ceiling tiles to fill the entire room.

Two weeks later, while attempting to break the record for consecutive listenings to "American Pie," I realized that I had included the real tiles in my calculation of imaginary tiles; I should have subtracted them from my total. I would like to apologize to the staff of the Holiday Inn for any inconvenience I may have caused, to the wonderful people at Universal Ceiling Tile, to my wife Karen, and to my two children, whose growth is stunted.

Several years ago, in California, I ate my first clam and said it tasted "like a gonad dipped in motor oil." I would like to apologize to Bob 'n' Betty's Clam Fiesta, and especially to Bob, who I found out later only had one testicle. I would like to apologize to the waitress June and her affiliates, and the DePaul family dog, who suffered the contents of my nauseated stomach.

There are several incidents of sexual harassment I would like to apologize for:

In 1992, I was interviewing one Ms. Anna Floyd for a secretarial position, when my pants accidentally fell down around my ankles as I was coincidentally saying, "Ever seen one of these before?" Even though I was referring to my new Pocket Tape Memo Taker, I would like to apologize to Ms. Floyd for any grief this misunderstanding might have caused her. I would also like to apologize to the Pocket Tape people, to their affiliates, and to my family, who have stood by me. I would like to apologize also to International Hardwood Designs, whose floor my pants fell upon. I would especially like to apologize to my wife Karen, whose constant understanding fills me with humility.

Once, in Hawaii, I had sex with a hundred-and-two-year-old male turtle. It would be hard to argue that it was consensual. I would like to apologize to the turtle, his family, the Kahala Hilton Hotel, and the hundred or so diners at the Hilton's outdoor cafe. I would also like to apologize to my loyal wife Karen, who had to endure the subsequent news item in the "Also Noted" section of the Santa Barbara Women's Club Weekly.

In 1987, I attended a bar mitzvah in Manhattan while wearing white gabardine pants, white patent-leather slippers, a blue blazer with gold buttons, and a yachting cap. I would like to apologize to the Jewish people, the State of Israel, my family, who have stood by me, and my wife Karen, who has endured my seventeen affairs and three out-of-wedlock children.

I would also like to apologize to the National Association for the Advancement of Colored People, for referring to its members as "colored people." My apology would not be complete if I didn't include my new wife, Nancy, who is of a pinkish tint, and our two children, who are white-colored.

Finally, I would like to apologize for spontaneously yelling the word "savages!" after losing six thousand dollars on a roulette spin at the Choctaw Nation Casino and Sports Book. When I was growing up, the usage of this word in our household closely approximated the Hawaiian aloha, and my use of it in the casino was meant to express "until we meet again."

Now on with the campaign!

Statler and Waldorf and the rest of the gang

Regular readers and Friends of the Blog are aware that Kevin and I are "theater people," and also muppet enthusiasts, and when a show runs foul, we run Statler and Waldorf. We can bring our own good time. The recent run of The Henson Alternative's Stuffed and Unstrung show was our Nirvana. It's adult-themed muppet improv. (Except they can't say "muppet" for trademark reasons. Still, it's all Henson. A puppet by any other name is just a sock on a fist.) My face was sore for hours afterward from laughing too hard. And in our own muppet personalities, Kevin and I wanted to be a part of it in the worst way. And considering one of our recent ACT events, we are thinking of writing ourselves into a show just so we can make commentary from the balcony and see if anyone gets it. Not that we would care overmuch if they didn't. We're playing to those that do. And of course ourselves.

I've already got our poster one-sheet copy: We cross your lines.

Gratuitous fun:


But all of this muppet thinking led us to a sort of meta discussion of the upcoming Muppet Movie revival. In my readings, I came across this interesting treatise, which had a central point I was ultimately pained to agree with. When Jim Henson died, so should have Kermit. Someone else, meaning a character, could have taken over managing the cast. From now on, whosever hand is up Kermit's backside is no longer creating a performance, he's doing an impression. Not only can the character never grow again, but it's not fooling any of us. The popular educational children's show Blue's Clues carried off a successful transition of hosts by gradually writing the first one off to college and introducing the new host, which was accepted as natural by the audience. I could have accepted a similar plan for Jim Henson's creations. Some articles have left me to wonder if the decision to replace Kermit with a new puppeteer wasn't purely for commercial licensing reasons.

When Jim Henson passed, Kermit died too. But his body continues to be propped up and trotted out for our entertainment. They are trying to fool us. As such, I think it's pretty clever that Elizabeth Steven's titled her essay on the topic: Weekend At Kermie's: The Muppets' Strange Life After Death.

Excerpt:

Let me preface my next statement by saying that I know it will seem ridiculous to the casual reader, inflammatory to a good many fans, and downright specious to the expert of rhetoric, but for me watching Steve Whitmire’s Kermit is akin to watching someone imitate a mythic and longed-for mother—my mother—wearing a my-mother costume in a my-mother dance routine. This person’s heart is in the right place, which only makes it worse. “You should be happy,” the person pleads with me, “Look, Biddy! Your mother is not gone! She is still here.” Now, no one would ever do that. No one in her right mind would think it would work. A child knows his mother’s voice like he knows whether it's water or air he's breathing. One chokes you and one gives you life. Strangely, I feel the same about Kermit. Whitmire is an amazing performer—especially as the lovable dog Sprocket on “Fraggle Rock”—but, when he's on screen as Kermit, I can feel my body reject it on a cellular level.

In the 2000s, the Muppets turned up a lot on TV; they do game shows, reality, infotainment, late night, usually promoting a DVD release or movie with a few gags. In 2007, Kermit showed up on “America’s Got Talent,” sharing a cheesy duet of James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend” with a contestant. What was strange about this cameo (besides that it wasn't at all funny) is that Disney didn’t use Whitmire for it. The frog was puppeteered by another guy than the other guy. Kermit had been Weekend-at-Bernie-ed. And as I watched, I wondered, on behalf of all Muppet fans, how did we get here?

Just some thoughts that have been rumbling around my head and lingering on a sticky note as a reminder to add to the blog.

Regardless, LOVE my muppets. And I am excited for the new movie. Statler and Waldorf may even go in costume.

and to think we would just play in the sprinkler

Nor did any of us look like swimsuit models either. Looks like fun!

curiosity killed Schrödinger's cat

I can haz quantum entanglement yarn?

Minute Physics



(via Laughing Squid)

Flat Black

We passed this awesome truck on Oak Street while riding the shuttle on the way to work the other day. I had to send a mobile pic to Maurice, who wrote one of my favorite SF songs about 10 years ago: Flat Black (on Pandora).



I'd like to have a nice truck but it'd just wind up gettin' stolen.
Fresh paint in this hood's like flashing cash on the street.
This tiny place they call a "live/work" space comes with no garage;
I use urban camouflage. I paint this beater flat black.

Flat black. Honey just get in.
Flat black. Ugly's not a sin.
Flat black. Let's take a ride and see this town from the other side—

I'd like to have a nice place but nice planes tend to get broke-in.
This City of Gold has got a lot, I'm told.
But if you get your share, you better hide it.
There's three deadbolt locks on my door and a coat of flat black.

Flat black. Honey just come in.
Flat black. The door is just a skin.
Flat black. It's safe and warm inside.
You just gotta step across the great divide.

Flat black: it's just a color of paint.
Flat black: looks like something it ain't.
Flat black: a thin coat of "not there."
Hey, I won't bite—at least much I swear.

Flat black. Honey just get in.
Flat black. Ugly's not a sin.
Flat black. It's safe and warm inside.

Flat black: it's just a color of paint.
Flat black: looks like something it ain't.
Flat black: a thin coat of "not there."
Could I get you inside if I made it a dare?

CD store.

Let's talk dirty to the animals

This was to be my first Folsom Street Fair in years where I was not working or volunteering in some capacity. Generally, I really enjoy working the booze booths as that pretty much makes the fair come to me, but I wanted a year off.

No so fast there Mister! I've been pulled into volunteer and collect donations at the Petting Zoo. Although I expect it will be more of a Heavy Petting Zoo.

Please, do not feed the bears.

Best Buck in the Bay 2011—Playtime

My second video from this year's rodeo. This one is the "play" reel, including scenes from wild drag and the Buckin' Ball.

I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy

Is your glass half full, or half empty?"  One friend asked "of what?"  I asked if there were mixers.

At the recent immersion session for incoming students for the Master’s of Applied Positive Psychology (MAPP) at the University of Pennsylvania, James O. Pawelski, Ph.D., director of education and Senior Scholar in the Positive Psychology Center led us a series of lectures on the foundations of positive psychology, and initiated one with a slide of a glass filled halfway, smiled, and asked “So, what do you see?”

To the bunch of "Applied Positive Psychology" folks, the answer was obvious.

And, it turns out, wrong:

The naturally curious and well-read group began diving in philosophically, metaphysically and neurobiologically. We spent a good 20 minutes or so offering thoughts about how we saw the glass, with James fielding responses and challenging the answers. His engaging style had the ability to foster both support for an answer and a challenge to make us think. Finally he turned around and faced the slide on the screen, and then turned back to us.

“When I look at this,” he said, “I see a completely full glass.” Each of us took another gander at the slide. I can tell you this glass was only half filled to my eyes, and yes, I was willing to put forth the argument that it was seen that way rather than half empty, but there was no way it was full.

People challenged him, some spoke of distortions, or the fact that, like when you fill a water reservoir for your coffee maker there is a line that tells you “fill to here” because that is the “full” mark. But none of these defenses, descriptions or persuasions influenced James. He held firm, turning back to the screen and then back to us.

No,” he said smiling, “that glass is definitely completely full.”

We stopped putting forth our points of view and waited to hear his explanation.

“It is completely full,” he began as he looked at each of us around the room, “half with water, and half with air.”

This rocked the class, but it dumbfounded me.

I realized that this truth had completely escaped me. I was so focused on the visual that I wasn’t able to look past it to the intangible. I was trained to understand the question and thought there were only two answers to choose from. The more I argued my perception, the further away I got from the truth and the greater understanding of the problem in front of me.

So, how do you see your glass?

Or are you the type just to ask, "Is there coffee?"

glutenous maximus

He's usually baked, and a bit flaky.

Yes, he's a delicate flour.

dogs and cats, living together

You know who you're going to call.

Perhaps as a way of guaging interest in a third installment, perhaps a cheap way to make a quick buck, or perhaps even just for the Halloween fun of it, Sony is re-releasing Ghostbusters in theaters next month:

Sony will put the movie on screens through the month of October, but only on Thursdays, starting October 13. So you might get a chance to see Ivan Reitman‘s original and still truly entertaining film on October 13, October 20 and October 27.

Sony says, “Ghostbusters will show in approximately 500 theatres across the US on October 13th, 20th, and 27th, one showtime each day, in 2K digital with 5.1 surround sound. Please check local listings for showtimes.

How I loved this now classic movie, and the trio were really at their best in this film. I also remember it was the first time I had ever heard the word "menstruating" and I no idea what it meant. I even thought the word was "alismenstrating" and was some sort of grown-up punchline.  I started repeating it in jokes that made no sense. (In the movie Bill Murray's character asks the frightened librarian, "Are you, Alice, menstruating right now?")

I did learn several important lessons from the film:

(1) Don't cross the streams.
(2) Not having sexual relations with possessed people is more of a guideline than a rule.
(3) When someone asks you if you are a god, you say "yes."
(4) Annie Potts is an underrated acrress.

Folsom Weekend

It's already been a crazy week of Folsom/Fetish-related events. I'm still in my laying low period and have happily chilled as I watched the parade go by. Frankly, I think it's a victim of its own success and feel rather "meh" about the whole thing. I'll take Dore. That, and my current robust figure does not look so good in gear.

A friend posted to Facebook the other day asking his leather/muscle queen friends to stop calling their exciting new wardrobes for Folsom "outfits." (The butch term is "gear.")

In light (dark?) of the pending Folsom Street Fair, I was trying to explain the leather thing to someone last week. In my opinion, it comes down to this: It's really just a big game of "dress up," but it includes orgasms.

drink up

Coinciding nicely with Cocktail Week here in San Francisco, the Governor has signed into law the bill sponsored by our own Mark Leno repealing the prohibition-era law prohibiting bartenders and bars from infusing their own liquors.  Rumors run rampant about a corrupt and amok ABC, particularly in SF where they appear to shake down bars for occupancy/noise/patrons queueing on sidewalk issues, and even closing down Slim's for spurious noise complaints (far outside their purview and a potentially illegal abuse of power).  For some unknown reason, local constabularies have been hassling without apparent rhyme or reason certain bars and bartenders for flavoring or infusing their own vodkas with fruits or flavors, sometimes inequitably imposing $250 fines for doing so, and citing an alcohol control ordinance that hadn't been enforced since the repeal of prohibition.  Why does "state" + "alcohol control" so often = "corruption"?  Dunno.

What is nice to know is that now there are even more tasty treats your skilled mixologist can concoct recommend without fear of government reprisal.  Happy Cocktail Week.

And on a related note, the saga behind the closing of the Eagle bar and the fate of both the Eagle bar identity and its liquor license are sill unfolding.  As usual, the Bay Area Report has some excellent local reporting.

Best Buck in the Bay

Scenes from the 2011 Best Buck in the Bay, The Golden State Gay Rodeo Association,
Bay Area Chapter, Gay Rodeo in La Honda, CA.



Song "Get Up!" by 77 El Deora.

and it's half full of vodka

"Look, I may be a 'the glass is half full' kind of guy, but I am still willing to throw it in your face."

come to my window, crawl inside and wait by the light of the moon

In my professional relocation, I moved from a pretty swank office suite with views of the ocean and Golden Gate Park and windows that opened, to an interior space a fraction of the size with no windows. Lamenting this, The Hala Back Girl picked this up for my birthday adventure.


Flove the Hala Back Girl.

It has been duly inflated and tacked to the wall in my temporary office.

Although I may change to the scene to something more mountainous. The beach scene keeps making me think "bathing suit" and that's not terribly relaxing.

muppets make me Gleeful

And this is kind of awesome. Sesame Street spoofed Glee recently, complete with Rachel's annoying superiority and hair flips, and Sue Sylvester's mocking Mr. Schue's copious use of hair gel. The sketch is to educate kids on the two sounds G makes: soft g and hard G. I clearly remember the Sesame Street scene I watched as a toddler explaining the two Gs: it was a song between G, Grover, and G, George.

shouts out

Shouts out to some wonderfully lovely people who recently breezed through SF again on their own separate road trip vacations in California: The FAB Emily, brother of the Beloved Barney, in from New Zealand with her mates on the way up the coast on their way out to Yosemite; and the lovely Ian, dropping in for a couple of days from Ohio before road tripping south to SoCal with another buddy.

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Always both (1) a hoot, and (2) a holler!

And thanks to Lance & Greg for hosting the reception!

Happy 14th to the PoHo

As is his annual pre-Folsom tradition, Scott invited his regulars out on a Monday night to celebrate the 14th birthday of the Powerhouse.  I amazed and what a community, and what a wholesome sense of community and family, his little slightly seedily leather bar has fostered.

Congratulations Scott!

I loved that he had a rather large buffet of treats and cake for the birthday party, but 90% of the Patrons were on their pre-Folsom fast. Leather gear, in so many ways, can be unforgiving.

hide your stache

The Intimates took me out for a surprise belated birthday adventure a couple of weeks ago, and I can tell you that nothing spices up a random mid-week adventure like a bag of mustaches. I do have to admit, it took me a moment to realize that I already had a mustache and affixing another one was a bit superfluous and not terribly face-altering.

However, when I was a young child, my oldest brother was in high school and developed an ingenious means of becoming invisible whenever our parents would embarrass him (i.e. whenever they were within 100 feet and anywhere in public). He would grow an "instant mustache" and this would be his disguise so that no one could recognize him or affiliate him with that insane man dressed like James Robertson or that woman with that loud voice talking about diarrhea. Jay would grow this "instant mustache" by placing his index finger under his nose above his upper lip. The other brothers readily adopted this technique, and for some reason perhaps desperation—we all believed that by adopting this gesture we could become completely invisible by such a clever disguise.


It even works on guys with beards. GENIUS!

As you can tell:

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Nothing to see here. Move along.

Oh, by the way, PeeDee wants you back.

home thoughts

Blogging, well, pretty much any hobby and even general housework have been back burnered the past couple of months with the family visit, new job and attendant mania. I've been trying to dial back the social calendar, but have had limited success-basically taking it from an 11 to a 7. This past weekend I took the first vacation "just for me" in about a decade. The Ranch Weekend was wonderful and I was so happily unplugged for a full weekend and enjoyed the company of some good people, some excellent hospitality, and an absolutely gorgeous natural setting. More on that when I get the time. For now, I just wanted to comment on some thoughts of home, which I took a little time to process while away on my nature weekend.

Many of you have asked after Papa John. "How is he doing?" is actually sort of difficult to answer. He has his good days and his bad days and sometimes the good days are really good and sometimes the bad days are really bad. There is a delicate hydration balance between too much and drowning in his own tissues and not enough and entering paralysis. Diuretics are used to control this, which then presents an entirely different set of problems. Mom doesn't tell me everything, which I get. Mentally, the man I think of as my father is gone. It's hard for him to talk, cognitively, and he tends to point or wave at something he wants. We sometimes revert to early "Leland speak" and ask him to "use your words." While the Parkinson's has severely impaired his mental abilities, sometimes I think he understands exactly what we're saying and talking about, and then see his recognition of his inability to process a response play across his face and it's all I can do not to break down.

But Mom is taking excellent care of him, and these days I am honestly worried more about her than him. She still basically works full time, manages the household, his care and treatments, their health care plans, the finances, and everything else. To call it "juggling" really doesn't do justice to the constant motion, divided attention, fragile nature, prohibition on pausing, and the underlying panic of the whole thing.

But that may be only my perception.

My mother is amazing. Astoundingly so. She takes care of us all, and is seemingly never ceasing in her work. She remains active and dedicated on several demanding boards, serves as Treasurer on some—overseeing grant selection, payroll, bookkeeping and the like—and still cares as active mother, wife, and doting grandmother. I have her Mac set to log into iChat automatically so I can see when she is online and we can visit if time permits. Too often she pops up on my screen well past midnight her time when she has turned on the computer to pay the bills online. She has a little hired help to assist with the daily three-hour process which is getting Dad up and showered and shaved and dressed and fed and the four-times daily pharmaceutical regimen that looks like a handful of confetti, which Dad takes and swallows by the mouthful.

But all in all, they are still my parents: Fran and John, ever caring and ever loving for each other. Sometimes I can catch moments where it seems that nothing has changed. Other times, I can't fathom the well from which she draws either her patience or her energy.

And there are times that I have never felt so far and away so far and away. Which is why I do what I can. I call a lot. I bought them an iPad 2 so we can video chat as often as we like, and Mom can pretty much reach me anywhere I have a wifi signal— via FaceTime she can ring my iPhone, laptop, work desktop, iPad, or even my TV if I have the MacMini running. And I try to get back to Nashville every other month. The last pair of tickets set me back more than a trip to Europe (someone explain that to me) and it gets a little cost prohibitive. I'm taking two weeks at Christmas and hope to get another long weekend in before then.

Originally, my purpose in these trips was to be as present as possible with Dad. Now I am going home more to spend time with Mom. She needs me so much more, if not just to have a grown up conversation with someone in the house, to be able to drop her shoulders and relax for a moment, regardless of my slightly secret routine of chores and repairs I attend to when I come home.

August was a particularly onerous time for Fran, Mother of Us All. She cares for everyone and has a hard time saying no or pulling back. My flight was delayed several times and four legs later I was to arrive BNA around midnight instead of early afternoon. It was an effort to convince her to let a sibling or a friend pick me up instead of her getting out of bed, or paying someone to collect me. In her mind, she's my mother and she should come get me from the airport. Things like that-ownership of certain responsibilities—she has a hard time letting go. Which I totally get. And have inherited. She's caring for me, caring for her grandchildren, babysitting, caring for the Children's Hospital, and the West End Home for Ladies, and the Hill Company, and all the little strays that wander into her sphere. During my trip home she was also assisting in providing care for two attempted suicides, the circumstances of which wandered far enough into the realm of the absurd I'm considering turning it into five minutes of standup. And neither were her direct responsibility but that's the sort of caretaker she is.

The woman is an unwritten Faulkner novel.

So, now, happy thoughts. All things considered, Mom and Dad are actually going okay. Mom has 18 glass balls in the air but seems adept in juggling them, including finances and health care plans and health care financial planning.  There is only so much you can do to wrestle such beasts and she does so with her own earned expertise as well as some professional help from family members.

Mom wanted to celebrate my birthday a couple of days early while I was home and I was pushing for the "whatever was the least trouble for her" option. But either going out or ordering in became increasingly problematic and when pressed for what I really wanted, all I genuinely hoped for was just a southern summer supper with my family. She thought that might not be "special" enough because that's what they did for Mac's birthday last week. But honestly, nothing could be more special to me than a typically hilarious dinner with my brothers and a buffet of southern bounties. Since we were children, Jay (the oldest son) and I have always had a "special" birthday cake, while Mac never really settled on a particular birthday cake per se.

What I consider "my" birthday cake (shared with Jay) is an old, old recipe which is a variation on a yellow cake made with apricot nectar and a glaze of orange and lemon zests. Oh Dear God this cake. It's so special to us as mother and son, she baked one, froze it in sections, and reassembled it on their fist trip to see me in San Francisco for my birthday in 1997. When I taste it, I swear I can remember each birthday clearly. Where, who with, and the voices of departed loved ones. Despite the ridiculous schedule she had to keep, she got up an hour early, drove across town to the last store to carry the antique jars of apricot nectar, and baked me the cake. Same recipe, same bowls, same pans, and even the from-the-time-before-pastry-brushes bound bunch of feathers she uses to glaze the cake. Now that is some tasty, tasty love.


The ice pick in the shot above, by the way, is generations old from when ice used to be delivered for the ice box (before electric refrigeration).  The ice company's name is still visible on the handle.  Mom uses it to perforate the cake and maximize the citrus glaze penetration.  Omigod so good.

Dividing and conquering the day's to-do's, Mom and I got to spend an afternoon together on other errands (like shopping for a new suit for me so I can be sure to have mother-approved funeral attire that fits), and stopping at various produce places for the night's menu of roasted pork loin (I took Mom to Nashville's new Trader Joe's for her first time!), tomato slices with basil from the garden and a little balsamic vinegar, fresh greens for salad, creamed corn, and sweet corn muffins. And fresh peaches for breakfast. It was all I could do not to add some green tomatoes to the sack for frying later, but we wouldn't have the time and it never dropped below 95 degrees the entire summer and hot fried food wasn't all that refreshing an idea.

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Family time was wonderfully wonderful, and while Mac's post-ulcer diet has some restrictions, he can have certain cocktails which he fashions himself, and travels with his own cocktail shaker which looks like a grown-up sippy cup.


While Bradley had just been dropped off at college, I spent some more quality uncle time with Ellen, who not only had an album named after her this summer, but thanks to a gift from her parents (bought for her at a fundraising silent auction), Ellen is going to get to record an album of her original piano compositions in the studio, with Ben Folds. I got my own personal preview, including a series of piano re-imaginings of modern "rock" tracks (note the laptop) from artists such as Deadmau5 (man I felt old, the originals just sounded like screaming and noise).


And yes, while I made a conscious effort to carve out time with each family member as I could, my active time with Dad was particularly special. Dad used to take us hiking all the time, and he is personally responsible for a great deal of the mapping, political protections, and financial stability of the Warner Parks in Nashville. For years, Dad and I led a group of hikers/walkers on a 90 minute walk through the park every Tuesday closest to the full moon, and never the same walk twice. Dad was the KOMC, making me SOKOMC (Son of the Keeper of the Moon Chart). I'd consult the astronomy programs on the computer, and he would, from memory, plan out a hike so that we would be on the right ridge to watch the sun set, then another to watch the moon rise, and be in the right position to view any particular stellar phenomena of note that night.

Walking across the room is now an effort, and his long hikes through the parks are maybe not even a memory anymore. But while we cannot walk together, the Warner Parks are designed with seemingly a hundred miles of "driving trails." So we rolled down the windows, and took a long, slow drive down the paved paths we used to know so well. Sometimes we talked about old walks, sometimes we just enjoyed the sunshine and the scenery. Occasionally he'd have a thought or an inkling to go one way over another, and there we went. It was a strange mixture of happiness and melancholy to take to these trails again with my father in this fashion.

But he loved it.

Afterward, we exited near the Nature Center he helped create. Around back, the wrap-around porch has been bounded by a hummingbird garden, rich with late summer blooms, hummingbird feeders, and so many hummingbirds hovering just feet away you'd think they were bees at a hive. On this porch are several rocking chairs, and one bench rough-hewn from a fallen tree in the park. This is Dad's bench. And there we sat.


I had my iPhone with me, naturally, and before a passerby offered to take our photo, I used the front-facing camera to show Dad that we could see ourselves in my phone and take a picture. There are many times I feel that using an iPhone is like living in the future, and at this particular moment I was deeply grateful for the technology. Always a gadget-dad and early adopter, Dad was delighted at the device. This is now one of my all time favorite pics:


And after the "walk" in the park, I took Dad for ice cream, his other favorite summer activity.

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My June visit saw a rare weekend when we were all in town, grandchildren included, so Emily arranged for us to have what we went out of our way not to call "one last family vacation" all together at her family's lake house. When I am home, I care for Dad as much as I can, which frees Mom up for a little breather, and I am grateful that because I was home to help care for Dad we were able to take the road trip and spend time away together. (Although I don't think it occurred to the others what a workload preparing for just one weekend away with Dad creates for Mom.) You do sort of have to watch all the time—I drove us down in the land yacht, and when Dad knows he has to go to the bathroom and articulates such, it is often either too late or a condition of some urgency. We were cruising down the Nachez Trace when he said he needed to pee. We are happy just pulling over to the side of the road and stepping out so that wasn't the problem. We were cruising at about 60 though on a winding road and I was looking for a straight stretch to pull over so we wouldn't be nailed on the roadside by someone coming around a curve. I had only slowed down to about 50 MPH when Dad opened the back door and started to step out. It's that level of paying attention that I am talking about.

But back to happy thoughts: the vacation was some wonderful quality time all around. Mom got to relax when one of us was with Dad or he was napping and she spent some good doting time with children and grandchildren. We all got to enjoy each other, which is a rarer and rarer opportunity. And regardless of the three iPads in attendance, we enjoyed some serious unplugged time with just each other. And I recognize how fortunate I am that we not only enjoy each other's company, but savor it.

so why should it be

Via J. Raviv and J. Buckley, the Quote of the Day (which still needs proper attribution):

"I refuse to believe that corporations are people until Texas executes one."

Do tell

Today marks the full repeal of what came to be known as the Don't Ask, Don't Tell (DADT) policy preventing gays and lesbians from serving openly in the military.  Over the years it has become painfully obvious, quite painfully actually for many, that sexual orientation is irrelevant to military service, and the DADT policy had a more deleterious effect on troops, readiness, service with distinction, and ideals such as duty, honor, and courage.

I have enjoyed the personal-level DADT stories flooding the web today, and have been moved to tears more than one.  In particular is this case of the previously-headless 21-year-old soldier on active duty in the desert who put out his own personal call for help on YouTube to support him in his coming out process.  Millions of views and supportive comments later, he called his dad today—a call to a tiny conservative town in Alabama from a base in Germany—to tell him that he is gay.  And he posted the live call to YouTube, face and all.  Honor and Courage defined:



Also of note on this day of DADT repeal, applause and salutes to my friend Zack near Nashville, who called me for advice last week on whether to come out or not at a military gala/ceremony at which he was being singled out and honored with an an award for service. The need to come out has been growing for a long time, and some on base know, and the timing seemed right even though it was before the official end of DADT. The pressure was nearly crushing him by that point, and if he were to be on stage as the center of attention and the model of service, he wanted to do so openly.


Again, honor and courage. I stand and salute.

I am also struck at how young these guys are. AreYouSurprised is only 21 years old. Zack is not much older. What a difference a generation makes.

Update: The coming out video by Airman Randy Phillips (AreYouSurprised) went viral mad quick, with nearly 2.5 million views (and YouTube does not count views from embedded players on other sites, like this one). He's also been interviewed by ABC news (I think it's safe to say everyone in his hometown knows he's gay now. I hope he had tome to call his mom too). This should be another Google ad—the Internet is what you make of it.

looking back to the 80s

I have absolutely no interest in Jessie's girl.

Oh Lordy. Call Betty and tell her I'm a comin'.

This just in from Alert Reader Reindeer Jim:

I had to kick the sweet tea vodka/soda habit last summer when I found out it was mostly sugar syrup and my belly ballooned. This new sugar free sweet tea vodka from Firefly sounds awful temping on a hot Indian Summer afternoon such as this...

Horses saved, cowboys ridden.

The Golden State Gay Rodeo, Bay Area Chapter 2011 Rodeo was this weekend and much fun. I'll be working on a compilation video later this week or next. Rodeo fans can check out the photos on Flickr.



Update: Video is up.

where the deer and the antelope lay

or rather, lie.

My parents' yard isn't huge so I was surprised to find two deer beds when I was home last. The shrubbery by the back driveway now looks like a cosy little deer nest.



But mom is rather animatedly irritated at what the deer have done to the back garden. The flowers (that are left and not eaten or trodden) usually look like this.



Now that the deer think that Tom Bodett left the light on just for them, it looks more like this:



With the moles in the yard, the chipmunks and squirrels who ravage her herb garden, and now the deer, Mother's attitude toward woodland creatures is less like Snow White and more like "venison."

more drinkin' in the library

The Friends of the San Francisco Public Library are hosting another Imbibe event at the newly renovated Richmond/Senator Milton Marks Branch, Friday, September 30, from 7:00 to 10:00 p.m.

This event will feature Little Creatures (a Talking Heads tribute band) and booze and bits from the Anchor Brewing/Distilling companies.

The Imbibe events always feature an interesting crowd and above-average chit chat. And if you're looking for that good opening line to speak to the hottie over in New Fiction, just ask them if they've read any good books lately.

Imbibe! events are free for Friends members, and you can become a Friend by visiting FriendsSFPL.org.

neighborly

My recent trip home was really all about quality family time. My last day there I got to swing by my brother Mac's new office and go out to lunch. He's currently working with a startup and subleasing some office space while they finish their initial funding process. It's a sweet building in Green Hills and one of the first LEED certified buildings to go up in Nashville. Incidentally, this is the office across the hall, which kind of cracked me up.



I/we've met Al scores of times and we're close to a lot of his former senior staffers, however I cannot imagine he would recall me should we be introduced again. I always speak ti him as if we were old friends and he gradually plays along, but I'm like that and he's like that. He'd know my parents by sight but I really don't think he'd know me or Mac. Jay maybe. Jay's a reluctant muckety-muck by sheer virtue of his diligent success.

As Mac says, "I'm sure he wouldn't recognize me now. The last conversation of substance we had was along the lines of 'Get off my lawn!'" Growing up, the Gores lived two-doors down for a while.

Still, it just sort of cracks me up that this is the office opposite. I love small world experiences.

You don't say

Next bar hop, we're totally playing.



Personally, I liked playing "name that locale" with this video. So many fun local gay spots.

Hey Girl, Hey!

Bonjour Girl!

fry me up

I've been thinking about these since I visited the farmer's market with Mom in Nashville.


And last night night the farmer's market in my neighbor had a fresh bushel. Fried 'em up with some summer squash and oh so good.

Fried green tomatoes! Nom.

Welcome Back Burners

Heh.  I wasn't aiming for a pun but that's a nice verbal mashup if I do say so myself.  I merely wanted a title for the repost of this xkcd strip for my people returning from Black Rock.