Oh it's Eighties night, oh what a night

I totally, like totally, forgot to mention how cousin Ashley's 40th birthday/80s party went. It may have been a swank BMCC affair, but the kids brought it to the game. The invitation itself was music an played Electric Avenue when opened.

You may recall Cousin Barry (Ashley's much younger sister) consulted me back in December about her Dynasty/Krystle costume. She came out looking like totally awesome. Photos were all over Facebook the next day. (Photos reposted here are from Carolyn Palmer Thoms and Jennifer Rose Frist. )


Ginger (also a blog regular) pulled the Preppy Handbook off the shelf and her best pink and pastels from the closet and was picture perfect. She even read from the book at dinner.

I was impressed with Jennifer's valley/madonna girl look, and quite so with Bill's interpretation of Magnum P.I...

But the best costume by far had to be Brother Mac Hardcastle, who went as Richard Simmons.

OMFG.

Carolyn Palmer Thombs and Mac Hardcastle

Gag me with a spoon.

And all night, he was in character. He later told me that in that ridiculous getup, he had to be. All night he was kicking and swishing and telling people to work it out ("Oh Honey never wear grey, you'll look like a battleship!").

Jennifer Frist, Mac Hardcastle, Elizabeth James

So freaking funny.

What's more funny is that Carolyn is an exceptional amateaur photographer and took loads of photos. Which she shared with the editor of the social magazine.

By now y'all should be familiar with Nfocus. The January issue was the bridal issue, and I was a contributing writer to a "new bride to be advice column" sort of feature (I'll post that coumn later). On the way to the airport to fly home from the Christmas holiday, we stopped at Mere Bulles for lunch, and I picked up a copy for the plane.

My brother, always tring to maintin his reputation, was slightly agast that his Richard Simmon's appearance made the first sentence of the first copy page in the magazine.

Heh heh heh. Awesome.

I've said it before. I'm the shy one in my family.

do not recommend Shady Pines

The girls are headed to Miami for a little vice.

So Ging' and I are headed to Miami (David gave me 2 tickets to the women's finals tennis tournament, sony ericsson for Christmas) in April. Know any good restaurants? hot spots? nothing too crazy... :) we are staying at the four seasons....

I know zip about Miami. Any suggestions?

.
.
.
.
.
.
.
(Hmm, which one would be Barry and which one would be Ginger?)

Random Holiday Saturday

Barry called me to be her Apple Man for Saturday. She very much wants an iPhone, and judging by the comments from her husband, Santa is bringing her one for Christmas. Regardless, she wanted to check them out and get some lessons at the Apple store, and in lieu of buying an iPhone, she could, like a good southern girl, check out the accessories. And Lordy, I thought I was an enabler. Even though I know why I am holding out for the next gen, she pushed the hard sell for me to get one this week too. This girl could sell a drowning man a glass of water.

We spent at least an hour on the iPhones and such at the store, and even though she is a big fan of the blog, when I mentioned that this much time demanded a photo for the blog, she got shy all of a sudden.

Ginger was going to join us for a late breakfast/brunch/lunch, but apparently had too much cheer at a party last night and was functioning on less than all cylinders and couldn't make it.

After our morning at the mall, Barry and I headed to the new Hill Center development (we're both Hills, and I hadn't seen the redevelopment yet) and lunch at the California Pizza Kitchen. A new culinary delight for Nashville, irony for me.

Imagine our surprise when Barry recognized Ginger's car when we entered the parking garage— and in a non-space no less!


One of Barry's pet peeves is people who park wherever they damn well please, and here she noticed Ginger car in front of the parking entrance to the CPK, and in a clearly marked "no parking" area. She stopped so I could take a pic.

And even without a voice, my boisterous laugh carried to Barry in her car. I had gotten out of the car to chronicle Ginger's infraction to mock her in person and here in the blog, and I had to guffaw when I round about the driver's side:

Let's take a closer look:


I was also amused at the implied threat that carries no actual weight in law or practicality.

Barry and I sat at the bar and had a tasty lunch of cobb salads and hot toddies. Ginger was having lunch with another friends and we celebrated her rare and amusing completely hung-over status.

Later that afternoon, Ginger and I got our quality catch-up time in at her favorite spot: Cosmo Nails. Coming from SF, Nashville manicures sort of suck. But I was there for the company and the cosmos (byo), not necessarily the service. We had lot of dishy fun in the mani-pedi chairs.

Even though Ginge' was often interrupted and managing her crackberry with freshly painted nails. Perils of the professional entrepreneuse.

I did feel the need to take a parting shot:

I call this one: Shrine of the Severed Hands.

Kinda creepy don't ya think?

ArtRageous Wrap Up

It's time for some backblogging.

The ArtRageous weekend (November 9-12) was a lot of fun. Cynthia took on, once again, the enormous effort of organizing our Van Go, which she named The Whizz. Joining the Warner party were Mac and Emily, Mary Carolyn, and a wonderful last-minute addition: Ginger.

We had the only accessible coach, which gave us some extra sitting/standing room, and more importantly a bathroom. Although the signage was a bit confusing:


There was some discussion if this meant (1) no more than one person at a time (that being more of a conditioned response for club-goers); (2) men should sit when they pee (which really should have been illustrated differently if such is the case); or (3) Men from motion pictures from the 30s and 40s should not stand up. Really, who wears a hat like that any more? And as for the "do not put trash in the toilet" signage-- really? a tin can? I can imagine the apple core, and maybe the banana peel, but a hand-opened tin can and a bottle? Who's been riding this bus? Hobos?

And then there was the warning not to drink the Purell.

Okay, duly noted.

The flying monkey accessories did look great. Dragon/bat wings for the guys and black feathers for the girls.

Shots of Ginger and me have been featured in The Nashville Scene, Nfocus, Nashville's Out & About, and a couple of art magazines whose titles I don't recall.

It's nice to be pretty.


And on Emily, every time she pushed herself forward it looked like she was flapping.

Awesome.

I didn't get reimbursed for the sets (except by Mac & Em) and no one felt like taking theirs home, which ultimately was fine by me. Mark your calendars: January there will be a Flying Monkey Bar Crawl in SF.

And a side note about the loser fags also on our bus. They were so haughty and actively shunning the whole flying monkey idea. These mo's and their ho's were totally playing too cool for school, and acting like we were the square kids making them look bad. Their leader was making it clear that he was too cool to participate in the theme, and that I was some sort of nerd for getting into it.

True, I am a huge nerd, but nerd has been the new cool for some time now. And seriously, you're a fashion fag in Nashville—you may have a 30-inch waist and a full head of hair, but when it comes to cool, and especially party cool, don't try to throw down with me. When you can get press clippings from the Swan Ball and Dore Alley, then we'll talk. Hell, I even got press coverage for a party weekend in Tucson for heaven's sakes. Amateur.

But back to the wrap up.

Also on our bus was the fabulous Glinda the Good Witch, who, without platforms and crown already stands at six-foot-six. This was one tall witch (we're standing on a slope so I look taller).


At times, the bus was more fun than the galleries. And at the galleries, we spent a little more time socializing than shopping.

Ryan, Jeff, and friend

Off to see the Wizard.

However some of us were moved by the art.


And some of us more than others.


The low point of the evening was when our diver got lost and left us stranded for over half an hour on a street corner downtown, in the 32-degree cold, and anxiously late to the late party. Mac and I had to talk our way out of a public-drunkenness/open container issue with a partolman, but I think having a bus-load of charity do-gooders and a seven-foot Glinda giving photo ops helped.

And of course, the Late Party is where all the magic happens. Even though it got really messy really quickly, I got to catch up with many old friends including John Bridges, Josh "Sparkle" Johnson, DJ Ron (who was spinning of course), and hoards of others lost to the haze which was the Late Party.

Of particular note, another lovely and talented Keith (in addition to Hinkle). This one is the only man I've met with a name better than mine, which also sounds equally made up but is not.

Wilson and Keith

Keith used to live in Nashville (and used to date good friend Jon Glassmeyer) and moved to Chicago about seven years ago where he has established himself not only as a successful stage actor, but also a Concierge Supervisor. I have several important people in my life who are great concierges and I am putting together a piece on the concept of the concierge. I think I respect the concierge so much as they have made a profession out of basically being exceptionally good hosts. As a southern gentleman, I have to respect that.

We should totally be a couple if not just for the hypenate.
(Did I mention that for a small fee you too can see this cutie naked?)

Also on deck at the late party:

Michael, Jeff, Wilson, Jon (this year's Chair of the Host Committee), 
Heather, and Sinclair (newly promoted Managing Editor of Nfocus).

And the wonderful Mike Smith, also newly promoted to basically Publisher of the Nashville Scene.

The late, late party turned out to be more of an ordeal. Come 1:30-ish, we headed to Play for the after party's after party. David Taylor, former Co-Chair of ArtRageous sponsor of this year's ArtRageous, granted all those with host badges free admission to the late night party at his dance/cabaret club Play. Ryan, who was on our bus and brought his own set of fez and wings, turned out (1) not to be straight as I originally thought, and (2) a lot of fun. We drove together to Play in Mom's car, but as usual I parked a block or two too soon. We talked in the car a little bit, but as it was well below freezing at this point, we decided we should park much, much closer.

At this point, Mom's car died.

Wouldn't even try to turn over.

It was now pushing 2:00, freezing, and I had few people I could call other than triple-A, which would have taken ages. Mac and Emily were joining us (in theory) but headed to a different bar and were not answering their phones. I called Keith, who had just pulled into his driveway way out in Bellevue (he had a soccer game at 8:00 the next morning). Saint that he is, he drove all the way back into town to give us a jump.

When he and Jonathan returned, it was a bit of a to do to block traffic and align his car such that it the jumper cables could reach from battery to battery. As I said, we were in Mom's Benz, which opens like a Rubic's cube and it took some figuring out to pop the hood. And then we couldn't find the battery.

After much searching, in the dark, in the freezing, with no street light, Jonathan finally spied a sign, in black letters in black plastic in the dark: "Battery located in trunk."

We aligned the car again, and opened the trunk lining, but still could not readily grasp where the contacts were. I tried the car again, just to be sure, and it started up just fine. Lord knows what was going on. I thanked Keith and Jonathan profusely for what turned out to be a fool's errand, but Ryan and I did not go into Play as I was afraid to turn the car off. I drove Ryan back to his car, where we were loathe to part company, but also could not turn off the car. We talked for pretty much as long as I had gas to get home then parted ways.

I was in bed around 4:30. And woke up at 7:30 with the world's worst hangover. By 10:00 I was beginning to grasp at lucidity, and worried about Mom, who took the car to church. I asked her about it when she got home. "Is your car all right?"

"Yes, but I did have to stop and get some gas...."

Fly my pretties!

The ArtRageous weekend was a blast. And the flying monkeys looked awesome.

I've already been sent links to our photos in online publications, and have been told we'll be appearing in several magazines covering the event as well. Props for props.

Photos are up on flickr and my nifty new Mac Web Gallery.

No big narratives to relate. Well, one great, exhausting, exciting, appealing, and appalling story— but I'm so not sharing that one here. Commentary to follow, and in the meantime:

THANK YOU to
• CYNTHIA for organizing and hosting our VanGo bus (the Whizz).
• MAC & EMILY, JOE & CYNTHIA, GINGER, MARY CAROLYN, and RYAN & FRIEND for stepping up and being flying monkeys.
• GLENDA for freaking bringing it and being the best seven-foot good witch ever.

CONGRATULATIONS to
• MICHAEL R on his new real estate career, but I hope he keeps making music. Sony was foolish to drop Pinmonkey.
• SINCLAIR on her promotion to Managing Editor of Nfocus.
• MIKE S. on his promotion to Publisher for the Nashville Scene and Nfocus. (Or Associate Publisher of City Press, or whatever the actual formal title is.)

and a

SHOUT OUT to
• RYAN M. for being such a highlight to my weekend. And if you're reading this, you've been checking me out.

That's fine by me.

happy campers

Summer camp has changed a lot since my day. (Wow, that sentence makes me feel old.)

We went to summer camp in the mountains of North Carolina--boys to Falling Creek and girls to Greystone. I have many memories of Falling Creek, but I do not dwell there much as it also raises a lot of old anxieties. I didn't fully realize how isolated I was from so many things because I knew I was a gay child, although clearly that was not something I could articulate at the time.

But that is another story, perhaps a novel. I just want to take a moment to talk about summer camp.

We lived in cabins and drank bug juice and canoed and hiked and had riflery and archery and days on the lake and nights with bedtime stories.

Terrence sent me this photo of one of his sons at summer camp.



Clearly, summer camp is very different in California.

Just the other day I got an e-mail photo of the Adorable Ellen, which is much more in line with my idea of a summer camp (she's actually back from camp but was visiting a friend at a ranch in SoCal).




The horse's name is TicTac.

Yesterday I received a copy of an old photo from the lovely and talented Ginger—a photo of Ginger, her best friend/my cousin/friend of the blog Barry, Charlie (I think), Roe, Patrick (Ginger's brother), and me taken on the front porch of Falling Creek Camp in the summer of 1982.




This was my camp.

Looking at this photo last night, and finding the campgrounds on Google's satellite maps, prompted so many memories-- some memories long buried, and some so purposely buried deep. While sorting through the nostalgia and happy memories and wrestling with anxieties that had been such a constant companion throughout my youth, I realized that I had done myself a disservice to lock away so much of my past. I had shut that door and locked it. And in doing so locked the monster inside too. Opening the door again last night I was startled to find the monster again, but this time I was so much bigger and no longer overpowered. Fear was a conditioned response, but easily dismissed as I was able to recognize the beast for what it was and shoo it away like a raccoon at the door, leaving me alone with the scraps of memories left behind.

I rummaged through what the creature had not devoured, and found that for the first time I missed those summers, and felt a pang of regret for not knowing then what I know now. Self-knowledge, confidence, and experience would have served me better than a bowie knife.

But like I said, these musings are another story, perhaps a novel.

For now, let's just take a moment for those socks.

Ginger, Hail

Momma Hardcastle forwarded me a link to the Harpeth Hall alumnae newsletter.

Shout out to my good friend (and regular blog feature) Ginger who is profiled and appreciated therein.

Remember Remember the Mighty December

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

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

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

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

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


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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Leavin' on a jet plane

and I'll be back again in July.

It's a travel day so no blogging. I leave for BNA to OAK in about an hour and a half and have to pack up. Travel surprise: my neice Ellen will be flying back with me. She is off to Saratoga to visit Morgan (aka Morris by the Uncles) her former next door neighbor and best friend who moved away last year. She is flying with Morgan's grandmother who had already planned a trip, and being on the same flight just happened to be a happy accident.

Swan Ball stories simmering. But I won't have time to get to them until Wednesday. Photo sets will be uploaded tomorrow.

Wilson, Barry, Ginger and Chuck at the pre-party

In the meantime, perhaps this will hold you over:



There is such a thing as enough rope.

Steeplechase Weekend Day 3: The Races!

The 65th running of the Iroquois Steeplchase was a blast. Ginger and I were very excited about being each other's date in Mom and Dad's box this year. At the last minute, the Tyrell's offered Ginger their box, free of charge, as they were going out of town and wouldn't be able to use it. We were in the very fortunate if not busy position of being guests to Fran and John and playing with that crowd, and being hosts to another set of people in different box. Ginger and I love to play "the game." Now for us "the game" is either at dinner, the practice of ordering a variety of dishes and all sharing, or at dinner parties intentionally inviting people who may be strangers to each other, but are all so fascinating and entertaining that we know they will enjoy meeting each other and an unexpectedly good time will be had by all. We played the game with this box and found a really good group: Robin Campbell, Elizabeth Estes, Sandy Nelson, Steve Sirls & Allen Decuyper, Keith Hinkle, and to arrive when possible, Keith's boyfriend/'guy he's dating' Shamus. SUCH a good group to throw together, and throw down together.


Ginger and Wilson

While the days beforehand had been hot and stormy, race day proved nearly perfect. The skies were clear with only the occasional clowd to offer shade, but the air was cool and the breezes felt like A/C. The wind was a bit much, causing havoc with some hats, but this was so much better than last year with the downpours or the year before with the heat stroke. This was a nearly, if not truly, perfect day.


I collected box lunches for most everyone from Bread & Company, and we packed up no fewer than three coolers before we left Sheppard Place. By far the favorite drinks of the day were the Mandarin & Sodas and the Greyhounds—perfect for the sunshine. In addition to the box lunches, Allen and Steve (or perhaps just Allen) prepared some wonderful tasty bits. Complete with sterling serving tray, Allen prepared for us bitesize cucumber sandwiches and little tomato/bacon/mushroom/something marvelous bits.


While Mom and Dad's box has the enviable position on the finish line, the Tyrell's box is on the end which allowed us to spread out and have unobstructed views of the home stretch.



Ginger and I flitted back and forth to Mom and Dad's box, which was just as fun and featured equally charming company. Mom always looks great.


Jay and Fran Hardcastle


And of course, Papa John.

Steeplechase is always a special treat for me as I get to see all sorts of folks I would never see on an average day in Nashville. Particularly wonderful is the annual appearance of the fourth Hardcastle son Joe Calvin—who long ago gave us the adored race tumblers we use at the races, and he long ago dubbed my father "Papa John" (which now is what my generation and his grand kids call him). Sadly, Joe is getting a divorce soon, and (clever mother that she is) Fran wasted no time introducing him to the currently single and fabulous Ginger.


Joe Calvin and Ginger Hale

Also at the races was author/artist/friend Emme Nelson Baxter and her kids. Bradley went to hang out with Gage for a while, and Sloan was surrounded by her pre-teen posse. They were impressing their friends by calling out to "cool Uncle Wilson who lives in San Francisco." I felt pretty cool myself being the object of such adoration by a crowd of 11- to 13-year-olds.


Emme Baxter and Wilson Hardcastle

So wrong
Now while most folks at the Steeplechase look resplendent, as more raff and less riff participate some serious mess is finding its way up the hill from the infield. Not to get all snotty, but I felt the need to take this picture just to give the caption "so wrong:"

Here are my points: The seersucker is fine, and completely race appropriate. But now that you can get seersucker at Target or Old Navy, it's gotten a bit ubiquitous. The seersucker, in and of itself, not so bad. But for God's sakes, put on some shoes. Southern men are not expected to wear socks with loafers in the summer, except when it might be too sudorific or odorific not to do so. Personally, I hate flip-flops as men's shoes unless you're waterside. And don't wear them with a suit.

There are certain men who can pull off the bow tie and look sharp—even handsome. Joe calvin is one of these men. This guy, like Tucker Carlson, is not. Seersucker plus bow tie equals either "Norman Rockwell," or "trying too hard." The cell phone is slightly forgivable. Logistics around the boxes can be problematic at best. The cigar is the last straw. This turns "trying to hard" into "TRYING TOO HARD" to look cool. Flips+seersucker+croakies+bow tie+cell phone+cigar=huge poser.

I present to you the poster guy for "so wrong." I was just glad I could not smell his after shave.

Now the infield is a different story. This used to be a small tailgating crowd watching the races. It is now a frat party bacchanal gone apeshit in pastels. There are the trashy guys, dancing muscled and shirtless for the adoring crowds of girls (I admit these hard-bodied A&F rejects turned my head too and made me wonder just how drunk were they...)


And the ever-so-subtle beer bong:

There are also roving cliques of girls who look WAY too young to dress so trashy. If you've just turned 14, should you really be trying so desperately to get hammered and date raped? What the F are these girls thinking? I was thinking at one point if the infield were a band or an album cover, it would be called Whores in Ralph Lauren. I am saying this as a gay man who enjoys Folsom and the PowerHouse: these kids were skanky whores in good clothes. The guys weren't much better, but they are the kind of skanky whores I can get behind. So to speak.

While roving around with Keith and looking for Mike Smith, we marveled at the sight of it all. One guy bumped my shoulder as he successfully frizzbee'd his dip can into a box of empties. I think this pic sort of sums up the infield this year:



There was one infield incident that surprised me. Sunshine being strong and my hairline being thin, I was wearing a cap for a lot of the day. A slightly activist of me, the ball cap I keep in Nashville is a Human Rights Campaign hat. Very subtle, but still a little assertive. (Assertive but not acerbic?). One guy stopped me as I walked past,

"Hey man, what's that mean?"
"What's what mean?"
"The sign on your hat."
Internally I brace. "Are you kidding me?" Basically, I'm trying to figure out if he is starting something. This is a very drunk, southern, frat-boy bunch.
"No seriously. I see it all over town and I don't know what it means. I'm so glad to ask somebody."
"Oh." I pause. This is an opportunity for education. But how best to explain it? Slightly swayed by sunshine and vodka, I kept to the simple truth. "This is the sign for the Human Rights Campaign. (I took off the hat and showed him the back where it was spelled out.) It's an advocacy group supporting equal rights for gays and lesbians. It's an equals sign, because we should all be equal."
Slightly surprised, "Oh. Cool man. Thanks. I had no idea. Very cool. Have a good one."
And we parted ways. Later I wondered where exactly he had seen it. Roommate perhaps? Hmm.

Before I conclude with the Ballad of the Seersucker Drunk, I feel the need to share two more pics, which may put me more towards the infield than the boxes. Even box-goers have to take emergency measures now and then. But we all stand together, as it were.

(emergency pee break)

After the day at the races, Mac and Emily hosted an after party. We were all pretty wiped out by this point, but I was happy to have my camera handy for this:


Chocolate, lighter, cigarettes, and vodka.
She's got the whole world in her hand.

All Steeplechase photos.
(note: this link will only be active for a few months)

....................................................................................................
Ballad of the Seer Sucker
We were packing it up for the day, having waiting out the mass exodus. Really, why leave and fight traffic when you have good food, good drinks, good company, and good weather? Our box was perhaps the last to leave the hill. Just beyond the fences in the public hill area, there was a guy who had clearly passed out hours earlier and whose friends had left him there. We noticed him because other people leaving the hill would stop to have their picture taken with him, pose with him, or pile objects on him for the photographs. His face was also roughly the shade of a lobster, in high contrast to his suit. Ultimately one woman, clearly a mother, tried to rouse him and see if he was all right. Note that she did this after she took a series of photos. She roused him, got him to shake it off, and gave him some water. He continued to assert that he was fine, but was clearly confused as to where everyone had gone. He got up and started walking around the hill. Just wandering up and down. (Click the image to enlarge.)


He would stop to pick up a paper plate, walk 15 feet, carefully put it down again, and repeat the process with other bits of trash, ultimately making it back to his lawn chair, where he passed out again. I got a few seconds of this on video with my little digital camera: