Feeling tired?

There's a nap for that.

I dream in documentary

Some nights I have vivid, detailed, fully-formed dreams. Fully-formed in the sense that I imagine a movie for myself with a storyline plot development, beginning, middle and end. Or at least middle and end. I tend to only manage to retain the memory of the ending beyond the place between asleep and awake.

I had a slightly disturbing dream last night that played as a documentary in my head. Not disturbing I should say as just slightly sad and slightly tragic. I think two things in the periphery of my daily life imprinted themselves in my mind to form the basis of the story. My dream was a documentary of a significant figure in the history of San Francisco, a gay-rights pioneer by his/her virtue of being a legend in the drag community. Although I did not know about her until her death, the subject of the documentary was a character similar to Jose Julio Sarria, Empress Jose the First. The Empresses died in September and there was a memorial shrine in the Castro and a funeral event at Grace Cathedral to rival any other head of state. The subject of my dream documentary was just such a figure, but named Unique, a name my mind also took from a passing notice of a show at the Castro theater, or a half-remembered poster of a local drag show.

My dream was detailed with interviews and graphics, enough that I was impressed with the art direction not really understanding that this was coming from my own mind. I don't think I could have ever designed such images on purpose, but the video graphics and iconography were imagined by my subconsciousness were really well produced. Does it count as design, as writing, if it comes unconsciously?

I feel the need to blog this as the story and some of the images have stuck with me all day. And the reel seemed to end just as I was waking up: either the show was over and it was time for my lights to come up, or I was ready to wake and my mind wrote an ending to the film.

The closing scene included an interview with the man producing the tribute show for the recently deceased Unique, and during his piece the camera cut away to the marquee behind him listing the names of the drag luminaries scheduled to perform. There was a black line with name under it prominently featured in the palace script of the other performers, with a thin-lined X crossed through it and a bracket under it reading [Unavailable]. The performer was included in honorarium, in that he should be there, but couldn't, and the event honored him too by inclusion in the program fully knowing he wouldn't perform.

The performer who couldn't make it was Unique's husband. His widower. And as the producer described the circumstances in a voice over, the image shifted to that of dark red rotary telephone on a white field, slowly panning back to an array of many smaller phones, and panning back so that these phones became the pixels of one larger dark red antique rotary phone, which then slowly melted away as if seen through tears on a window pane.

I woke when the narrative had finished, and the sentence has stayed in my mind all day, at when I took the time to feel the thought closely I fell myself into tears.

The Story of Unique ended with this:

After Arthur died, his husband became a recluse. No one knew that he spent every day sitting alone in his parlor, most days only in the dimness of the window shades, compulsively trying to call his departed lover on the phone. He dialed the phone number over and over. And over. Dialing the numbers backward so that he might connect to the past, or pierce the veil, and hear the voice of his heart just one more time.

Sitting still

There comes to me a guilt with sitting still.

With inactivity.

Although I have gotten quite good at it over this past year, this sitting still—abandoning reading for iPad skimming, writing for Television. Dust accumulates in the non-traveled alleys on the hardwood floor as I avoid cleaning chores. Photos go untagged and tales untold.

I do not still well and so it is an uneasy idleness. Yet the idleness has begun to creep over my life like kudzu. But always there too are nagging whispers from the guilt which sits beside me whenever I sit still.

Occasionally it pokes me.

There are, after all, Things To Do.

But today in this place—in these sunbeams and shades—the only whispers are from the warm waterfall feeding the mid-century-modern pool.

I am sitting still. I am quiet. I am content. I am reading ink on paper.

Tomorrow is another country.

And the Things To Do are in exile.

MAD I tell you

Doctors Who and Shrödinger:

Each a mad man with a box.



Update:  Alert Reader SaraCat points out that also: Bow ties are cool.

Ode to Mrs. Bradshaw

Mrs. Bradshaw was, well in the early 70s, "the secretary."  Jeanette Bradshaw was always much more than that, and she has recently retired from the main desk at The Ensworth School after 35 years of service.  She finished her last school year with the graduating class of 2012, and tonight (as I type actually) there is a celebration for Mrs. Bradshaw at what is now considered the Red Gables Campus.

If I could be there, I would.  I adore Mrs. Bradshaw.  I sent these words instead.




................................................................................................................................

October 10, 2012

Ode to Mrs. Bradshaw

I spent a lot of time in The Office during my early years at Ensworth School. A lot of time. And anyone who knows me as a grown-up finds this unsurprising, which honestly would be a little insulting if their assumptions of my mischief weren’t so bolstered by repeatable, observable behavior. But alas, I was a golden child. Ever so well-behaved and Practically Perfect in Every Way that in the early morning light you might just swear that you could see a halo (not that any of you proper people would swear mind you), and so I would never be sent to The Office for matters of discipline.

No, I was a frequently-just-slightly-sickly child. I’d like to think that it was my tiny little body rebelling at the exhaustion from all that well-behaving. Every Friday in first or second grade I would start to feel sick, and have to climb the antique stairs to The Office where Mrs. Bradshaw would take care of me. Every Friday, like clockwork, I feel a bit ill and Mrs. Bradshaw would take my temperature and find me running about one degree above normal.

Frankly, I like to think I have been running several degrees above normal every day of my life, but that would be speaking metaphorically.

With my little 99.5° fever, Mrs. Bradshaw would generally call my mother to take me home early, and she would keep me company in the meantime. I would dread that I had “ruined” my weekends by being sick only on Friday afternoons. I was not feigning illness and no one thought I was—after all who calls in sick on a Friday afternoon? I have spent hours and hours in the years since analyzing why I might have gotten sick every Friday afternoon. Was it psychosomatic? Was I afraid of weekends? Was my epic shyness so debilitating that such fears manifested physically sending me home to the care and comfort of my mother rather than the grueling social demands upon a seven-year-old?

There came a time in 1992 when I just decided to stop being shy. I got over it. Some say I may have over compensated. But I have forever abandoned Friday afternoon sicknesses for Sunday morning ones.

Looking back, I’d like to think that I wasn’t sickly or psychosomatic, but rather that I was just a clever little boy whose temperature would rise just so he could start the weekend by hanging out with such a wonderful person. (After all I was only seven. It’s not as if I were trying to escape Mr. Katzman—which would have been completely understandable if not outright subsidized by a variety of humanitarian organizations.)

But for many years, there I sat in the Ensworth Office, a boy the opposite of the man I would become: young, small, and timid. And every Friday Mrs. Bradshaw would care for me and keep me company until such time as the feeling faded or my mother would come and get me. Those were actually really nice moments. And I can remember them well. Not any one Friday specifically, but the feeling, sights, smells, and sounds of sitting with the ever-so-kind Mrs. Bradshaw. I remember the lilt in her voice, the alacrity of the clackity of her typing, and the hypnotic experience of watching the blinding speed of the bouncing Selectric ball.

I returned to Ensworth many times after graduation—as friend, camp counselor, substitute teacher, uncle, and alumnus—and every visit to the office was made bright by Mrs. Bradshaw. And that little boy inside me would feel safe, loved, and amused. The imaginary electric Selectric ball would now bounce inside me. I have had a surprising number of reasons to call the Office over the years, and I can attest that Mrs. Bradshaw can convey the Essence of Ensworth with just her voice, and I cannot imagine that the Ensworth Office will ever be as bright either by phone or by face.

Thank you Mrs. Bradshaw.

You gave me fever.


Wilson Hardcastle
San Francisco, CA
Ensworth, 1985

have it your way

I secretly love The Gangway bar.

I really want to put up a sign for a fake bar next door called "The Threeway" just to make it look awesomer.

the merchandising will include adult toys

Beauty and the Priest.

A very different kind of fairy tale.

think thin

New slogan for Weight Watchers: "Go into the Lite, Carol Ann!"

Summer lovin', had me a blast

May 2010 was a ridiculously good time.  As some of you may recall, I took Shilpa and PeeDee home to Nashville for the races (the Iroquois Steeplechase), and stayed a few weeks for quality time with the family and then wrapped up the vacation with the Swan Ball.  As usual, every moment was accounted for, so while there was much to blog about there was no protected time for doing so.  I could barely find half an hour to crank out my race articles for Nfocus, which I did at Fido's after dropping the kids off at BNA (or rather, parted ways at Prince's Hot Chicken). 

I never got around to backblogging, but the 1,200 or so photos from the weekend certainly tell a story (a thousand pictures is worth how many words?).  I have finally gotten around to posting the Nfocus articles from May and June though, so here they are.  Rereading/formatting these made the cold little studio feel a little like summer again.

Steeplechase bits:  Mr. Fancy Pants and No Glass on the Grass
Swan Ball:  Church Clothes and The Butterfly Affections

stop right there Santa,

You had me at "ho."

I am beautiful, in every single way

And by that, I mean that I think it's my "beauty" that keeps me single.

I was searching for a lost document when I found this survey Nfocus sent to me last spring. The editors asked some of the socials a range of questions for their "Health & Beauty" issue. These were my responses:

Name: Wilson Hardcastle
Age: 39.5

What hair product or process changed your life? Male Pattern Baldness

What is your skin care regimen? I have a special portrait in the attic.

What do you do regularly to beautify yourself and where do you go to do this? I beautify myself by making sure the rest of you are pretty hammered. To do this I go to the Swan Ball. Or church, and suggest to others that they take communion five or six times, just to be on the safe side.

What discontinued product should be brought back to the market? Lawn darts. Nothing makes me prettier than your having lost an eye.

Share any amazing spa experiences or procedures that you loved. Nothing really. If you have a particularly climactic experience at at spa is that considered a spasm? I've not had any spa experiences, but a good pedicure and food massage can make everything seem right with the world.

What beauty procedure, aside from hair color, matters most to you? Good dental work. Aside from smiling to be beguiling, it's difficult to lie through your tooth.

What’s your go-to lipstick or lipgloss? Vanilla Soft Lips. Or whatever I can pick up "second hand" if you know what I mean.

What mascara leaves your lashes long and lush? As a racing fan, I'm more partial to NASCARa.

Have you ever had a product or beauty procedure that shocked you, in a good way? When I was more naive, some beauty products shocked me. These days I am much more grounded.

What beauty practice did you learn from your mom that you still practice? Being a good person. That's a beauty that shines through and never fades.

Share your greatest beauty catastrophe. I still have a piece of pencil lead stuck in my face from childhood. I now just consider it a "beauty mark."

People would not be able to recognize you without your what? Cocktail.

What specific makeup can you not live without? Kryolan professional paints.

If you could have any sort of cosmetic procedure, what would it be? Full-body lipo, with a side of hair plugs.

If science could invent a procedure to fix something beauty-related, what would that be? Helping those people who are so hideous on the inside.

What do you do to stay in shape? It's pretty effortless. This round shape pretty much takes care of itself.

Have you found any new exercise regimes or cool workout programs that have significantly changed your physique? If so, what? "Cheeseburger" is not so much a regimen as a lifestyle.

Whale of a tale

Shilpa brought in a paper copy of the SF Weekly to work this week and gasped aloud at the self-important “Bouncer” column. As experienced San Franciscan bar-goers, we know our local booze and local bars, and were both so completely offended and enraged by the ignorance in this piece that we were apoplectic.

I don’t know who “Katy St. Clair” is, but she writes like a smug college intern who is new to the City and the mature bar crawl. The immaturity of her stream of consciousness column makes her come off as an early 20-something Marina Chick. If she’s over 30, she needs to just give it up and sit at home and drink with a dozen cats. I can’t imagine her being good company in any bar.

While her writing skills are just plain poor, her opinions are a painful combination of ignorance, arrogance, and stupidity. Ignorance can be remedied by education, but as Ron White is so fond of saying: you can’t fix stupid.

Brevity may be the soul of wit, but there is just too much to say in response to this monstrosity.

Read the original at the SF Weekly site, then come back here for the rant. If you are similarly inclined, I encourage you to add your comments to the Weekly's page.

After the Whale
Bouncer hunts for good tunes at Moby Dick
By Katy St. Clair
Wednesday, Jun 23 2010

I know scientists are working diligently to isolate the so-called "gay gene," but while they are at it, I hope that they can also pinpoint the part of a gay man's brain that likes shitty dance music.

Holy shit. Are you serious? Gay men have always defined dance music. Gay men are the dance DJs in the City. And LA. And NYC. Go to dancemusic.about.com and it’s DJ Ron, gay Master of the Tables in Nashville and weekend DJ at Splash (SBNY) in New York. If you’re into stereotyping, straight white girls are and always have been the antithesis of arbiters of “good dance music.”

And whoever claimed that Moby’s was playing dance music? They play DVDs from Europe of popular synth/electronic/pop. Was it the no dancing or the no dance floor that made you think this was supposed be the gays’ taste in dance music?

It's hard to say which came first, like the chicken or the egg: Do gay men in San Francisco like to drink along with Britney B-sides, or do all the bars in the Castro have some sinister plot to program their video jukeboxes to the aural equivalent of Star Magazine?

Um, Britney is rarely played in the Castro actually. And it was against our collective will that we ultimately liked the Circus album, but it did produce some really good dance tracks. And none of the bars in the Castro have video jukeboxes. There are only two bars with digital jukeboxes, The Mix and Twin Peaks, both of which have impressively diverse and downright awesome esoteric selections.

Old-school gay men also like shitty music,

Most old-school gay men are dead. We honor the survivors and they can like and play whatever they damn well please. They, and we, have lived through Hell. Do you really think that you have any authority as a prissy little straight girl to judge their musical tastes? Call me after everyone you know has died slowly, painfully, alone, and stripped of all dignity and I’ll be sure to tell you to turn off the torch songs.

like Barbra Streisand,

Hey, I am not a big fan of Babs either, but face it: she’s got a set of pipes. She has won two Academy Awards, nine Grammy Awards, four Emmy Awards, a Special Tony Award, an American Film Institute Award, and a Peabody Award—hardly the record of an artist who produces “shitty music.” Nine Grammys. Nine.

Erasure,

Oh shut the fuck up. Sure, Erasure is the go-to cliché for popular gay music, as is Pet Shop Boys, but they still rock and still manage to fill the back room of the Cat Club on a Thursday with dancers and club kids who bring it. Erasure has sold over 25 million albums. Again, not so shitty.

show tunes,

Showtunes have their time and place. If you don’t get it, then get out. Not that there are any bars in SF that play showtunes, other than open mic bars where the patrons--usually straight girls--come to sing them.

And what’s the freaking number-one show in America? That’s right: Glee. While personally I believe that showtunes should be relegated to theme parties/nights, they are the original “dance music” and are due their respect. Hardly “shitty” and hardly the preference of just the gays.

and Liza Minnelli.

Oh no. Honestly? This is the gay-icon cliché you reach for? You’ve already invoked Streisand. Too young for a Judy reference? Oh please. When was the last time anyone played anything by Liza outside of a drag show? Aside from that, Liza is only one of 12 people to ever achieve an EGOT, earning Emmys, Grammys, Oscars, and Tonys. She’s considered an example of “shitty music?” My GOD you suck.

Of course, I know a few gay men who like different music, so before you fire up that e-mail, let me say that I get it, and I know I am generalizing, big time.

Too late you fucktard. What? Your keyboard doesn’t have a delete key?  If you know you’re full of shit, shut your mouth. Does the SF Weakly not have editors?

But mama always told me that there is truth behind stereotyping.

Don’t get me started on yo’ mama.

So, all together now: S.F. gay men's music taste sucks.

Says the little white straight girl. One of the best lines from Glee this season: “I’m gay; Mercedes is black. We make culture.” And what are you basing this on? One trip to a gay bar? I follow the local urban Americana scene. My friends are into country, pop, rock and indie. I had a date last week with the front man of a local hard-core punk band. Any track from their collective catalogs could kick your I-think-I’m-cool-because-I’ve-shopped-at-Amoeba’s ass.

I cemented this theory last week when I went to Moby Dick for the first time.

Holy crap. You reached a definitive conclusion based on an uninformed single data point? How the hell do you have your own column?

It's a quaint little tavern on 18th Street.

That’s your takeaway?

From the outside it has an air of distinction, with gilded lettering and stately blue paint.

It’s blue with some faux marbling. Hardly Wayne Manor.

Of course, it is named after one of the greatest works of American fiction — one man's quest for a large, white beast that haunts him. He lives only in the hope that he may some day overtake it and penetrate it with his giant harpoon. What this has to do with gayness is beyond me.

Perhaps it would be clearer if the bar were named “Dixie Normous” or “Homosexuals Like Puns About Really Big Penises.” Really? A Moby Dick joke? If you are going to use the aquatic reference, at least mention the enormous salt water fish tank above the bar.

Is this column a bar review or a tirade on dance music. Where the hell are you supposed to be going with this? You’ve trashed all gay men’s taste in music. Are you now going to bag on a neighborhood gay pub?

I walked in expecting to see older gay men tapping their toes to some jazzy background music,

Why? Were you walking in during 1927?

but was disappointed to see that I could just as easily have been walking into Badlands.

For FUCK’S sake those bars are NOTHING alike. Moby’s is a neighborhood pub with 40-year-olds up front and a pool table in back. Badlands is a disco video dance bar full of twinks. And the music could not be more different. I have never seen a video or heard a song at Moby’s that would be played at Sadlands.

There was the video screen playing some stupid dance song, with women soaping up cars at a carwash while a man stared at their tits from behind the windshield. To be sure, there were older men there, which made me all the more puzzled at the music.

Because older gay men influence modern pop music so much so that production companies have stopped showing women in skimpy clothes in music videos. Or that the old gays have any control over the DVD player behind the bar.

Moby Dick consists of one main room with a bar with stools, and ledges along the walls for more seating. This is how every other bar in the Castro is designed. There is a pool table in the back. There was also a very large fish tank over the bar; the little guys swimming in it looked quite content.

What I didn't expect to see, but did, was a middle-aged blond woman with her breasts hoisted up in a low-cut, form-fitting top who was buying drinks for just about everyone. "What'll you have?" she slurred. I am always put off by people who offer to buy me drinks, because I feel I will owe them something, like conversation, and I don't always want to do that.

Poor baby. Meeting a woman who loves drinking in a bar, and is happy to share the wealth. Your popularity must be such a burden.

I politely demurred.

How “writerly” of you.

She ordered herself a mai tai and asked for extra rum, and I wondered whether the bartender was going to cut her off, but she didn't. The server, Mary, was very nice and took my order quickly. The video changed to a song by Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas, and I went and sat on a ledge.

There is something to be said about dance music being played while you are slowly getting drunk. As your buzz increases, the music sounds better and better, the guy you are talking to looks better and better, and the idea of smoking crystal and banging all night moves to the forefront of your brain. How else to describe the Castro in the late '70s, when disco ruled?

WTF? (1) While I am happy to hook up with someone at Moby’s, it is neither a cruisy or meth-centric bar, (2) Is this a continuation of your musical tastes assault? (3) There was no crystal in the ‘70s; and (4) Most urban gay club communities were all about liberation, sexual freedom, disco/dancing and some serious party drugs in the late ‘70s, but it hardly describes the Castro then (which did not have any large discos) or now, much less Moby’s, and much less the entire gay community and or their taste in music.

I seriously think that whatever beats we like are hardwired into our DNA. Dave Chappelle did a skit about how Latinos respond to certain rhythms, black people respond to different beats, and white people hear a guitar solo and suddenly feel the urge to shotgun a beer.

Nice use of someone else’s bit. At least you gave it credit. Is there a point? Is “shitty” gay music homos’ right as it is hard wired next to the man-sex gene? Should I forgive your poor taste as it is hard coded to the stupid-straight-white-girl gene?

The blond lady moved up to the pool table and seemed to be enjoying herself, although she was having difficulty chalking her cue.

Reports are to the contrary. Friends who were there have commented to me that she won that round, and then followed her new friends to the Lookout for drag trivia night. But how nice for a self-professed bar-hopper like you to mock a bar gal for drinking and playing pool in a bar.

I looked around at the art on the walls. That's another characteristic of bars in this area: There is always some penis-centered art. Sometimes it is quite good, but often it is hella stoop.

“Hella stoop.” Seriously? You get paid for this?

Case in point: the drawing of an erect phallus with a bite taken out of the tip, complete with chomp marks, as though it were a chocolate Easter bunny.

Yes, penis-centric art is asinine, but hardly pervasive. It’s part of the repressed-gay-tourist kitsch. Some poor guy is trying to sell his art on the wall of a dark bar with a mirror over the urinal trough. It’s not the Louvre. Dick art is oddly in keeping with the scene. We glance at it, roll our eyes, and continue to drink. BFD.

The men around me were having a great time. It was happy hour, and Moby Dick has a long one with great prices.

Actually, Moby’s has the shortest happy hour in the Castro, and arguably the least favorable discounts (bargains only on well and certain drafts). Only the Lookout is similar. Twin Peaks has no happy hour to speak of at all. Everywhere else: bring on the drunk with two-for-one top shelf cocktails and cheap shots.

Maybe I am just jealous of the gay men in this town — they are obviously enjoying themselves more than I am.

Then leave us be and shut up with the bringing us down.

They don't show up to my Neil Young tribute drinkathon and shit all over it, so why should I disparage their entertainment choices?

I don’t know, but you dedicated an entire column to doing so.

I am certainly guilty of liking The Golden Girls, so at least we have that in common.

And BAM! Another out-of-date cliché! Nevermind editors, does the SF Weakly have any gay people over there?

Here's another thing that makes me jealous of gay men: They make it look so easy. Meeting another man, flirting, and getting it on seems to be a cinch. There has to be a bar in S.F. for single straight people where it is just as easy, but I haven't found it yet.

They are everywhere. It’s just you. Trust me.

Straight men have to deal with straight women, and we are a difficult lot. We tend to put ourselves in two categories: sluts and nonsluts, and a fella has no way of knowing which one we are until it may very well be too late.

Most straight women I know do not in fact classify themselves as sluts and nonsluts. But when it comes to a straight man’s ability to spot a girl that’s good to go, Honey, they can tell. That’s why you’re not getting any. It’s not the slut-versus-tease perception you have to worry about. It's the cool-versus-tool contest you're losing.

I made it through about eight songs, and then I had had enough. This was not my world, and although I love to go to the Midnight Sun to watch Project Runway, I can't abide hanging out with men who like men, just because there is a killer drink special.

Then DON’T. If this is how you are, we don’t want you at the Midnight Sun, or anywhere else around us. Your coming to the Midnight Sun to watch Bravo’s Gay Programming for Straight White America is not doing us any favors. We are not here to amuse you, and we don’t need your validation. You’re not only crashing the party, you are being a shitty guest.

Call me old-fashioned. Or, better yet, call me Ishmael. What the heck.

I’m calling you a cab.


Go be smugly superior with the other hipsters annoying locals in the Mission.

if wishes were pegasi, beggars would fly

If I could design aircraft, I would name my company Cartesian.

it's in the cards

I've been cleaning out my desk at work. I'm not leaving, just temporarily moving during renovation. In my desk, I found copies of old greetings cards I made years ago. These still crack me up:


Outside: Having a wonderful time.
Inside: Wish you were queer.



Inside: Midnight in the Garden of Gin and Tonic.

Any vintage models on eBay?

I can't find any old, period fangles anywhere. Everything is new fangled.

C'mon Out with A.C.T.

Randy, Marketing Man for the American Conservatory Theater (A.C.T.) asked me for a quote or two about Out with A.C.T. for their marketing materials. I tried to give different tones and different lengths. Not my best work, but it was short notice and I think it get's the job done for a newsletter/brochure pull quote. Feel like joining Kevin and me?

My co-conspirator Kevin and I love the Out with A.C.T. nights. Like any house, the stage fare at A.C.T. can be hit or miss, but the hits are often out of the park, and sharing the experience with a gay-sensible audience sometimes puts a twist in the tale. Regardless of the content, Statler and Waldorf (that’s us) will have something to say about it, making the socials that much more fun. After our first season of post-performance socials we became subscribers. We’ve had great experiences with the cast members—company or visitors—and get so much more out of the event for their camaraderie at the after parties, and of course the other theater enthusiasts. It’s nice to have a set evening out, or Out as it were, with a crowd more tony than the usual Castro crowd. It’s also nice to have a date at a hosted wine party in a theater with guests more gay than gay-90s.

..........
Where else can you chat up tony mo’s with a hosted wine bar and share stage tales with stars of stage and screen? I got the true dish on Monroe from the Mother on Too Close for Comfort, talked character acting and Broadway development with Bree’s murdered husband, experienced the more dramatic side of Chakotay, and thanked JoBeth Williams for teaching me never to buy a house built on an old graveyard. All this while keeping an eye out for potential dates to the next show.

..........
We come to heckle. Stay for the bar. And love that the drama tends to stay on stage. (But also applaud when it doesn’t.)

..........
I’ve laughed. I’ve cried. I’ve hooked up. And left all my drama on the stage.

Whoop Click!

I had a great time with Duck Friday night at James Judd's new show "Whoop Click!" I'll bust out photos and such when I get the laptop back from the shop.

Goldstar, through whom I ordered the tickets, asked for a short review and I'll paste mine below. I heartily recommend it for a fun night out. And if you can, heckle the opening act—it's Marylin Pittman from NPR being a angry and racy. Participating punches it up a bit and gets the audience wired for the show.

Also note that James' is giving away a case of assorted bottles from his winery. I sampled his label at AoF (photo) and it's tasty stuff. If you go and enter into the drawing, include my name and I can win a case too :)

Check it out: Whoop Click! at the Dark Room Theater in the Mission.

I hurt myself laughing at “7 Sins” and was excited to hear about “Whoop Click!” While this show is not yet as long or as polished as the long-running “7 Sins,” James Judd does not disappoint with his ribald and manic personal stories. He’s the life of the party and you get front row seats to his living room.

Perfect for dates or depression. Treats both.

P, P, PMS

Having women friends can be fun, until that time just before "that time." It's worse when it gets stubborn and prolongs the ride on the crazy train.

IM's today:
"Sane yet?"
"Nope. Still no period. WTF?"
"If your period waits any longer it's going to bust out of there as an ellipsis."




Update: Okay, this is just weird.

Kevin G. posted a new Facebook meme:

Grab the book nearest you. Right now.
* Turn to page 56.
* Find the fifth sentence.
* Post that sentence AS YOUR STATUS. AND POST these instructions in a comment to this status.
* Don't dig for your favorite book, the coolest, the most intellectual. Use the CLOSEST book.

The book nearest me is The American Heritage College Dictionary (hardbound, third edition). Page 56, fifth entry:

an•o•vu•la•to•ry adj. 1. Relating to or causing the suppression of ovulation. 2. Not associated or influenced by ovulation.

earth's crust

Saving the earth, one pizza box at a time.



I love smart design when it combines good thinking, simplicity, and the entirely practical. How easy would this be to implement?

Avon calling

Love Labour's Lost, Act 5, Scene 2: A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.

Slogan waiting for a gay pride t-shirt: I heart heavy bears with nimble tongues.

Labors of Love, Act Now, Scene: Leather.