Smoking Gunn

Still can't get enough of Tim Gunn.

Chicago Tribune Interview.

Love that voice (not that you can hear it reading a printed interview). Sort of a Timothy Dalton timbre, but stylish and smart. The gay doesn't hurt either.

Islands in the Bay, that is what we are

Two members of the department across the hall signed up for the Alcatraz Challenge, which was held yesterday morning. In this Challenge, contestants swing from Alcatraz to the East Beach at Crissy field, and then run seven miles to the base of the Golden Gate Bridge and back. About half or more of the nutcases who sign up for this only do the swim. And while it is indeed an impressive swim, from what I witnessed most contestants do not do this for the challenge or the competition, but just for the "I've swum from the rock" bragging rights. Which is all fine and dandy I suppose. There was plenty of eye candy, but most of the guys were very much "look at me--I'm hot-- don't you want me baby" sort of guys, not what I consider true competitive athletes. This hypothesis may or may not be substantiated by the observation that none of the cocky-swagger guys did the swim and run. The swimmers and runners--those guys looked like real athletes. And as a spectator, I can attest to their dedication and effort.

The shirtless swaggering guys had that Marina asshole air about them, but I will say their torsos tended to merit the arrogance.

But I digress.

Way too early Sunday morning (after hitting the sack at 4:30 after the night at Club Jackson), I joined Shilpa on the 43-Masonic to MUNI down to the Marina, where we waited on Amy H. and Zo to meet us and walk to the shore. It was a brisk morning in SF. And while it was beautifully sunny overhead, the Golden Gate was still mired in freezing fog. I can’t imagine how effing cold the Bay must have been for the swimmers.


We looked for the families of our participating friends Amy Day and Terrance, but to no avail. After the transition from swim to run, we settled ourselves on the footbridge to cheer on the runners.


Did I mention- essential for early morning cheering on the beach: mimosas and bloody marys. Breakfast of those cheering on the champions.

As a smaller (i.e. not a marathon) race, there were no lines of cheering supporters. We were it, and generally much appreciated. Occasionally, during slow stretches, Shilpa and I would break out into a round of “Brr! It’s cold in here!...”

The race was not the tightest we’ve seen, and the course was not that well marked, so often it was difficult to tell the racers from people just out for a morning jog. We started waiting until we saw the whites of their ID tags before cheering. For those who did not know there was a biathlon in progress, they were like, “WTF with the drinking losers yelling at passer-bys at 9:00 on Sunday morning?”

Granted, the more slap happy we got, the more inventive our cheers. We went from simple “Woo woo” and “Way to go”s to more “WOO! Good run! Almost there!... [sotto voce] call me.” And occasionally, also sotto voce, “nice ass!”

Amy H., the physician among us, would diagnose the runners as they went by with any number of physical, muscular, or skeletal ailments which affected their running form. At one point she said, “See how he twists his [Latin whatever] slightly as he [medical term]. He has an inflamed wiggerbagigger and [insert roughly 18 words I don’t understand here].”

Me: “Really?”

Amy H. “Well that, or he’s just a bad runner.”

The Day’s were glad to see us, if not merely for the fact we were the walking breakfast beverage cart. And of course we were happy to find them, if not that they brought the brunch to go with the beverages.

WAY TO GO AMY AND TERRANCE!!


Well done! And thanks for introducing disgusting terms/ideas like “bay beard” into my lexicon (green algae clinging en mass to the light fur on your face). Ew. Y’all are crazy. Cool, but crazy. Now go take a hot bath and a thousand antibiotics.


By the way, today I made a comment to Terrance that it was amazing how all the creepy stuff in the Bay water seems to act just like hair mousse. He told me one of his kids asked, "Daddy, did someone do you hair after the race?"

Your neon lights will shine

Last Thursday evening I joined Jeff, Dean, and Wilma in Dolores Park for 'Movies in the Park'-- Which sounds all offical and well-funded but is reeally just three people who produce and pay for it because they think it's fun. Which it is.

And this was one of those rare perfect SF nights when it was actually warm. The crowd took notice of the deep, dark, bank of fog rolling just north of us against the voilet twilight and felt very grateful.

Last week's movie was Caddyshack. Perfect for this crowd. The organizers showed trailers for the two movies vying for the next screening: Grease and Xanadu. The crowd went wild. Of course, it's a win-win for any ONJ fan. In the end, it was clear the ONJ+ELO fans would have their way, as Xanadu was the clear crowd favorite.

And this morning, I read this (thanks to Nervous Breakdown).


(Full disclosure: I have the VHS, DVD, and CD Soundtrack to Xanadu. I've been an embarassed fan since I saw it and taped it from the ABC Sunday Night Movie in 1981. Every time I watch it I cringe at how bad it is, and I love it even more. Gene Kelly is just amazing, and sad heart-throb-wanna-be Michael Beck has no sense of timing/acting. Poor Gene Kelly to find himself in the middle of this disco/roller-skating opera...)

I keep mis-hearing things

Those voices in my head have really got to keep it down.

Danger lurks at Club Jackson

Friday night Lance and I went to Club Jackson for a little homemade dinner and a casual evening in with just a few friends (mixed company-boys, girls, gays, straights). By 3:00 in the morning, it was clear the 'quiet night in" plan had been wrecklesly abandoned. If it's not a party until something gets broke, it was a party around midninght.

Early in the evening I asked for a pad to take notes for the blog. Without backstory or context, here are some of my overheards:

"If you are too drunk to get the cheese on your cracker, you're in trouble."
-
"I don't want kids."
"Wait 'til you hit 30. You'll want kids."
"I want kids. Specifically, I want that 22-year-old kid in the Abercrombie & Fitch ad."
-
"I'm thinking of having some sort of topless knitting contest party. You only have so much time to knit something to cover yourself. Then there is the challenge of knitting something large enough to cover yourself in the time provided, but not with such an open weave that you can see the nipples or poke through."
"I can imagine being the proctor of this test. At the end of the time I'd have to say, 'needles down.'"
-
"Wilson, you always have to cross that line."
"You know why I'm always over the line? On my side of the line: there's a bar."
-
"What happened to my bra? I had it on earlier."
-
"Did you know that Lynda Carter did porn before Wonder Woman? She did! I swear! My dad had the beta!"
-
"How did I show up with pork chops and salad fixings and end up out of my pants?"
-
"Whose bracelet is this?" She asks as applying it to her wrist.
"Uh, Honey? That's a snap-on cock ring."
-

And one really too inappropriate for blogging quote in the comments. Not my fault if you're offended.

How many ways to say Fabulous?

I mentioned earlier that Barney's little cousin is appearing as the lead in a New Zealand movie debuting in the states soon: "50 Ways to Say Fabulous".

Here is the promotional shot of his cousin Andrew from the movie:

Ah, cute little Kiwi boy.

Now, let's compare Andy and Barney side-by-side:

Wow.

Who has more ways to say "fabulous"? Well, Andy appears to have 50, but he also has a team of writers and a film crew. Clearly, our Barney has many ways to say fabulous all on his own. And often with a fabulous hat:


But do not be fooled! Bella Barney has his moments of unfabulousness too:


Perhaps he is even more fabulous for the flaws. I dunno. I just love that I have a blog and can pull this kind of shit on him.

Silver foxes

I'm over Anderson (well, mostly). The new silver hottie is Tim Gunn (bio). I think it is the snazzy specs and deep voice that do it for me. (snazzy specs not pictured)

That and "Get it done People."

Check out the series of "What Would Tim Gunn Do?" posts over at Nervous Breakdown.

New answer

If you were an animal, "what animal would you be?"

The Niki Nanka!


[Also from Barney.]

Bass-o-matic

I really am completely indifferent to Lance Bass. It's not like I know the guy, or was ever a big fan. But I'm going to post a note about him anyway.

Lance Bass was a member of the boy band N-Sync. Gay rumors have been attached to him forever. Whatever. Good for him. He's bestest buddies with Kathy Griffin, which just adds to his obvious gay factor, compounded by gay hair, gay fashion, doe eyes, and flawless "I'm only 26 years old" skin. But for me, I don't care if he's gay or not. Still on whatever.

A couple of weeks ago I was enjoying the camp that was network televisoins Game Show Marathon where stars celebrities competed as contestants on game shows from the 70s. Match Game, which I loved as a kid came on, with Lance Bass and Kathy Najimy as contestants. The panel was beautifully reconstructed with modern equivalents, and the returning Betty White. I watched some of this on the phone with my television-trivia-boyfriend Seattle Bill. When Lance Bass rolled around the contestant stand, he looked really, really "stylish." And by that I mean "gay." Bill asked, "Has Lance come out yet?"

This is just as illustration. Everyone knows, he's not telling, and it's only news in the "entertainment news" world, which is not "news" but entertainment. Again, Lance Bass is nowhere on my radar and I have paid zero attention.

Until today.

Gay bloggers are all about P-town the past couple of weeks, with the big July 4 onslaught just winding down. And all of them have been posting about seeing Lance Bass and his alleged boyfriend Reichen Lehmkuhl in town for the Big Gay Weekend and out at the gay bars ("gay bar" in P-town is redundant). Reichen, of "Amazing Race" and a bazillion posters and pin-up calendars, has been openly gay since he bid for celebrity. Lance has not. Reports say that Lance wore a ball cap out, and the conclusion has been that he was "hiding." Yeah, clever disguise that. I don't think of going to the A-House with Reichen as hiding. I imagine as a unavowed gay celebrity he was just wearing a hat to keep a low profile. There is a difference between being in a secret undisclosed location, and just not wanting to be mobbed by a bunch of drunk tourist fags in a bar when you are on vacation with your boyfriend.

I'm all "live and let live" on this one. I'm not down on Lance for not being more openly gay, I'm just jealous he's got an unbelievably steaming hot boyfriend with abs of downy blond furry steel.

Frankly, I think coming to the biggest gay gathering that is not a circuit party and hanging out with a hot date is being out. Way out. Pink-neon-sign out. I half-heartedly thought that this was a much classier way of saying, "Yeah, I'm gay. So?" than doing so on Larry King/Barbara Walters/cover of People or the Advocate. It makes being gay just another aspect of you that people know about, not any big deal. (I'm allergic to strawberries! Let's hold a press conference!)

But then I read this by Kevin Naff in the Washington (DC) Blade (emphasis added):

With this more public quasi-outing, Bass joins a growing list of openly closeted celebrities and politicians who play transparently coy games with their sexual orientation. Bass, CNN’s Anderson Cooper, Fox News’ Shepard Smith, actress Jodie Foster, singer Ricky Martin, Congressman David Dreier (R-Calif.), actor Sean Hayes, and too many more to mention are doing a disservice to their fellow gays by choosing the security of the closet over the integrity of living an honest life.
...
These public figures need not march in a parade and trumpet their sexual orientation. But all those listed above have been asked directly about their sexual orientation and, rather than give an honest answer, choose to obfuscate, perpetuating the damaging myth that there is something shameful or wrong about being gay.

I say yay for Bass for living openly, and having a hot boyfriend and a funny gal pal. Good on you for taking a fun vacation in gay ol' P-town on super-gay July 4 weekend.

But Kevin Naff has a point. It's not living openly if you lie or obfuscate about it when directly asked. You are who you are. Be all you can be. Step up, say "I am," then walk away and go do whatever it is you want to do. And as a public figure, you may set the stage for others, famous or not, to do the same.

Bible Blog

This is interesting. David Plotz over at Slate is reading the Bible from page one, and blogging about it. It's not so much Cliff's Notes, but more Reader's Digest meets Siskel & Ebert. It is quite insightful, and really highlights how conservatives/creationists areinconsistent, hypocritacal, and often ignorant of what "it says so in the Bible." (I should point out that he is not highlighting hypocrisy, he's just recapping scripture. The hypocrisy is self-evident.)

Along with synopsis and commentary, there are some funny lines. He's a witty writer all around.

My favorite line from the Genesis commentary: "You can call this 'original sin,' but maybe it's just lax parenting."

He's up to Leviticus now. It's amazing how the "conservatives" love this book for the dozen or so anti-gay words, but ignore everythig else.

Speedwagon

Someone brought in some imitation Oreos. They look like Oreos, but are some Newman's Own organic Oreo-like cookie. Fake Oreos.

Would they be Fauxreos?





(But they are organic, so they are better faux you.)

Follow the lizard

The insurance quotes I got for the new Beemer sent me into a panic. I mean, obviously, my rates would go up over the '96 Saturn, but I didn't expect it to double. My quoted annual from AAA, with discounts, came to $1,660. E-surance was worse. Traveler's, my current company, wouldn't call me back(?).

Fifteen minutes on the phone with Geico: $581/6 months or $1,162/year. Nice. (That's almost a 30% savings.)

That, and my sales person Vicky was incredibly charming--and in a call center in Tucson and loves the video.

Or would you like to swing on a star?

So my buddy Barney was on a phone interview last week. (I know you seem to be hearing a lot about this bloke recently. dunno why. because he's funny I suppose. To answer Barry's and Ginger's and others' question, we are not dating. Just good 'mates'. He's a Kiwi you know.)

Anyhoo, Barney, Dr. Scientist Guy, was on a teleconference job interview with a lab in Singapore last week. He and all the scientists on the other end were talking science and laughing it up and getting along fine. Conferenced in from another location was a woman from HR, who clearly couldn't keep up. At one point she asserted herself with her interview questions, but seemed to be reading from some schlocky 1980s/90s 'interview questions' handbook. After all sorts of discussions of protocols and biochemically designing new molecular drugs for prion disease, she breaks in with, "If you were an animal, what animal would you be?"

Barney was stunned. As, apparently, were the other scientists in Singapore as he could here them stiffling their laughter on the other end.

"A capybara."
The other end erupted in laughter and kept on. He also said that you could hear the HR woman cover the receiver and ask her coworkers, "What's a capyrbara?!"
She never did admit to not knowing what it was.

I will admit to not knowing. (But that's the kind of guy I am.) The capybara is the largest animal in the rodent family. And it's just an odd and esoteric sort of thing to say. It was just silly really, clearly communicating the silliness of her question. I love that he is so smart and so quick-witted as to both dismiss the question and yet impress his audience at the same time.

Later that day at the Metro we were rehashing our conversation with some other friends. Barney had said "Capybara," which made me want to say, if asked in an interview, "El Chupacabra," which is basically the central american version of Bigfoot (speaking of, why don't we hear about Bigfoot anymore?).

I thought that if I were being serious, I would probably say something cheesy like, "I would be an octopus because I do so much I feel like I have eight hands, and I can fit myself into any situation I need to." But I would probably follow up with, "and I tend to ink myself when startled."

When pressed for a reason as to why he would be a capybara, he said, "because they like to lounge around in water, and they eat with their family unit."

Then I offered, "I would be a monkey, because I like to fling poo."
To which another added, "and they masterbate like mad in front of crowds of children and aghast parents."


Or would you rather be a fish?


................................................
All the monkeys aren't in the zoo.
Every day you meet quite a few.
So you see it's all up to you.
You could be better than you are.
You could be swingin' on a star.

Adult shopping tip

Dildos should not be bought second hand.




[I found this on a note scrawled to self from a while back. I remember saying this to someone late one night in a bar and thinking, "this should really fall under the heading of 'self-evident'." Although to be fair I think this stemmed from the topic of what creepy people will take out of trash cans on the street at night, and that was one of the items missing the next day after cleaning out someone's apartment.]

Two to go down.

"Uh, I'm pretty sure that's beam down, Kevin."

I was just joking. Just putting it out there that there is a 40th Anniversary of Star Trek (but it's only the 5th Annual?) Star Trek Convention, in Vegas. It's the Trek+Vegas factor I thought was fun.

Kevin, clearly always one up for some f'ed up fun promptly e-mailed me back. It's hilarious. But you need a little background to get it.

See, there's a whole bunch of Star Trek fans who consider themselves the crew of the Federation Starship "USS Intangible"--an imaginary starship with real crew members, ranks, regulations, orders, etc. These fans live the lifestyle.

Every so often, an "away team" from the USS Intangible will "beam down" to an inhabited planet and "explore their ancient or primitive culture." That is to say, a bunch of geeks in Star Trek costume go to a renaissance fair. The away team members have their uniforms and their backstories: name, rank, biography, species, etc. They never break character, and the renaissance fair folks never break character either. I don't know if the renaisance people are annoyed with them or not. Do they hate them, or do they indulge the fantasy, supporting them in their shared love of immersive imagined worlds? Dunno.

So here's the hilarious part: Kevin wants to road trip to Vegas. And go to the Trek convention dressed in Renaissance costumes.

God that cracks me up.

Especially from someone who looks awesome as Seven Of Nine.

Good Carma

Sunday “morning” I dragged my tired but out of bed and into a beautiful Sunday on the Bay. I met Barney at the Embarcadero in time for the noon ferry to Sausalito. It was sunny wand warm in the City, icy and foggy on the Bay, and sunny and warm in Sausalito. The Golden Gate was entirely invisible.

Deb met us at the dock, feeling very much like the new mother waiting for Daddy at the pier with little Roman zonked out in the stroller. We strolled along the waterfront and stopped in the park long enough for me to change from jeans to shorts. Living in SF I am not shy about dropping trou in public. I am hoping the locals didn’t mind. I didn’t care about the tourists. I consider them interlopers. I am local color.

Deb and I had planned this day as an opportunity to spend a beautiful day together, and for me to buy her car.

A couple of weeks ago, Deb finally accepted that she would have to get a mommy mobile. Roman and Zola (enormous black lab) could not easily share the back seat of the Beemer. Deb sent out an e-mail asking if her friends knew anyone who might be interested in buying it. The Beemer was way out of my desired price range, but I knew the car well, knew Deb had taken anal-retentive good care of it, and knew it was a good deal. But more than that, I thought I should by it because it just made cosmic sense. One of my best friends needs to sell her car at the same time I need to buy one. Take the sign. Don’t question it. Be appreciative. And just ride the gift horse.

I told her I was interested. I really wanted a convertible though. I shopped around online for a long time, visited a couple of dealers, and conferred with friends. I am not a “car guy.” I hate dealers. I shiver just typing about it. I don’t like car research and I don’t get into it like my brother Mac or my friend David Britt. I just want a reliable car at a reasonable price. The opportunity with Deb just seemed so right. And a gift from Heaven. No muss, no fuss, no stress, no strain.

The exclamation point to the “this is a sign dumbass—just buy Deb’s car!” feeling was made by the Ford dealers at Dolores and Market. Major with the creepy! And AGGRESSIVE. And so stereotypical annoying and pushy and sleezy that I almost laughed at them. Things like shaking my hand but then not letting go. Pushing me aggressively towards something I have adamantly declared I didn’t want. I almost asked “Does this actually work on other people?” But then they started tag-teaming me with cheesy lines and high-pressure sales tactics and I realized that many people must get caught like deer in the headlights and just capitulate to get them to back off. It got to the point that I actually wanted to shout “Stop it!” Except they outnumbered me and I really didn’t even feel safe in there any more. They were like hyenas circling their prey.

But I digress. I went to Sausalito to spend the day with Deb and buy her car. Once she knew I was interested, she asked if I was flexible with the timing as she had not decided on a mommy mobile just yet. She bought a Honda SUV last week, so this was a good time to pick up her old car.

We had a lovely day in Sausalito. We took lunch at a nice café on the water, enjoyed the sunshine and the random Sting/Russian cover song from the Albanian guitar player working the patio. (He was hunky, pretty, and pretty cheesy. Which we found quite entertaining.)

It occurred to me that it must seem strange to other people that I came to Sausalito to buy a car I have never even driven. So I drove it. Loved it. Heck, I have been driven in it enough. In fact I was the first passenger the day that Deb bought it.

It’s a 2001 BMW 325i, fully loaded, leather, silver exterior, well-maintained, and just passed 60k miles. As a bestest-buddy Deb gave me a great deal (but fair to her too). It needs its 60k “Inspection II” service, a new windshield wiper fluid pump, and a dent pulled from between the grills, that will run almost $1,000 so she knocked that off the price. She had meant to have it detailed before I claimed it, but there wasn’t time. She did however clean it to almost immaculate perfection.

And she hid $5 in the glove box for the bridge toll back as a ‘welcome to the car’ gift.

I’m going to take it back to her official BMW guy in Sausalito for the service, as he only charges $400, instead of $750 charged by the two pretentious BMW places in the City. I would like to use Cole Garage as it is just around the corner, but they won’t even give me an estimate. So one day next week I will drive up to Sausalito and work out of Deb’s home office. The body work I can get done across the street from my apartment—if I choose to do so at all. The dent is so minor I couldn’t see it even though she told me it was there. She had to point it out for me to notice. Once I have the maintenance done, I’ll have it detailed and the inside shampooed/steam cleaned for that new car feeling.

While I did get a great deal, I have been cringing at the added expense of registration, change in title, required smog check, and oh dear God the sales tax. I paid a third down and need to come up with the rest. Now that I have the title in my name, I'll get a car loan, or probably a line of credit at a lower rate. Or just pay her a montly amount for a year as she's cool with that.

Next: new insurance.

One down, two to go.

I love the car. And I’m thinking of naming it Linda. After Debbie Sue Linda, one of my pet names for Deborah (originally from a MadTV sketch).

And yes, I am well aware that driving a BMW now makes me yuppie scum. I believe I have sufficiently mitigated that by my nights at the Powerhouse, Trannsyshack, and Midnight Mass.

I am not suggesting it.

I'm just sayin'.

The 40th Anniversary.

Clearly, resistance is futile.

"This is my happening and it freaks me out!"

Time for a little shout out to the friends from Midnight Mass.

So "holla."

Saturday night Kevin and I took Little Brandon to his first Midnight Mass. This weekend was Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. We were worried it wasn't going to be a good night because when we got there the line was relatively short and tame. However, we landed in line next to the grown-up goth-ish Melissa (holla) who, drinking from a paper bag, knew what Midnight Mass is all about. That was evidenced by the drinking out of the paper bag. We got into an animated discussion over who wrote Valley of the Dolls vs. Beyond the Valley of the Dolls, which resulted in my calling Lance to look it up online because, having just left Lance and Barney at the Dolores Park watching Kath & Kim, we knew he was awake.

We could agree (after the embarrassing moment when I confused Suzanne Pleshette with Jacqueline Suzanne) on the bit of trivia that roger Ebert wrote the screenplay for Beyond, but I vaguely remembered the audience going "oooh" at the Castro Theater at the end of Valley of the Dolls when it said "written by Roger Ebert". According to the imdb, I was wrong. But the memory was so nagging that I doubted the imdb. However, after reading Ebert's scathing review, I no longer consider his authorship.

There was a lovely young couple in line behind us as well (okay, 30s young). We could tell by their naiveté that they were virgins. But we welcomed them and introduced them to the scene. I will say that Midnight Mass is officially a victim of its own success. Too many lookie-loos and local tourists, and not enough freaks. Honey, this is supposed to be Trannyshack's night out. This is home to mother/daughter mud wrestling before Mommie Dearest and Drag Queen Roller Derby before 80s dreck. Alcohol and pot smoking are encouraged. So what is with the boring bridge-and-tunnel/ shirts-with-collars set?

Lucky for us, these two may have looked like white bread newbies, but they were really lost Midnight Mass souls who had finally found their way home.

I started to explain the whole Midnight Mass theology: "Welcome to Midnight Mass. It's about getting drunk or high, and commentary."
"Oh," She said, looking sheepish to her date, then slightly embarrassed to be saying it, and ultimately disappointed: "I could have brought the high..."
"You didn't being any drinks?"
The boyfriend this time, "Don't they have drinks inside?"
"No. They have what we call 'mixers.'"

Melissa raised her paper bag in illustration.

Bear in mind, the paper bag was the most subtle consumption on display. Which is kinda the deal. I showed them my flask (the much beloved Davidson Pocket Policy my fraternity sold in college to make money) and explained that one drinks beer in line, and many people smoke or have a cookie/brownie beforehand, and then you take in your drinks for the show. The only rule is they can't see it. Willful suspension of disbelief—if they don't see it, we don't have it, everyone is good. But people are lighting up bowls inside for goodness sakes. We're not talking the height of stealth.

When we arrived, Kevin dropped us off and then went looking for parking, Brandon went to hold a spot in line, and I went to the window to get our pre-paid tickets. I was in line behind Matt, one of Kevin's exes, and AKA Rentecha. He, who continued his two year streak of always looking at me as if I were vaguely familiar and not as if we have met 60 or 70 times, and his date were "with the band." I.e., on the lost of comps. Which from what I could see was quite long. Brandon was a late addition and I had not ordered a ticket for him. So while Brandon was getting his ticket, I was alone in line for a while with Melissa, the newbies, and another couple who did not want to actively engage but were clearly enthralled by our conversation. I advised Boyfriend to go across the street and get libation for the show. Later he returned and I checked on his purchase.

“Did you get your drinks?”
“Yeah, I got a bottle of anchor steam.”
“A bottle of beer? Amateurs.”

When Brandon came back I made my own trip across the street.

That mini-mart must do amazing business on Midnight Mass nights. I went in to get a couple of tall boys for our wait in line. While inside, I ran into Mr. Moses, whom Kevin and I met in line last year for Peaches’ Playhouse/Pee Wee’s Big Adventure. He was in a great Pee Wee costume, and we all got along like the Midnight Mass devotees we are. He later sent me a Frienster invite, which is how I found him here.

So while I was getting ready to check out with my three tall cans and an additional flask-sized bottle of vodka for Boyfiend/Girlfriend, in strolled Mr. Moses and his companion on a similar quest.

“Mr. Moses!”
“Wilson! My God,” he said shaking my hand and taking my arm, “it’s been exactly one season.” And so it had. It was nice to see him again. And nice to be remembered. His hair is handsomely longer and he was suitably attired in a period/alternative jacket, and he had some good lines for me but as I had never seen the film before they were lost on me.

When I got back to the line, Brandon and Kevin were very excited to get their MGD treats. I gave the bottle of vodka to Boyfriend, telling him that “Beer is what you drink in line. And you can have booze during the show.”
He replied, “Smirnoff?”
“You’re going to be mixing it with Sprite and popcorn. I’m not going to get you Kettel One….And for God’s sakes-- a stranger buys you a bottle of vodka and you complain about the brand?”
“Point taken. Thank you.”

There were so many people on the comp list that even through we were near the front of the line, the theater was nearly full when we entered. The usual seats for Statler and Waldorf were already taken. Kevin and Brandon went searching for good seats and I went for mixers. I love that the cool concessioners don’t blink when you ask for a soda, half full, but with lots of ice. They know their crowd. I imagine they know it well as they have to clean up the mess the messy leave behind.

As it turns out, we got seats next to Boyfriend/Girlfriend and in front of Moses and a bunch of other displaced Trannyshack/Midnight Mass regulars. Which was a blast. Unfortunately, we were in front of two MM virgins and ‘serious movie goers here for the actors’ Q&A’ who were serious downers. And not in the alternative underground way.

They shushed us. Let me repeat that: They shushed us. It’s freakin’ MIDNIGHT MASS. Where Mystery Science Theater 3000 meets the Rocky Horror Picture Show! On acid. It’s about edge and tragic and fierce and kitsch and camp and being altered and yelling witty comments at the screen. When you have a trashy movie preceded by a bunch of drag queens on roller skates beating the crap out of each other in the final wig-snatch competition, it is not the Whitebread Film Festival. They complained a lot.

We did try to keep it down, but we really just pulled it back from a 12 to about a 9 on the MM scale. We kept saying, “It’s Midnight Mass” as if that should be sufficient explanation. And it should have been. But in hindsight they have no idea what that means so it made no sense to them. The gallery behind us was making commentary all though the film, and there were pockets of laughter all across the theater of others doing the same. Occasionally, really good quips get shouted so the entire crowd can hear it, and are welcome and laughed at.

Riff & Raff hated us. And I was sorry that they weren’t having the filmic experience they wanted, but this was not the venue they thought it was, and not the place for serious screening. (What serious screening starts at 1:30 in the morning? With people smoking bowls in the theater?)

At one point they tried to reason that “It’s only you who are talking!” (oblivious to the rest of the crowd across the theater enjoying a similar experience).
“It’s not just us.”
“Well, you and your friends”
True, it was us and 15 of our friends in the little section behind them, but what they couldn’t grasp is that we met these people in line. And the others are just other regulars, and so in that sense we were all friends—but it’s not like I had ever seen any of these people in daylight.

The Q&A was at times interesting, and mostly interesting for the reunion part of it, and historical perspective. But all in all, really boring compared to the usual sort of pre-show (who can compete with mud wresting or a wig snatch?). The movie too was cool in its fucked-up-ness, but also pretty lame. Of course, it’s not like I was paying such rapt attention that I remember all of it. It was the camp aspect of it that was awesome. And the whacked out ending. Yow.

With a lovely dinner of beer, vodka, and popcorn, my tummy was not all that happy by the time I got to bed at quarter past four in the morning. Kevin was a saint for driving. Of course, poor lil’ ol’ me couldn’t without a car. I have always depended on the kindness of strangers. And by that I mean stranger people.




And of course, hitting the sack at 4:15 A.M. did not make me the freshest flower in the vase for the trip to Sausalito on Sunday morning. More on that later.

Bubbles! BUBBLES!!

Pop, pop, pop. POP POP POP POP!

Digital bubble wrap.

Even with sound. Listen carefully if you select a fresh sheet. I love her, and the heavy-breathed "moooore."

Thanks to Terrence for passing this on.

Forwarded from Barney

From Pamplona:



That's what I call a bum steer.