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1999

Visit from Duncan

Duncan’s come and gone now. We didn’t go to Fresno. This is probably a good thing, both for us and for Fresno…

Big highlights included dinner at Tad’s (which won’t be an option on his next visit), a visit to some friends in Sunnyvale (which is more fun than it sounds like), and one of our famous long, aimless drives (this one involving San Francisco to Oakland via the San Mateo Bridge).

On Friday night, we hit “Butt Pirates of the Carribean” at Josie’s Cabaret and Juice Joint. I can’t recommend this highly enough (and I won’t try ‘cuz it’s late and I’m sleepy).

 

And tonight was the down home dinner for five at my house. While I’ve never claimed to be particularly “butch”, I’ve occasionally been accused of it… generally by those who have never watched me prepare dinner for several people.

Tonight marked my first experimental attempt at entertaining since I found myself living alone. Maybe that explains the hyperactive Martha Stewart mode I went into this weekend. I vacuumed. I cleaned the toilet. I mopped the kitchen floor. I baked a cake. From scratch. And that was all on the day BEFORE my dinner guests were to arrive.

The background is thus: my friend Duncan was visiting from Charlotte. I thought a little dinner would be a nice way for him to meet some of my friends here, as well a get a chance to hang out with some people we both know. Of course, I went hardcore into my Mom imitation. It wasn’t a hard mode to get into. I’ve found myself getting frighteningly domestic lately anyway.

 

So I baked a cake. And cooked a pork roast. And made a pot of collards. Since Duncan doesn’t like collards, I made squash too. And biscuits (OK…I used the canned kind…). And iced tea. Sarah brought macaroni and cheese. Dan brought salad. And with everything spread out in the kitchen, it was frighteningly reminiscent of the big extended family dinners my mom throws for me when I come home. The only things missing were the congealed salad and the devilled eggs. And a dining room table…

I broke out the sputnik cake plates and the cool toothpick dispenser given to me by Bob in Indianapolis. I cut lemons and made extra ice. And after dinner (this is the clencher) we watched HOME MOVIES. I fussed and cooked and cleaned and I coudn’t possibly have enjoyed it more.

 

And then, when it was over, I washed every single damned dish before I could go to bed. At 1AM, my kitchen was spotless. What’s happening to me?

Now it’s back to Charlotte for Duncan and back to the boring day to day for me (and presumably for the rest of the aforementioned cast members).

And no, I still haven’t gotten around to the email…

Cartoons and Interviews

There comes a point when you start looking forward to different sorts of amusement on the weekend. The hell with going out, getting drunk, and maybe picking up some freak. I’m planning to park myself in front of the TV for the Simpsons marathon on UPN44-Digital45-Cable12 (catchy moniker, no?).

Why is it that “The Simpsons” never gets old, even when repeated three times a day?

And then there’s “South Park”. Now there’s something that got old really fast. All the same, there’s something hard to resist about the title of the new movie: “Bigger, Longer, and Uncut”. Hmmm…

Seems I have absolutely nothing of any importance to babble about today, so I’ll stop. Maybe I’m just “all talked out” after doing a very, ummm, “revealing” interview for another web site yesterday. I’m such an exhibitionist. But more about that when it goes live. Maybe. Depends on how remorseful (or embarrassed) I feel…

For now, I’m going to do some work, read the paper, laugh at whatever Willie Brown had to say today (about anything…it’s all funny…), and maybe watch a nice porn video before going to bed.

Wellness

OK, maybe this rant is about ten years too late, but isn’t “wellness” just about one of the most annoying and pointless words imaginable? Just what is so incredibly fabulous about “wellness” as oppposed, for example, to that old standby “health”?

I really hate stupid, contrived terms created to give “new energy” or “nuance” to completely serviceable words which already exist. Sort of like calling an overpriced condo an “artists’ live/work loft” for example. Or perhaps the way that the SF Municipal Railway refers unbendingly to “motor coaches” and “trolleys” when they mean “buses”. Yes, I realize that the former run on diesel fuel and the latter are electric, but who the hell cares?

When the World Saw My Weenie

 

So I was going to babble on about how annoying I find the term “wellness” and about the new Sony Metreon complex in my neighborhood. Feel free to read what I’d completed so far.

But that was before. Before the world saw my weenie.

Those damned folks at Nightcharm. They were so nice. They interviewed me. They reviewed my site. They even put me on the cover. And then they turned around and a published a still photo from a personal home video that Pamela Anderson, Tommy Lee, Brett Michaels, Dr. Laura Schlesinger, and I made in 1994.

It had been such a special and private moment between the five of us. Brett sang “Talk Dirty to Me”. Dr. Laura was behaving in a strangely non-bigoted fashion. Tommy was tied up so he couldn’t hit anyone. And the stories Pam told about those lifeguards!

And now, Nightcharm has ruined it all for me. I may never listen to Poison or watch “Baywatch” again. I may cry.

Is anyone buying this? I didn’t think so. Oh well. I stand exposed…

It’s kind of fun, actually…

18 June 1999

Fine. Just fine.

1 April 1999: My April Fool’s page (which is no longer here because the search engines took it a wee bit too seriously), results in close to 100 happy, smiling email responses within 24 hours.

17 June 1999: In an interview on another site, I strip butt-ass nekkid for the whole friggin’ world to see, and almost no one has a thing to say about it.

If I were a more sensitive soul, I might be hurt by this (lack of) reaction, but I’ll just look on it as a cue to stick with the sarcastic writing and abandon that modeling career I’ve been fantasizing about for so long.

Dick now stuffed securely back into jeans. Where were we?

Hectic, nasty week. That is to say, I guess, that business is good. But a little sleep added to the mix might have been nice too. Credit the fine folks at PG&E with last night’s insomnia. They worked directly (and noisily) right outside my front window until well after midnight. Doing what? I’m not exactly sure.

And a hectic weekend coming up, with work, the possibility of meeting an email acquaintance for the first time, and one J’Tao in town. Not to mention that Simpsons marathon. There’s also the likelihood of accompanying Sarah on a quest for Vinnie Barbarino in San Mateo, which is a whole other story…

Right now I’m going to bed. Do not wake me for ten hours.

Friday Afternoon Naughtiness

Just color me tickled pink (or brown). There is once again Count Chocula in my world. Newcomers, of whom there seem to be quite a few this week, may not understand how much I LIVE for Count Chocula. Problem is, the stuff isn’t sold in California. No place in the whole damned state, it seems. I have to smuggle it in from Vegas, Minnesota, North Carolina, or wherever else I happen to be at the moment.

Until this week’s notice from Grant, that is, that boxes could be had for $1.79 at the local dented cans and overstock outlet. I often find odd store brand merchandise from southern institutions like Piggly Wiggly or Winn-Dixie there as well. I have four boxes of the chocolate and marshmallow concoction now. That should last me a while.

While I’m not too old to enjoy the therapeutic powers of Count Chocula, I am DEFINITELY too damned old to be bar hopping and slutting around in the middle of the day. My first trip to My Place on a Friday afternoon proved most illuminating. Most fun I’ve had in a dark bar on a sunny afternoon in quite some time. I usually hate bars in the afternoon; the idea sort of gives me the willies.

But there was the cutest bunch of boys there you ever did see. There was my guest Mickey, a digital friend from San Diego who was getting his first taste of Folsom Street sleaze. There was Scottie, an accommodating little nymphette from Santa Cruz. There was Brian (with whom I have a past which he seems to have forgotten). And there was Johnny from North Dakota and his boyfriend from Texas or wherever.

Somehow, my life is really only decadent when I have company. I’m sure Mickey came out of this thinking that things are always this sleazy and sexy for me, but I can’t remember the last time I came twice in one afternoon (with an audience no less).

Beginner’s luck, of course. If I went back next Friday afternoon, not a damned thing would happen. Maybe I just wanted to show off for my guest. Either way, I was beat afterwards. My nap later in the evening turned into a coma which lasted until this morning. And I only had three beers…

But now I have Count Chocula. All is well…

Time to Get Out of Town

Pride Weekend is almost upon us again, and I’m fishing for suggestions on where to go for the weekend.

By most accounts, the last weekend in June is San Francisco’s biggest tourist invasion of the year. I have nothing against tourists, mind you, but you can’t begin to imagine how upleasant it becomes around here during the influx. The bars are packed, parking’s a nightmare, and the rainbow-clad masses drive me into something resembling a homicidal rage.

Which is why it’s best for all concerned if I just get the hell out of town and skip the circiut parties and the five hour marathon of narrowly-defined labels and product marketing opportunities on Market Street. I’ll understand if no one misses me.

Now for a bit of good news: it turns out Tad’s Steaks on Powell Street will remain open in its current incarnation. A month or two back, it looked like this amazing piece of old San Francisco would be replaced by yet another foofy pasta joint. Word last night (upon dinner with Sarah, Dan, and Brad) is that the deal is off. Tad’s is safe, and we got free wine for caring.

I love Tad’s. Score one victory for the non-trendy, non-yuppie, non-fluffy, non-chain version of Sodom by the Bay. Herb Caen would be pleased.

As I close, let me rephrase my comments to stupid yuppie bitch in the Volvo who almost took out five pedestrians at Mission and Fremont this morning as she ran a red light (in case she didn’t hear it as I yelled at her): “You’re driving a car in heavy traffic. Get off the goddamned cell phone, you fucking idiot!”

Avoiding Pride

For a few minutes this morning, I seriously thought about making signs and marching in the “people with labels” parade. Some possibilities I considered:

  • Proud of Our Internalized Homophobia
  • Acronym Power!
  • Transgendered Lesbian Caregivers To Supportive Straight People Living With Bad Credit

I figured I could find at least one or two people to march with. Maybe it’s best I skipped the whole thing, though. As originally planned, I didn’t even go to the damned parade and I still managed to be annoyed by it on three separate occasions this weekend.

On Saturday, I was at the library doing a bit of research for an upcoming project. My cubbyhole was apparently directly above “Thumping Disco-schlock Stage #3”. Concentration was not enhanced.

On Sunday, I had to change plans twice, the first casualty being some errands in the ‘burbs requiring my car. I was afraid to leave the house, fearing I’d probably have to park in Oakland when I returned. Apparently, the parade route has changed and my neighborhood has become the unoffical parking lot for all the idiots who were too stupid to walk or take transit to the parade.

So I decided to walk back to the library instead. It was closed, due to the very self-same parade. I muttered and bitched as I walked through the outskirts of the “festivities” and the several hundred thousand proud gay men (all of whom seemed to have purchased identical white tank tops for the occasion) and set out on one of my long walks instead.

All in all, not a bad day. My hike took me through the Tenderloin, the Western Addition, the Haight, and the Mission. I took great pictures. I remembered my sunblock this time. I even sweated a little. And I only got panhandled six times in four-plus hours.

Exosphere is today’s “link du jour”. You gotta love a site where the first sentence reads “This site has typos. Deal.”

Cranky, and a Road Trip?

Summer has arrived in San Francisco. I hate it.

It’s been hotter than hell (which means it might have hit 80 in the city today). There’s been no fog. I’m not a fan of the never-ending sunshine. I’m also cranky because I can’t sleep with the windows open. This, of course, is due to construction of the new yuppie slum across the street. The sound of hammers and saws is not my idea of bliss at 7AM.

So my apologies for being completely out of touch for the past few days (whether by phone, email, or web). I’ve been rather obsessively working on a project which would no doubt bore everyone else to tears, so I won’t even get into it now.

This would be about the point where I realize I have absolutely nothing to say tonight. So what I’m going to do is include a list of cities which make up an early potential version of the Planet SOMA 1999 Fall Road Trip and ask for opinions and comments:

  • Reno, Nevada
  • Boise, Idaho
  • Butte, Montana
  • Calgary, Alberta
  • Edmonton, Alberta
  • Spokane, Washington
  • Seattle, Washington
  • Vancouver, British Columbia
  • Grant’s Pass, Oregon

For you newbies, check out the 1997 and 1998 versions of this trip and note that this year’s version includes lots of uncharted territory where I don’t know many people. If you want to give me a home, show me cool things, warn me how horrible someplace is, or suggest I scarp the whole list and stat over again, let me know.

Cool. That filled up some space…

Independence Day

Independence Day random thoughts, nonsequiturs, etc.:

  1. Isn’t it wonderful that, if the House of Representatives has its way, the American flag will have more specific Constitutional protections than a majority of American citizens? Shouldn’t we consider giving the Equal Rights Amendment another shot before rendering a piece of cloth (or other synthetic material) more important than the freedoms it’s supposed to represent?
  2. How did I live here so long without recognizing that the outlying parts of town (the Outer Mission, Glen Park, Bayview, the Richmond, and the Sunset) are in many ways some of the most interesting parts of San Francisco, free as they are from the trendiness and pretentiousness of the sacred northeastern quarter? I’ve been spending more and more time “out there” in the past few months and it’s starting to grow on me. There’s a reality that downtown is sorely missing.
  3. Why would someone throw out perfectly good windows like the ones I found on Clement Street with Sarah this afternoon? They saw trash. I saw end tables which will soon flank the sofa I still don’t have.
  4. What is it about holiday weekends that makes even natives drive like complete idiots?
  5. Last, how many people know (or care) that the humble store on Irving Street pictured above was most likely the first Safeway store in San Francisco, way back in 1927? Even better, how many people will believe me (or care) when I say that there used to be Piggly Wiggly stores here in the 1930s?

Sleeping now, as the 5th of July is not necessarily a holiday for everyone…