my turn.

I'm back in San Francisco; I have just completed one of the most exhausting trips of my life. Sure, I've been on longer flights in shittier seats, but today I did something I have never, ever, EVER done in my entire life.

I fucking barfed on an airplane.

Yeah, you read that right. Now, of course my stomach could not have picked a more inconvenient time to purge itself of its contents...just as the plane was pulling away from the gate in Houston. I'll start from the beginning.

This morning, I rose, showered, dressed, and finished packing up my suitcase. My sister Heather offered to make me an omelet, and asked me what I wanted in it. "Gorgonzola," I replied, half jokingly.

"Sure thing," she said, and reached into the refrigerator to retrieve some. Of course she had some. Heather is just like that.

"Got any pine nuts?" I inquired.

"Duh. Of course," came the obvious reply. She opened a cabinet and produced some.

"Can ya squeeze some toothpaste in it, too?"

"Yup, and I have some fresh dog feces here as well. Would you like some of that?"

"No, I'm not quite in a fecal mood this morning. Besides, that's more of a night time thing anyway. Can you just stick your face in the frying pan and make gagging noises, though?"

My sister, always a gracious host, complied with my request, making her classic Heather gagging noises...the same ones she's been making since she was 3.

"Splendid!" My mother, listening to all of this, decided she had heard enough, and put down the newspaper and walked into the other room to check on Poppas. Heather finished making my gorgonzola and pine nut omelet, and I sat down to eat it.

Pretty damn good, actually. Maybe it was the gagging.

About an hour later, I started feeling a little funny. It wasn't the omelet, but I knew that Something Just Wasn't Right with me. My head started hurting, and I felt lightheaded. Suddenly, there was a rumbling in my colon that felt a bit evil.

Fuck. "Now I've got it," I thought, "...and I have to get on a plane in less than 2 hours." My condition deteriorated quickly as my dad drove me to the airport. I was feeling weaker and weaker, and more and more nauseated. I knew this was going to be a rough trip home.

The line for security was longer than I thought it would be, and it seems every person in front of me was either completely retarded, or had never, EVER flown before and was baffled by security procedures. "Duh, whadda ya mean I have to take my shoes off? Unbuckle my belt? Honey, did you hear that? I have to undo my belt!" I already had my shoes off, my stuff in a tray, my pockets emptied, belt off, pants down around my ankles, and a bottle of poppers in my hand. Okay, I made that last part up, but I've flown hundreds, maybe thousands of times, and I know how to get through security efficiently, quickly, and painlessly. I barely made my flight...turns out they were holding the plane for me.

God bless you, Continental Airlines.

The first flight was pretty uneventful, but I still didn't feel right. After landing in Houston at (gag) George Bush Intercontinental Airport, I knew I was in trouble. After taking my seat on my second plane, things started to get bad very quickly.

I know myself well enough to know when my mouth starts watering for absolutely no reason, and my nausea travels from my stomach to my throat, I have approximately 20 seconds before my stomach empties itself of whatever is inside it. Unfortunately, when this happened to me this time, the plane had just pulled away from the gate. We had to stay in our seats, and I had to make a choice. Should I sprint for the restroom, or throw up in my seat, subjecting my fellow coach passengers to the sights, sounds, and...um...aromas of me tossing my cookies, or in this case, a gorgonzola pine nut omelet?

Fuck that. Let the people in first class deal with me.

I sprinted down the aisle, through coach, up into first class. I was greeted by 3 flight attendants, who predictably recited, "Sir! Sir! You need to take your seat!"

As politely as I could, I replied, "I know, and I'm really, really sorry. I need to get in that bathroom in the next 10 seconds." I held up the barf bag I had grabbed from the pocket in front of my seat.

"We're taxiing right now!"

I opened the bag and puffed out my cheeks. "Mmmph!"

"Okay, get in there."

I quickly bolted the door, sat down, and let it rip. I had no idea my stomach could hold so much liquid...the bag was almost full when I was done. I was also apparently quite loud, and clearly heard someone in first class huff, "Oh for christ's sake!"

The plane stopped, and I heard the pilot say, "Do we need to turn back?" Oh god. I quickly emptied the bag into the toilet, and flushed. I then threw the bag in the trash receptable, and rinsed my face and mouth. I wiped down the counter, and left the bathroom cleaner than I left it. I opened the door, and stepped out.

"Are you okay?" an attendant asked me.

Grinning, I said, "Fine. Totally fine now. It was just a little warm back there, and I was just a bit queasy, that's all."

"Okay, if you say so."

"I'm so sorry...I know I wasn't supposed to get up, but I didn't want to do that in the middle of coach."

"You know, I actually appreciate that. That was considerate of you." She handed me a cup of water. The first class passengers were glaring at me as I traipsed down the aisle back to my seat.

"Disgusting!" a woman hissed at me.

I almost said, "Honey, if you were the hot shit you think you are you wouldn't be flying Continental," but instead, I bit my tongue and made a sharp Heather Fox gagging noise at her. She flinched.

I know, I know...that wasn't very nice.

Later on, the flight attendants came to see if I was okay. "You know," one of them asked me, "I have to say you are the most polite, considerate, professional barfer we've ever come across. And thanks for cleaning up the bathroom like that...that was sweet."

Smiling, I said, "You're welcome. I hated to be a pain in the ass, though."

"You weren't a pain at all. If there's anything you want, let us know. Everything is on the house. Champagne?"

I puffed out my cheeks.

"Well, how about some ginger ale instead?"

"Maybe with some Jim Beam."

"You've got it!" she smiled.

Anyway, I'm just so glad to be home right now. I'm going to climb into my nice, warm, comfortable bed, and watch informercials before drifting off.

Good night.



i was right.

It was a virus of some sort...and now my grandfather has it. Tell you what...he may be 84, but that guy is LOUD when he throws up. Poor guy. We all went to Epcot Center today for a family outing, something we've always wanted to do as a family but never got around to doing. I really had a good time...it was fun just hanging out with my famliy, being goofy, just like we used to on our annual trips to Cedar Point. Poppas was doing pretty well today...I pushed him around in a wheelchair, and he flirted with the elderly ladies in wheelchairs, greeting them with a loud, but friendly "Howdy!" every time we passed one. However, about a half hour before we left, he suddenly got very ill and threw up in a plastic bag in a gift shop.

Time to go home.

As I write this, sitting in my sister's office, I can hear him in the bathroom now...I'd better go check on him.



babyjesus birthday

So here I am...a bit hung over...on Christmas morning. We're all a little beat right now...in our typical Fox Family fashion, we drank a little more than we should have last night. I'm fine...I paced myself and drank a lot of water between glasses of chocolate liqueur, Bailey's, shiraz, and of course, Jim & gingers. However, my dad, who was being called Drinky Drinkerson by my sister Hillary, totally outdid himself, and had to go back to bed in the middle of opening presents. My mom was a little mad, and berated him for getting too drunk and hung over at the age of 62, but he handed her a small package that turned out to be enormous and gorgeous diamond earrings. She burst into tears and thanked my father, who said, "I love you, babe. Now I'm going back to bed."

He's smooth like that.

I, for one, don't think he's hung over. Everyone else thinks he is, but I know my dad pretty well, and I've never seen him this bad. I think there's going to be a little virus sweeping through this family, and hopefully my flu shot is fully activated. I'll keep defending him and checking in on him every once in a while, and make sure he's hydrated.

More later...we're gonna finish opening our presents later tonight.

:::LATER...after one or two or six cocktails:::

Dad's pretty sick...he doesn't have much of a fever, but I think he has the flu; Hilly has been calling him Barfy Barferson. He came out for a bit so we could finish our Christmas morning (at 10:30 at night), but had to go lie down again. Poor guy...I'm still defending him. I'm sure he has more than a hangover.

Anyway...I totally cleaned up this year. Mom and dad, who know their gay son very, very well, gave me a really cool pair of Diesel sneakers, a tight black mock turtleneck, Girbaud, Armani, and Ermenegildo Zegna colognes, a calendar of vintage black and white San Francisco photography, a set of stainless steel barware tools (to compliment my cocktail shaker on my bar), and a 3-CD box set of The Beat Generation, which is a pretty funky collection of beatnik music and poetry. It's kinda wild, actually. I can't wait to go back and hang out in my North Beach apartment, throw a log in the fireplace, wear a tight black turtleneck, light a bunch of candles and a stick of nag champa, pack my bong, and chill out to Kenneth Rexroth, Jack Kerouac, and Alan Ginsberg, with a side of Ken Nordine and Rod Mckuen, make a plate of crackers and welsh rarebit, open some chianti, crack out my bongos (yes, I have bongos...don;t ask) and be a non-square FriscoHomoBeatFag.

I'm not kidding. I think I'm going to do that. :-)

Of course, CD players are SO last century, so I'll have to load it all into my 20-gigabyte iPod my mom bought me! Whoo-hoo! Go mom! No more 32-megabyte RCA K@zoo player nonsense for me! Now, I know there are 40 and 60 gig iPods available, but come on...20 gig is LOT of memory. Anything more than that and you're just in a pissing contest.

So I extend to everyone out there in the blogosphere, whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukah, Kwaanza, or whatever, a joyous holiday season.




twas the night before christmas, along I-95

I finally made it here yesterday...after my airport shuttle didn't show up, and multiple calls to other shuttles resulted in "Sorry, there's nothing we can do to help you" after I told them I needed to go from North Beach to SFO, I grudgingly opted for a $42 cabride to the airport (the shuttle would have been $10), and here I am in overcast, yet balmy Oveido, Florida (a bedroom community of Orlando). I'm at my sister's brand-new house in a darling little development named "The Sanctuary" after all the animals and virgin forest that were displaced and cut down in order to build it.

My brother-in-law picked me up at the airport in my grandfather's midnight blue 2002 Cadillac DeVille Pimpmobile, complete with beige cloth roof, whitewall tires, chrome trim around the doors and roof, chrome and gold rims, and a big gold hood ornament. When he pulled up in it and popped the trunk, people started looking around to see who would jump into this stylie American automobile. Laughing, I threw my bright orange 1968 Samsonite suitcase (a hot $2 thrift store find) into the trunk, jumped in, and off we went. When we pulled into the driveway, this enormous bird thing with a wingspan of at least 10 feet flew over the house, making a screaming noise as it flapped overhead and absolutely scared the shit out of me. I swear to god, it looked like a fucking pterodactyl...welcome to Florida, Chad.

Today, my grandfather, who has been known as "Poppas" since my cousin started calling him that in 1966, asked me to drive him to Fort Pierce, which is approximately 2 hours south of here, to visit his girlfriend Peggy. You see, Poppas and Peggy have been friends for over 50 years...he was stationed with her husband in Europe when they were in the army back in the 40's and 50's, and my grandmother and Peggy were friends. My grandmother (named "Mimi" by the same cousin) and Peggy's husband have both passed on, so now...she's Poppas' girlfriend. I say good for them...they're going to buried next to their spouses, but for now, they're enjoying their remaining years together just making googly-eyes at each other and sneaking kisses and copping feels on each other when they think nobody is looking.

I, for one, think it's awesome. They give each other a reason to live and keep that romantic spark alive, even in their 80's. Never, ever underestimate the power of love.

Poppas and I had a nice time, actually...I surveyed damage in Fort Pierce from the hurricanes that came ripping through there, and finally got to see the condo in which my sister had to ride out a hurricane. It's still being repaired, and at least it has a roof now. Peggy is still living with a friend until her condo is habitable again, maybe another 3 or 4 months. Gifts were exchanged, and right before we left, Peggy said in her quiet southern twang, "Wait a minute, I have one more gift for you," to my grandfather. She left the room, and returned, eyes laughing and bright, with a little package, and said, "Just a little something for your Cadillac."

Poppas unwrapped it, and started chuckling. It was a faux leopard fur steering wheel cover. Now the Poppas Pimpmobile is complete.

Yes, my grandfather drives a blinged-out DeVille with a leopard-furry steering wheel cover from his girlfriend. How hot is that?

On our way back to the Orlando area, we decided to pull off of I-95 and stap at a Waffle House for some coffee and a bite to eat. Over a plate of Scattered, Smothered, Covered, and Chunked (if you're familiar with Waffle House you know exactly what that means) my grandfather and I discussed life, love, and good coffee. His ice-blue eyes were sparkling and playful and absolutely danced he told me about a time he saw Jack Dempsey kick some guy's ass on a military transport ship back in 1942, or the time he ran away from home in Chicago and met Robert Mitchum while riding the rails on boxcars on his way to Los Angeles, or the time he hid my dad's car keys as a joke right after my parents got married in 1968. He talked about meeting my grandmother at the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago, and how he fell in love with her while whisking her around the dance floor. We talked about politics, and I learned, much to my surprise, his politics are virtually identical to mine. He's no crusty old closed-minded coot, that's for sure.

My grandfather is 84 years old, a leap baby born on February 29th, 1920. He has had a remarkable, full, rich life...he served in 2 wars, raised 3 kids, lived all over the world, married and buried the love of his life, and has found love with an old friend in his twilight years...and I'm absolutely honored to be his grandson.

This will be a Christmas Eve I won't forget for a long, long time, and I can't think of anyone else I would rather have spent it with.



it's not as bad as we thought

I started this post this morning, as as information has trickled to me all day, my outlook has improved. First, from this morning:

Ugh...I just got off the phone with my sister Heather, who lives in Florida. Turns out my sister Hillary (in Cleveland Heights) is faring much worse than we anticipated. Not only is she homeless as of this morning, but everything she owns is severely smoke damaged and will probably need to be replaced. This means she has no clothes, no furniture, no bed. My sister and father went over there today to open some windows and air the place out a bit, but unfortunately, they are having a blizzard in Cleveland today, and the place just started filling with snow.

What really breaks my heart is this was my sister's first apartment, and she absolutely loved it. It was fairly large, with high ceilings, a large living room and formal dining room, hardwood floors, and large bedroom with huge closets. It's in the fashionable Coventry Village neighborhood of Cleveland Heights, built probably around 1915 or so. Hillary finally landed a position as the admissions director of her former high school, a job that afforded her to move out of my parents' house and into her own place, with no roommates. She absolutely loved her apartment, and every time I talked to her, she'd tell me how much she appreciated having her own place where she could call all the shots. Kind of like I do now. I don't know if I could ever go back to having roommates, except for someone with whom I'm in a long-term committed relationship.

So last night around 8:00 PM eastern time, she had her first little holiday get-together. She invited 5 of her closest friends, and the mood was festive. The apartment was spotless, the decorations were hanging, her tree was trimmed, the food was prepared, the music was playing, the candles were lit, the wine was opened. Gifts were being exchanged, they were laughing and having a wonderful time, and my sister was happy...she was in her own home with her closest friends, doing what she had always wanted to do.

Suddenly, there was a frantic pounding at the front door. My sister opened it, and her neighbor from across the hall said, "Get out of the building! There is smoke coming out of my sink!" Panicked, my sister and her friends grabbed their purses, coats, and cellphones (except for my sister, who left her phone in the apartment, unfortunately), and quickly evacuated the building, running through the smoky hallways down three flights of stairs to the ground floor. The party was over, and she watched helplessly as her home burned brightly in the night sky.

So now...she has nothing. A week before Christmas, and she's effectively homeless (moving back in with my parents is going to drive her insane). Her furniture is ruined, her clothes are ruined, and she pretty much has to start over. I feel bad for her, but I know she's going to be okay. I mean, to be in the my family means you will always show strong resilience in the face of adversity. You will never be beaten down, no matter how hard it seems. To be a Fox means you have a strong heart, and keep things in perspective, and count your blessings. Most importantly, being a Fox, whether you're one of us or one of our partners/spouses, means knowing you're never out in the cold as long as we're a family, no matter how far-flung we may all be. And no matter what, you will always, ALWAYS, come out on top, smelling like a rose.

:::UPDATE - 13:11 PST:::

I just got off the phone with my mom...they are at a laundromat washing every article of clothing my sister has. Hopefully, that will get the horrible "burned house" smell out of her clothes...you know the smell. It's not only wood smoke, but burning plaster, wires, plastic, lead paint, clothing, furniture, electronics, and roofing material. It's an ugly odor...the smell of someone's life literally going up in smoke. I was able to glean a few more details from them...my sister's neighbor has a gaping hole in his bedroom floor and ceiling, and his kitchen...the one with the smoky sink...is completely destroyed. Hillary's apartment, fortunately, is only smoke damaged (and has a battered, splintered front door), and her power was actually switched back on. Maybe she'll get to move back in after all...we'll see.

Ai yi yi...she just doesn't need this shit.

:::UPDATE - 20:11 PST:::

I just got off the phone with Hillary. Turns out the hot Cleveland Heights firemen -the ones who made sure her apartment was saved from the raging fire that destroyed several other units in the building - helped themselves to the trays of undamaged holiday treats she still had out on her dining room table. Of course, they asked first, as the CHFD is apparently a civilized one. She had bacon-wrapped scallops, vegetable bird nests, tiny little quiches, and plates and plates of holiday cookies, including her own secret recipe chocolate chip cookies. The firemen ate every scrap, actually. Cleaned her out. And she was grateful. Hilly was like, "God fucking damn, doesn't anyone ever feed those motherfuckers?" And you all thought *I* had a dirty mouth. Anyway, it could have been a lot worse...she's lucky. Very, very lucky.

I think they blew out her candles for her, too.

I feel so bad for her...she's sleeping in her old bedroom tonight, the one she had when she was a kid, at my parents' house. While talking to her, I couldn't resist singing this old Crystal Waters song to her:

"She's just like you and me, but she's homeless...she's homeless! La da dee, la da daa, la da dee, la da daa..."

She responded with a torrent of obscenities that made the paint on my walls peel, and some sailors on San Francisco Bay blush like Catholic schoolgirls. It looks like her apartment is going to be okay...there is no soot damage, just lots and lots of smoky stink everywhere. She Febreezed her mattress today, and cleaned up the place as best she and my parents could. They have to wait for it to stop snowing before they can open the windows and really air the place out, but the freezing temperatures and snow they're currently experiencing in Cleveland aren't making things any easier.

Hey...she's a Fox...this too, shall pass. Trust me, my family has been through a lot worse. If this is the biggest catastrophe to hit us, I consider ourselves to be immensely lucky.



ain't that a bitch

I went to a holiday party tonight, at the christmas light-covered Castro District home of my friend Thom. It's a fabulous Victorian flat, quite opulently decorated, with many rich colors, textures, fabrics, and endless tchotchkies everywhere. It's quite fabulous, actually. They had a beautiful tree and lights and garlands everywhere, with lots and lots of candles, and beautifully prepared hors d'oeuvres. I was one of the first people there, and Thom told me, "It's your job to make sure none of those candles get knocked over by a drunk queer and burn my house down."

Burn his house down. His words proved to be eerily prophetic. Read on.

I was on top of it. I was being The Militant Mostly Sober Gay tonight, making sure the sloppy people stayed away from the candles AND the liquor. Getting shitfaced at christmas parties is quite tacky, IHMO. That's why I didn't drink much alcohol, but instead gorged on marinara meatballs, Thai chicken satay with peanut sauce on skewers, liver pate on tiny circles of wheat bread garnished with a single caper, quail eggs on rye, and caviar. Of course I washed it all down with 3 glasses of champagne.

It was a very gay party, in a very gay neighborhood, in a very gay Victorian flat.

Thom was in rare form tonight...in addition to being a singer, composer, and musician, he's also a dancer and choreographer and makes all the costumes for the San Francisco Gay Men's Chorus. In other words, he's a Super Gay. Upon seeing the lavish decorations when walking through the front door, a guest asked Thom, "Wow, I love your place! Are you from New Orleans or something?"

He replied, "Oh no, darling. I'm just a big gay homosexual who knows how to drape fabrics."

Thom kills me. I was sipping champagne when he said that and I sprayed it everywhere. I think some came out of my nose as well.

Halfway through the party, an incoming call vibrated my phone. The number was unfamiliar, but I instantly recognized the 216 area code, which happens to be the code for inner-city Cleveland, Ohio. Since I was in the middle of a conversation (ironically, with someone from Wickliffe, which is a suburb of Cleveland), I let it roll into voicemail, then excused myself a few minutes later to go outside and see who it was.

Turns out, it was a call from my sister using her friend's cell phone. She was speaking very fast with her Cleveland accent, and since I was on the edge of a Nextel dead spot (there are so many of them all over San Francisco...it's maddening), I could only make out bits and pieces of her message. I did hear, however, "fire," "my apartment," "burned," "red cross," "standing outside," and "fucking freezing."

Slightly panicked, I called the number, and my sister answered. Turns out her incredibly cool Coventry Village apartment building in Cleveland Heights had a severe fire, and several units were completely gutted. Luckily, her apartment only suffered smoke damage, and since Hillary (by habit) locked her apartment door when she fled the building, the firemen had to kick it in. Topping it all off, she just filled out her renter's insurance paperwork this week, but didn't turn it in yet. It was still sitting on her dining room table when the fire started.

This means in addition to being Shit Out Of Luck, she has to move back in with my parents, who live about 2 miles away. My sister is 29. She's not looking forward to that. Her cool apartment is now completely uninhabitable, the electricity and gas is shut off, everything she owns is covered with soot and smells like smoke, and her whole place needs to be fumigated, scrubbed, and repainted. Her front door may be bashed in, but the American Red Cross installed a padlock for my sister (they were right there at the scene shortly after the fire was extinguished) and the Cleveland Heights police secured the unit. It could have been a lot worse, actually. She's lucky. Hopefully, her cheap-ass dickhead landlord (her words, not mine...I don't know the guy) will spring for refinishing her gorgeous hardwood floors, but I'm not holding my breath for that one.

So when I was talking to her, she was standing outside, shivering in the 37-degree cold, in the rain. I asked her, "Hillary, are you okay?"

She replied, "Yeah, but it's cold as balls out here and I need a fucking drink."

Hey...look at it this way. At least she gets to have another housewarming party when she moves back in.



internet randomness

I've been selected as "blog of the day" on BansheeNC.com. I was looking at my top referrals today, and saw a bunch were coming from his website.

He paired me up with HoLLiSteR_HuNkiE from swydm.com as well.

Thanks, Barry. :-)



pant pant pant

I'm at the Apple store in San Francisco...and Oh. My. God. this is a hot computer. It's a dual 2.5 GHz Power PC G5 + SuperDrive, with an Apple Cinema HD 23-inch display.

Christfuckinggodalmighty, the display alone is $2000.

Sigh...I should probably go home now...and masturbate gloomily.




Does it look like the president is feeling all up on his daughter's titty? And kinda liking it?

You decide.



how i met my idol

Early this afternoon, my phone rang; it was my friend Jacki. We've known each other since 1987 or so, and she's lived in San Francisco for ten years. Back when we were angst-ridden teenage goth poseurs in Cleveland glumly sipping coffee or thrashing around to industrial music in the downtown warehouse district. Now, we're 30-something misfits who are just as goofy and immature together as we were in the late eighties.

"Hey Chad, what are you doing?"

"Picking at my scabs and drinking a protein shake."

"Okay, wanna go see John Waters?"

Do I want to go see John Waters. I've only wanted to meet him since, oh, 1980. "Fuck yeah, where is he?"

"He's signing his Christmas CD at Amoeba."

"Upper Haight?"


"I'm so there."

I dropped what I was doing, jumped up, changed my clothes, and ran out of the house to take BART to the Mission to Jacki's place. It's a really cool flat on 16th Street between Guererro and Dolores, and it's so, so Jacki...she has more toys now as an adult than I ever had as a kid. We looked around for something for John to sign, and decided on a still-sealed "Gary" doll from the "Dawn" series, dated 1970. Hey, it seemed like a good idea. We hopped on the ghetto-ass 22-Fillmore so we could catch the also-shabby 7-Haight to Amoeba.

Now, I understand the kind folks at Amoeba have a lot to deal with, with all the tourists and homeless people who crowd the sidewalk in front of the store, but I imagine boarding a plane in Tel-Aviv with a one-way ticket you bought with cash would be easier than entering the store. Bags were confiscated, no plastic bags allowed of any kind, Jacki could have her purse but because I was a boy my bag was taken away from me and peeked into, and we were issued cards from an "Uno" game that were used to tell us when we should get into the mile-long line to see John Waters. After getting all that straight, we walked into the jam-packed store.

Turns out, the wait was over 4 hours, so after browsing through their vinyl "lounge" section, we decided to get some Mexican food at Zona Rosa and cocktails at Murio's Trophy Room.

After a few rounds of Jim Beam & ginger ales, we went back to Amoeba to see if we were any closer to meeting Mr. Waters. Jacki flirted with one of the elves that were running the whole show, and somehow got us to the very front of the line. When there, the slightly inebriated DJ elf (he was actually spinning records for the event) looked at me and said, "Want some wine?" and thrust an entire bottle of two-buck chuck into my hand. Since no stemware was readily available, I elected to sip a bit from the bottle before handing it back to him.

Now, I'm no starfucker, but I was excited about meeting John Waters. I mean, he's one of my biggest influences...he allowed me to embrace and celebrate the dirty, filthy person within and allow this Dirty-Chad to blossom.

Finally, it was my turn. John looked a little tired and ready to go home, but he was quite gracious, and looked at me as if to say, "What do YOU want for Christmas, little boy?"

"Hi, I'm Chad."

"Hi Chad, I'm John."

"I have to ask you something."

"Okay, shoot."

"I sent you a Friendster message, and I was wondering if you had ever gotten it."

"What did it say?"

John's eyes lit up and absolutely danced as I relayed a condensed version of the story about what happened to me the first time I ever saw "Female Trouble" at the tender age of 19, back in the hot, hot summer of 1990 in Cleveland, Ohio. It's a pretty bawdy, dirty story, involving a filthy, cluttered apartment with 15 art students living in it, an antique barber chair I was sitting in, my big toe on my right foot, a dirty, dirty girl with a big puffy camel toe sitting on a couch next to me, and my big toe penetrating the camel toe unbeknownst to me because I was a bit stoned and completely engrossed in the movie.

"My god, I would have remembered that!" he exclaimed, with an amused grin. "Tell you want, write my publisher and tell me the whole story...I want to hear it, and if you send it to me that way, I'll totally get it."

"You bet!" I was thrilled.

"Hey you guys, how about a picture!" slurred another inebriated elf, who snapped a Polaroid of me sitting next to John Waters. I tried to scan it today, but I can't get my goddamn scanner to work. Soon, I promise...I'll take it to Kinko's or something. I look like a complete dork in the picture, but hey...it's not every day you get to have your picture taken with John Waters.



how to look really cool, chadfox style

Today was supposed to be an easy day at the gym, and I was actually looking forward to it. All I had to do was cardio, and I elected to simply run on the treadmill for a half hour on the random hill setting at a difficult level. To challenge myself further, I decided to make it a San Francisco experience and set the speed to 9 miles per hour, which happens to be almost the same speed the cable cars travel (9.5 MPH). So off I embarked on my ambitious treadmill run at a speed I normally don't run...generally I trod along at around 7 MPH.

I've mentioned before my gym used to be a movie theater. The treadmill I like to use is located in what used to be the upper balcony, so it has a commanding view of the gym and the movie screen...the perfect place to do cardio and watch movies at the same time (and if you have your walkman tuned to 90.3 FM you can even listen to the soundtrack in stereo). Today, they were showing Superman (the one from 1978 with Christopher Reeve), a movie I actually like. So there I was, listening to Cast Your Fate to the Wind by Sounds Orchestral (one of my all-time favorite tunes), humming along with the melody, sprinting, timing my breathing, sweating, getting an endorphin rush, and watching the movie...totally multitasking. I didn't notice how engrossed I was getting in the movie, which only means one thing...I stopped paying attention to what I was doing.

That, my friends, is not a very bright thing to do while sprinting on a rubber conveyor belt at almost 10 miles an hour.

The movie came to the scene where Lois Lane is driving along that dusty desert road in her red 1971 Ford LTD and runs out of gas, setting off the bright-red "LOW FUEL" light on the dashboard. If you are a normal person, you see that, acknowledge it, and continue watching the movie. I, on the other hand, don't think like a normal person. My train of thought went something like this:

"Man, that guy in front of me on that stairmaster thingie has a nice butt. Look at that butt! Damn! Wait, the '71 LTD didn't have a low-fuel light, almost no cars did back then. Maybe it was an option on a Lincoln Continental or maybe even a Galaxie 500 but definitely not the LTD. Back then you either paid attention to the fuel gauge or you were fucked. And when it got dark you turned on the headlights, none of this stupid automatic shit like they have now. Of course, you'd leave them on and your battery was dea- wait, mom had a '74 LTD Country Squire, did that have a low-fuel light? Fuck no, I had to push that fucker once when mom ran out of gas. At least she let me ride on the back bumper down the hill. No wait, that happened in the Mustang. I think it just had a low oil pressure light next to the catalytic converter failure light. Wait...that was the Plymouth Fury. Why does that chick have to pick out her cameltoe in the middle of the room? Damn that Plymouth smelled bad, especially when mom started it. It had a round speedometer instead of the sliderule one in the LTD. Wow, that dude has a nice butt too. The Mustang had a round speedometer. Low fuel light...that was total bullshit. They totally made that fuel gauge light up for the movie. Why do they have to do that? Those didn't come along until the 80's, and even then only in nicer cars. Was the closeup of the fuel gauge on 'empty' not good enough? Those fucking fucks. Who are they trying to kid?"

While letting my mind wander like that (and watching poor Lois get swallowed up by the San Andreas Fault) I didn't notice myself drifting further and further to the right on the damn treadmill. Finally, everything started happening very fast, but in slow motion.

My right foot landed on the plastic panel next to the moving conveyer belt. This only means one thing: the right side of my right foot was stationary. The left side of my right foot was still moving at 9 MPH. You don't have to be a physics whiz to figure out what happened next. My right foot flipped around and slammed into my left foot, effectively tripping myself. Both feet flew out from under me at 9 miles per hour. It happened so quickly, I was still thinking about 1970's automobiles as these events unfolded. As I came tumbling down, still clutching my little MP3 player that continued to fill my head with a piano riff, my head smashed into the little bar you're supposed to hold to get your heart rate. This quickly replaced all thoughts of my mom's old cars with, "Damn, this sucks, and it's gonna hurt like hell." I saw the conveyor belt, still moving at full speed, rushing up to meet me. The last thought I had before landing was:

"Jane, stop this crazy thing!"

There was a loud thud, and my headphones were ripped from my ears. My MP3 player went flying in one direction, its batteries in another, and the battery cover in yet another. Unfortunately, the whole debacle was far from over.

Since it was still moving at 9 MPH, and I weigh 175 pounds (as of today), a considerable amount of skin was instantly stripped off my hands and right knee as my body quickly accelerated to match the speed of the treadmill (which is actually quite agonizing if you've never experienced it). I was then jettisoned backwards, flying about 4 feet through the air and crashing into a magazine rack directly behind the machine. Now, it wouldn't have been so bad had I just hit the wall, resulting in maybe a muffled thud and a few bones cracking. However, that's not how things work out for me. Oh, no. I just HAD to be flung into that goddamn magazine rack, which just HAD to collapse while making this godawful racket, and send magazines flying everywhere (and getting hit in the face by a yoga journal), thus drawing a maximum amount of attention to this idiot homogay from Cleveland who can't seem to figure out how to use a fucking treadmill.

I couldn't believe what had just happened.

Of course, the boy with the hot ass jumped off his machine and ran over, and another really hot guy's face appeared over a railing. "Dude, are you okay?" they both asked in unison.

"Um, I think so," I groaned, as the stinging pain in my knee and hands started to blossom, and my head started throbbing. I looked up at them and asked, "There's no way for me to look cool right now, is there?"

"Uh, no bro." Mr. Hot Ass said, laughing. "Not at all."

"That's what I was afraid of," I croaked, rubbing my head.

I got up and brushed myself off as they helped me right the rack and replace the magazines. They went back to their workouts, and I faced the beast who had thrown me across the room. It was flashing a message that said, "TO RESUME HIT START." I wrapped my bleeding left hand with a tissue (at this point it felt like it was on fire), punched the "start" button with my slightly less injured right hand, and started limping my way back up to a painful, plodding jog.

I also adjusted the speed to 6 MPH for the rest of the workout and decided to quit trying to be a superhero.

Christopher Reeve did a much better job.



If I was a 1974 Weight Watchers card, I'd be...

Oh my. Of course I'd be Frankfurter Spectacular.

You are Frankfurter Spectacular!!

What Weight Watchers recipe card from 1974 are you?
brought to you by Quizilla

Kudos to kirkitsch for inspiring me to take this quiz.



passing on the torch

Today I decided to give Bob's Diner on Polk Street another try...I worked out extra hard and ran an extra mile, and decided to reward myself with a plate of biscuits with sausage gravy. You see, last time I ate at Bob's, the waitress simply walked up, dropped the plate of food onto the table from a height of 6 inches - splattering it a bit in the process - and walked away without a word. I had done nothing to provoke her, nor had I said anything more provocative than hello, thank you for the water, my food order, thank you when she brought my coffee, and may I have some more half and half please. Pretty benign stuff.

Taken aback and not quite sure how to handle this, I simply said, "Well, I didn't order a side of bitch with these biscuits."

She turned around, looked at me, and bristled...but after sizing me up, she figured I was just as big a bitch as she was. I was treated cordially, if a bit frosty, after that. I vowed never to return...until today.

Those biscuits and gravy are like crack, I swear...I was craving them so bad at the gym I was almost obsessing.

So today, I was sitting at the counter, savoring my biscuits, enjoying the fact that the woman serving me wasn't the one who dropped my food (she had table duty...that's why I picked the counter) when I heard a kid, probably no older than 10 or 11, start singing "Jingle Bells" behind me. However, he sang it the way we did back when I was that age. You know, "Jingle Bells, Batman smells, Robin laid an egg!"

Only thing is, he didn't know the rest. He kept pausing, filling in the unknown lyrics with gibberish (it was kinda strange, actually) and his friend finally said, "How does the rest of it go?"

"I don't know," he replied. He started singing, and once again got stuck at "Robin laid an egg."

Now, there's no way I'm going to sit there and let those kids struggle with those classic Jingle Bell lyrics, so I turned around and said to them, "It goes like this: 'Bat-mobile lost its wheel and the Joker got away...HEY!'"

They stared at me for a second, mouths agape, and suddenly began laughing hysterically. "Yeah dude! That's it!" Bursting into instant harmony, they finished the song, then started it over again.

And again.

And again.


I finished my biscuits, paid my bill, and left. The server who intentionally dropped my food last time glared at me as I walked out the door.

Hey...those kids had to learn the words sometime. Besides...I finally got my come-uppance.



decorating on a budget

Thanks, Jesse, for posting your secret. BTW...your cubicle looks fab.


the best backhanded compliment ever

It seems San Francisco is full of people who have completely lost touch with reality, and or some reason, these people tend to congregate at the Starbucks at 18th and Castro streets. After a nice corporate bowl of firecracker pasta at Fuzio on Castro, my friend Chris A. (not my boyfriend, that's Chris F.), we decided to stroll on over to that previously-mentioned Starbucks for a spot of coffee for him, chai tea with honey and milk for me. Sitting out front was an obviously-drunk man who pretty much looked as if he had just stepped out of the year 1974. He had long, staight hair, a pockmarked, stubbled face, and a tattered leather jacket. He was sitting there, chattering at nobody in particular, his language becoming coarser and coarser.

Eventually, a barista (Starbucks lingo for "person who works behind the counter"), a cute butch-y lesbian in her early twenties, came over and asked him to leave. This enraged this drunk hippie, and he started getting disrespectful and combative. I tried to ignore it as much as possible, immersing myself in my venti chai tea and my San Francisco Chronicle, but I was finally dragged into it when that dirty hippie kicked me in the leg and said, "I'm not bothering this guy!"

Well, you are now, fuckface.

"Hey man," I said. "You really need to leave."

"Fuck you!" he responded.

"No thanks," I replied.

"Fucking asshole!"

"I've been called worse by better people."

"Goddamn yuppie!" he screamed, his bloodshot eyes popping out of his head in rage.

Now, I was wearing a pair of ratty-looking jeans, sneakers, and a sleeveless PUTA t-shirt. Apparently, in this guy's world, I was a yuppie.

I guess that's what yuppies look like when you're a dirty, drunk hippie.

He stood up and looked like he was going to start a fight. I calmly put my paper down, stood up, and looked him right in the eyes. Turns out I was at least nine inches taller than him and probably 50 pounds heavier. He reconsidered fighting me, instead screaming, "You're nobody to me! You're just another goddamn 20 year-old!"

20 year-old? My god...after that, I wanted to buy the guy lunch.

"Hey man, if I look 20 to you, that's the nicest thing anyone has said to me in a long, long time," I replied, to the laughter of a few dozen people who were sitting there enjoying the theater.

He turned towards the door, and angrily stalked out of the Starbucks; he was last seen stomping down 18th Street muttering obscenities under his breath. About 30 seconds after he left, this poor guy in a shirt and tie came in, absolutely drenched in coffee.

Turns out Mr. Drunk Hippie threw his coffee in the poor guy's face.

Sigh...that's San Francisco for you.



practice random acts of tourette's

I am so freaking dog tired...kicked my own ass at the gym today...and I really want to be in bed. Chris and I were at Jose's house tonight for dinner and to talk about Jose's website; Chris is designing it, I kinda tagged along and brought dessert from Victoria Pastry in North Beach (gotta represent my hood, yo) and tried to contribute to the dinner conversation. I love Jose's place...it's in an Italiante style Victorian from the 1880's, right next door to the Hayes Valley housing project. It's cute.

But that's not the topic of this blog.

On my way back home, walking down Columbus Avenue, I saw a wiry-looking, kinda tweaky-acting guy walking towards me. I had just plucked my ear buds out after listening to Tracy Bonham, so I was feeling a little crunchy and gritty and wondering what the hell I'm doing with my life. Anyway, the closer I got to this guy, the stranger he appeared. He clenched his fists, and his face was a bit distorted into a slight grimace. As I passed him he opened his mouth, took a deep breath, and yelled the most wonderfully obscene, random thing anyone has said to me in a long, long time.


I didn't know whether to be annoyed or laugh my ass off. I turned around and said, "What the fuck did you just say?" in a non-hostile, slightly amused tone, trying to surpress the smirk that was fighting to spread itself across my face. I didn't think I looked very gay, definitely not cocksuckerish, and definitely not a motherfucking faggot-ass. I was wearing a bulky turtleneck sweater, a black jacket, a black knit cap, and jeans. If anything, I looked like a mugger. Perhaps a big fucking cocksucker faggot-ass motherfucking mugger, but a mugger nonetheless.

That's probably why the dude stood there, trembling, blinking at me through these thick glasses that made his eyeballs look huge. I briefly entertained bitchslapping him to the ground and scolding him while swatting him with a rolled-up San Francisco Examiner, but quickly ruled that out. It's not in me to hit anyone, and I was anything but angry...more entertained than anything else.

Standing there looking at that sweating, tweaky, trembling little bug-eyed mess of a man, I thought of Eleanor in the movie Eight Crazy Nights.

I repeated myself, "What did you just say to me?"

"I'm really, really sorry. I have Tourette's Syndrome," he replied nervously.

"Oh, okay. I guess you didn't really mean that, then."

"No, definitely not. I don't even know you."

"Do I look like a faggoty cocksucker?"

"Not at all."

"Hmm," I contemplated. "Good."

The last thing I want to do is traipse down Columbus Avenue looking like some little faggoty thuggish cocksucking mugger. If I'm gonna go out of my way to look like a fucking, cocksucking, faggot-ass motherfucker who loves meat popsicles (why is it so fun to type that???) , I'm gonna be in a muumuu, chugging a St. Ives, and smoking a cigarette butt while dragging my pet coffee can behind me.

Folks tend to leave you alone when you do that.

"Well, have a good night then," I said in a very friendly tone, trying to assure him I was not going to pummel him into the sidewalk. I'm sure it's happened before. I grinned at him, and continued on my way.

So we went our seperate ways, the guy shuffling away with his head slightly bowed, looking more at the sidewalk than where he was going, me towards my apartment. I felt bad for him, but was happy I had met someone with Tourette's. I've always loved Touretters; I have several friends who have it in varying degrees. I can feel bad for them while they make me laugh. I think there should be a porn with nothing but porn stars with Tourette's Syndrome in it.

God, can you imagine? Filthy language on top of filthy language, complete with fucking. That's hot.

Ugh, it's late, I've typed more than I intended to, and I'm tired.

Time for bed.


© 2001, 2002, 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006, 2007, 2008 by Chad Fox. All rights reserved.