as promised

A while ago, a bunch of people e-mailed me asking me to post a booty pic on my blog. Not wanting to turn this into a booty-laden blog (as if it isn't starting to become that already), I thought I'd post a booty pic with a purpose.



Feast your eyes upon the Classic Puta T-shirt, modeled by yours truly this past Friday night in front of my fireplace. It was done as a favor to my dear friend Puta, and will probably be the last time you see my bare butt unless I invite you to see it in person. Now, I've cut the sleeves off of the shirt, and I'm wearing it backwards, but you get the idea. They're cute, and that particular shirt was all sweaty from the gym when I wore it in that photo.

I can safely say I'm the only one who wears one of those to Gorilla Sports on Polk.

BTW...my ass looks huge in this pic, mainly because it was much closer to the camera than my head was. Plus, the pose was all Chris's idea. I, for one, would never take a picture of myself like that.

Well, maybe. I'd definitely show more crack. (wink)

But there it is...my booty, for all the world to see. And be sure to buy a shirt. They're available at putanesca.tv, or just send Puta an e-mail directly. It's putanesca4u(at)aol(dot)com. Be sure to tell her Chad sent you. :-)

Oh, and one more thing. Don't be drawing any conclusions from the text that accompanies this photo on Puta's site. That was purely creativity on Chris's part.

hack-hack. bleph.

line dance, 2004 -- by chad

(much thanks to Rich, who provided the inspiration for the title of that photograph)

This has been the strangest, emotionally exhausting, and stressful week I've had in a long, long time. Emotionally, I'm drained. I'm at a crossroads in my life right now, and I have to choose a path. Thing is, each path is dramatically different than the other, and being a libra, it's extremely difficult to decide what's best for me. I can follow my heart, or trust my anger and common sense. I'm behind on my phone calls, voicemails, e-mails, all while trying to keep up with work (three new jobs coming in this week...I have three websites to build).

It all took its toll yesterday, as I suddenly fell ill with a fever of 103. I just want to thank my friend Nathan for stepping up to the plate, and for coming to take care of me last night. Otherwise, I would have been all alone in my apartment, with no fever reducers at all (apparently, there's no more in my apartment...I was not aware of this), ravenously hungry, and somewhat loopy.

Nathan, you've shown me what being a friend is all about, and I thank you. Thanks for being there when other people couldn't (or wouldn't).

I felt a little better this morning, so I went to the gym and actually had a great workout. I felt good for about an hour, but as I write this, my temperature is back up to 102. I popped another Advil and I'm hoping for the best.

What rankles me the most is I have a ticket to the Scissor Sisters concert at the Warfield Theater tonight. Last time I was in there was in 1997, when I saw Anything But the Girl with my ex, Michael. Well, we weren't exes then, but we were soon to be. Anyway...this will be the third time I've seen the Sisters, the past two times at the The Fillmore and Slim's. They put on a hell of a show...high-energy and quite exciting, and it's fun to see Ana Matronic up there as a big rock star, when I remember her performing at Trannyshack 8 years ago.

So, I'm just hoping this Advil kicks in and I feel well enough to go. At this moment, I feel like my head is some mylar balloon that's about to pop. Well, I'm going no matter what (ticket was goddamn expensive) and I'd rather feel good than like crap tonight.

Ack. I just wrote a really whiny paragraph, and I deleted it before I posted it. I need a nap.

from the dusty archives of drive c

musca domestica kartella, 2004 -- by chad

I figure...I might as well post some of my photos along with my blathering...because sometimes the only way to make myself perfectly clear is to provide an illustration I've created along with something I've written.

I'm one of those multimedia kind of people.

Anyway, this is a previously unpublished photo I took about a year ago...I just found it on my hard drive and decided I liked it.

And for now...that's about enough out of me. I'd write more, but I have to go to yoga class. I switched gyms, and now I go to Gorilla Alhambra exclusively for my muscle-pumping and spiritual enlightenment. Tuesday, I was the only guy in there, the rest were marina chicks. One of them had the same yoga mat I did, and I said "Hey, you're the only other person I've seen with that particular mat!"

Her reply?

"Uh, yeah." and walked away, rolling her eyes. Instantly, I was whisked back to 1987, to my high school gymnasium, after I asked a girl to dance. I stood there for a second, then laughed.

And laughed, and laughed.

Honey, you have nothing to worry about. I don't do front fannies, only rear ones on cute boys. Besides...bitchy attitudes are so...1987.

Kinda like bulimia, Heather. So '87.

So go choke on some corn nuts, biatch. ;-)

acceptance.

untitled, 2004 -- by chad

I know to you, it might sound strange.
But I wish it would rain.

- The Temptations, 1968

my dad: perpetual adolescent

I had just walked into my gym this morning when my phone rang. It was my dad, calling to shoot the shit and see how I was doing. We talked for at least a half hour about Johnny Carson, and how much we both had loved his show. Actually, we had a similar conversation about a year ago, when we were discussing who was better, Leno or Letterman (we both agreed on Letterman).

Since he's in Cleveland, I just had to chide him a bit on the weather they've been having across the midwest and east coast. At the moment, he's driving a hotrod Cadillac CTS, which is more or less his Fun Toy. If you have no idea what a Cadillac CTS looks like, here you go:



It's actually a badass car...I love driving them. They've got buttloads of power, go like stink and are a blast to go tearing around in. There's a reason why my dad won't let me drive his...it's because he's the one who taught me how to drive, and he knows exactly what I'd do behind the wheel of his car because he does it himself on a daily basis.

He's no fool.

So I had to laugh when he started complaining about the StabiliTrak system in that car. For those of you who have no idea what that is, StabiliTrak is a traction stabilizing system that continually monitors wheel speed and steering wheel angle, yaw rate and lateral acceleration, and brake and throttle pressure. If the system decides your driving sucks and needs intervention, it prevents you from hurting yourself by engaging the brakes or accelerating your dumb ass out of trouble. Unfortunately, this also means it won't let you have any fun by spinning donuts in a snowy parking lot. As soon as you build up speed and cut the wheel to go flying in circles, the anti-lock brakes engage, the engine's power is cut, and you grind to an abrupt halt.

What's the point of having a powerful, front-engined, rear wheel-drive American car if you can't spin it sround in snowy parking lots? The weather may be crappy, but there's no reason why you can't have any fun. I mean, the one good thing about blizzards is you get to go to the mall and spin donuts in the parking lot until you puke. I remember my dad doing that back in the winter of 1974 in his badassssss '70 Montego when I was a little kid. I mean, this car was just tits. I loved it. We were laughing our asses off, that massive hunk of Mercury Detroit iron flying all over the place, just me and dad, tires howling and spinning, everything outside just spinning around, and "Radar Love" by Golden Earring cranked up and booming out of the AM radio tuned to the famous WIXY-1260 (a legendary AM radio station...I still remember the old jingle).

My god, I just dated myself. And if there was any ever doubt that I'm from Cleveland, Ohio...well, there you go. I'm just a gay car kid from Cleveland who likes to do asinine things with automobiles on occasion. It's either that or crack. :-)

Anyway, our conversation went something like this:

Dad: Ya know what sucks?
Chad: When there's a goddamn putz in front of you on the shoreway with an oilburning engine that stinks up your air conditioner? (his exact words, and one of his pet peeves)
Dad: Even worse than that.
Chad: Hitting a deer on Route 306?
Dad: Worse.
Chad: You farting and then locking all the windows, effectively hotboxing us all in the car while we gag?
Dad: (chuckles)
Chad: Asshole. I hated it when you did that.
Dad: I thought it was funny.
Chad: I'm sure you did. I never understood why your farts smelled worse than the goddamn steel mills.
Dad: Hey, that was the smell of jobs!
Chad: No, that was the smell of Gram's holubky rotting in your intestines, dad.
Dad: (chuckles again) Hey, Slovak food does that to you. But seriously, wanna know what sucks?
Chad: What?
Dad: Not being able to spin any goddamn donuts in a fucking parking lot because the stupid traction control thingie in the Caddy won't let me.
Chad: Fuck, that's right! Did you try to shut it off?
Dad: Hell yeah I did, but it kept turning itself back on, piece of shit.
Chad: You must have scared it then. Hmmm...I know there's a way to bypass it, fuck...can't remember. I'll google it and let you know.
Dad: Well, I tried at least ten times. Mr. and Mrs. [old friends of my parents, I've known them over 25 years] were in the back somewhat terrified, and [my mom] was egging me on.
Chad: Mom was egging you on?
Dad: Yeah, can you believe it?
Chad: (laughing) Usually she'd start hollering at you.
Dad: I don't know what got into her.
Chad: So what were [my parents' friends] doing? Were they seeing what brown can do for them? (I am so glad UPS dropped that ad slogan)
Dad: (snorts) Nah, they were laughing. Just rolling their eyes at me.
Chad: Dad, how old are you now, 62?
Dad: I don't give a shit how old I am, you know I feel like I'm 25.
Chad: But you act like you're 16.
Dad: Nothing wrong with that.
Chad: You're right...don't change. Don't ever, ever change.

I love my dad. He was so stupid when I was a teenager. We fought all the time. Yet somehow, between the time I was 18 to when I was about 24 he became one of the most brilliant people I know. Or maybe, it was me who was the dumbass the whole time.

That's probably it.

Today, he's one of the coolest people I know; someday I'll write about when I came out to him and told him I was gay. It was a make-or-break moment, and his reaction not only showed great courage and maturity, not to mention what kind of man he is, it also showed how much he loves his family. That, to me, is what a real man and being a father is all about.

Now, I said I'd find out how to disable that stupid StabiliTrak so he can have his fun. I found it here, seems an automotive writer ran into the same dilemma:

"...doughnuts were simply impossible. Even after gaining speed and cutting the steering wheel sharply, I never got more than a quarter turn before the system stopped the car’s motion, clamped the throttle and shut me down completely. StabiliTrak is the ultimate buzzkill. The same button in the glove box that defeats the traction control will disable StabiliTrak if you hold it down for several seconds. In the name of A/B comparison testing, I switched off that sucker and had a grand old time."

I can't wait to tell dad.

Johnny Carson, 1925 - 2005

"For three days after death, hair and fingernails continue to grow but phone calls taper off." - Johnny Carson



As I write this, I have a small lump in my throat. I just watched a little piece they ran about him on KTVU, our local Fox affiliate, and I smiled through the whole thing. They played a clip from a show from October 16, 1987, that I totally remembered seeing as a 17 year-old high school senior, and laughing at hysterically. I googled it, and (unsurprisingly) other people remembered it as well.

From nostalgiacentral.com:

A typical Carson moment occurred on October 16, 1987. Carson always took a special delight in people with eccentric hobbies, and on this night he had a guest named Myrtle Young from Fort Wayne, Indiana, whose hobby was collecting potato chips that looked like other objects - an angry dog, a sleeping bird, a candle . . .

While Myrtle proudly showed off her fine (and fragile) collection, Ed McMahon distracted her momentarily and as she was turned away there was a resounding "crunch" from Carson. All eyes turned to the host who has just bitten into a potato chip!

Myrtle is in a state of shock, clutching her chest with her mouth agape and her eyes wide with shock and betrayal. How could Johnny munch one of her works of art?!? Ever the grand-master of timing, Carson allowed the gag to play out for a while before assuring Myrtle and reaching down to hold up a big bowl of chips he had behind his desk in preparation for the prank. The laughter went on for several minutes.

Trust me, I laughed for longer than several minutes. It was probably one of the funniest things I had ever seen on television in my young life.

I remember sitting on the sofa in our tiny TV room in my pajamas with my parents when I was a kid, watching his monologue. They let me stay up and watch it before I went to bed during the summer, and I watched him well into my teens and early twenties until his last show in May of 1992 (with Robin Williams and Bette Midler). On that particular night, I wasn't sitting on my parents' sofa...rather, I was in a barracks dayroom at Keesler AFB, Mississippi.

I was always intrigued by his uncanny sense of timing and self-depreciating humor. He influenced me more than I realized at the time...people tell my my sense of comic timing is impeccable, even when the joke I'm telling is horrible (or incredibly offensive...they're the only kind of jokes I know).

I give Johnny all the credit.

Much thanks to kirkkirsch, where I first saw that Johnny quote.

separated at birth?

I had to laugh when I saw this entry over at Gatochy's place in Lisbon, Portugal. Amedeo Modigliani is one of my favorite artists of all time...and this quote from him is nothing short of brilliant:

"What I am seeking is not the real and not the unreal but rather the unconscious, the mystery of the instinctive in the human race."

I could not agree more.

I so love Gatochy's blog...it's the kind of blog I love to read whilst sipping a latte and listening to Stereolab.

Portrait of a Girl (Victoria) c.1917/Winona Ryder






Woman with Read Hair, 1917/Marlene Dietrich







Beatris Hastings, 1915/Julia Stiles

my modeling debut.

Yes, that's me in the gray shirt. And yes, that's my boyfriend I'm with there. And no, I wasn't really doing what you all think I'm doing in that picture.

But I was close!

Tee-hee-hee!

To see that picture in its proper context, go to juanitamore.com. Click on her lips. Then, from the menu on the left hand side, click on STORE. Scroll down a few items to MOREboy Runner.

Then add a pair to your cart. :-)

They're a great gift idea!

somehow, he didn't panic.

This is my dear friend Michael. Truly, one of the nicest, sincere, and sweet men I know. That smile he has on his face is real...I was following him around his apartment one day snapping pictures of him, despite his self-conscious protests (he had just gotten out of the shower when I showed up unannounced as he was trying to get dressed...it's fun to do that to him sometimes). This particular shot was my favorite...it captures the essence of who Michael is. It's not posed, it's not staged, it's just Michael being...Michael. I love it. Not only that, but he's the best drinking buddy a guy could ask for.

He is absolutely one of my favorite people in the world.

Michael lives in the Castro district here in San Francisco, and while he thinks my neighborhood is strange and foreign and hetero and scary (absolutely the polar opposite of the Castro), at least things like this don't happen here in North Beach.

Well, at least not on my block. Or my fire escape.

freeballing at the eagle

Beer bust was jam-packed...apparently, I wasn't the only one who wanted to go out and enjoy the sunshine and temperatures in the upper 50's. I had a really good time...ran into about 25 people I knew...old roommates, friends I hadn't seen in years, old tricks...you name it, they were all there. I guess everyone was so tired of being cooped up this past week with the rain and cold weather.

Towards the end of Beer Bust, one of the bartenders, Matty, asked me if I'd like to donate my underwear to the bar. Matty's cool...he's like an Amish leather boy. I've never seen a beard quite like his, at least on a gay guy living in San Francisco. Last time I saw a beard like that was in Tuscarawas County, Ohio. At any rate, it's impressive. It's amazing. And to be honest...it looks kinda hot on Matty. You don't see beards like that every day.

"Hey, what kind of underwear are you wearing?" asked Matty.

"Calvin Klein." Of course I was. I'm gay.

"Tightie whitie or boxers?"

"Tightie black briefs."

"Hot. Wanna donate them to the Eagle? I'll hang them up right over the bar."

"Um, I guess," I said, laughing.

"Cool...come into the office and you can give them to me there."

I followed Matty into the office, took off my shoes, stepped behind a desk (so modest I am) dropped trou, and removed my underwear. I kicked them over to him, then put my pants back on...freeballing like a muhfukka. While I put my jeans back on, Matty informed me there was a shot waiting for me outside as he returned to the bar.

"Whatever you want, it's yours," Matty informed me. I said I wanted tequila, so he poured me a shot. I looked up, and there was my underwear, stapled to the ceiling and hanging over the bar.

"Hey Matty!" slurred a drunk guy behind me. "Did ya sniff 'em first?"

Matty just smiled.

Hey...this makes the second bar where my underwear has been hanging off the ceiling. I used to have a pair of BVD's hanging on the Underwear Wall at Frankly Scarlett in Fort Walton Beach, but I hear it's a lesbian hangout today. I suspect they're not there anymore...it's been over 10 years anyway. I guess if you get enough drinks in me, I'll donate my underwear to a worthy cause.

Just don't try to touch my no-no parts. Those are off-limits to all but one certain individual. :-)

a visual

I just ran across this animated gif online...it kinda illustrates how I totally biffed out on a treadmill about a month or so ago, except I'm not a female, I was running a bit faster, and I was flung far more violently into a magazine rack. My hands and knees are finally healed (not completely, but close), but I have scars. Oh well. This wasn't the first time I've somehow banged myself up, and I'm sure it won't be the last.

Sigh...crazy shit happens to me all the time.

Anyway, I'll be off shortly to The Eagle Tavern for the Beer Bust, a pay $7 at the door and drink all the beer you can until 6:00 pm sort of event. Today, the Golden Gate Guards are holding a charitable raffle, benefiting Project Open Hand (here is their mission statement).

So, if there's anyone here in San Francisco who wants to join me, you know where to find me. I'll be wearing a black jacket, a t-shirt that says "Dirty White Boy" on it, jeans, and a black knit cap.

Don't be afraid to come up and say "How you durrin?"

the first audioblog...from noisy san francisco

Chris and I decided to be tourists today, and since I live in North Beach, just a short hop, skip, and a twirl from Fisherman's Wharf and Pier 39 (godawful tourist traps for those of you not familiar with the City By the Bay), we decided to head down to Touristville to see if we could blend in.

There are three redeeming things about Fisherman's Wharf that will keep me going back there from time to time. First of all, the point of this whole audioblog, the sea lions that completely took over Pier 39 about a decade or so ago. They just kind of showed up one day, and they're cute, albeit quite stinky.

Yucky.

The second thing I like about Fisherman's Wharf is the Musee Mechanique, a fascinating and fun museum of old mechanical carnival attractions. It's usually housed out at the Cliff House but since the Cliff House is undergoing extensive renovation, it's at the Wharf for the time being.

However, my favorite attraction at the Wharf would have to be the Bushman. He's this homeless guy who huddles by a garbage can, camouflaging himself with tree branches, and scares the shit out of tourists and locals alike. I once spent over 45 minutes sitting on the curb about 20 feet from the Bushman, nursing a bottle of malt liquor in a paper bag (love brownbagging...it's so...naughty and illegal), cackling at the startled tourists. Yes, I could probably have used that time a bit more productively, but come on. The Bushman is hysterical. It never gets old.

So...here you go. An audio snapshot of San Francisco's Pier 39, January 15th, 2005, at approximately a quarter to two in the afternoon.

UPDATE

Okay, I just listened to my blog for the first time (had to load it on my iPod because the sound card on my jalopy computer is fried). I sound like A Total Douchebag. I guess I was a bit self-concious with my first audioblog, not to mention I was freezing my ass off. No, really. It froze solid and fell off with a loud "THUD" that scared some tourists from Oklahoma. It's been hella cold here.

Okay, maybe I made that last part up. My ass is still attached to me. And I can't believe I just used the word "hella" in my blog. I promised myself I'd never do that.

Lastly, I just photogoogled the word "douchebag" so I could provide an illustration for this particular entry, so you can listen to the audioblog and imagine it's actually the douchebag talking. This is what came up:



This blog is so going downhill. :-)

I should probably log off and go to bed now.

62!

Happy birthday, Pop. 62 years old and just as sick and twisted as ever.

(Seriously...my dad forwards me some of the nastiest, sickest shit my gmail account has ever seen. I love it.)

You're looking good...keep taking care of yourself!

xoxo

hmmm...i dunno...maybe

I just got this e-mail in my myspace inbox:

Hi Chad,

We are currently casting for FX series "30 DAYS", a documentary-style, unscripted series from award-winning filmmaker Morgan Spurlock. Show adapts for TV the concept of Spurlock's critically-acclaimed "Super Size Me".

We are looking for a gay male between the ages of 30 - 40 who lives alone in San Francisco and would be interested in being part of a documentary series by sharing your life and home with a roommate for 30 days. If you are interested or want to know more about the documentary please contact me through myspace or at the information below, I would also need a short description of yourself, where you work, what you do for fun.

Thank you,
XXXX XXXXXXXXX
Casting

Hmmm...do I really want my dirty laundry aired out for the FX audience to see? Would they move some douchebag or would I get to choose my roommate? If I tell them exactly what I do for fun are they going to make fun of me or think I'm some sicko? Would they photograph my good side? Would I have to share my bed or will my roommate sleep on my couch? Would I have to clean up my pottymouth? Would they make sure the guy messed with me on a daily basis so they'd get one good shoutfest out of me? (I grew up Catholic in Cleveland in a loud family...I can, and have, bellow like Archie Bunker if I need to.)

To be honest, I have no idea what I am going to do. On one hand, it'd be an excuse to motivate myself to finally fix up and paint my kitchen, which is more or less a grungy, grimy storage/broom closet with cabinets, stove, fridge, a small counter, and a sink. On the other hand, sharing my home with someone I don't know, pretty much standard fare for me when I first moved to San Francisco (I'm on my 9th address in 2 area codes in 9 years) is now, in 2005, a strange concept to me. Besides, my apartment is kind of wierd layout-wise. I'd also have to keep it spotless for the cameras, 'cause there's no way I'd let anyone who watches FX think my dirty laundry sometimes piles up and spreads around my room or I leave the occasional wine glass in the living room!

I'm going to sleep on this one and give this guy a call tomorrow.

wtf?!?

This is fading quickly from my mind (as my nightly dreams usually are prone to do) but I'll recount as much of this as I can here.

Last night I slept at Chris's place, as I usually do post-Trannyshack, and I had the strangest dream that actually ended with me waking up laughing. That doesn't happen very often; usually I wake up silently, sometimes screaming, or sometimes completing a sentence out loud that I started while still asleep and dreaming (that sometimes can be pretty random). Yes, I dream in full color and there is usually dialogue going on between me and the characters of my dreams.

So here is what I can remember about my dream: it took place in some strange commune, some sort of modern mansion (yet still under construction) with a large greenhouse filled with plants. You had to walk through the front door of this building a certain way, and if you used the wrong door or didn't walk through a certain way, a woman would come up to you with a hose and yell, "DECON!" and spray you with a decontaminating foam, kind of like a fire extinguisher except it came from a garden hose. For some reason, in the dream I was around 12 years old, and good friends with Alex Winter, who was also 12 (although he's 5 years older than me in real life). Alex suddenly went completely apeshit and decided he wanted to kill everyone. I ended up talking him out of it, and the commune people put him through some sort of brainwashing program so he wouldn't destroy everything inside the greenhouse.

This is where everything starts to get fuzzy...I should have written it all down when I got up this morning!!!

Anyway, the part that made me laugh was when Alex and I walked out the front door of the commune place and down a yellow brick road (okay, stop snickering). Suddenly, a 10-foot tall man made of grass (or straw...can't really remember now) came up to me and threatened me. I was startled at first, then kicked him in the leg. It disintegrated, because he was made of grass. I laughed and said, "Get away from me, Grassman! You can't hurt me!"

"Fuck you!" yelled Grassman.

"No, fuck YOU!" yelled Alex.

I then pushed Grassman into a rain barrel (when was the last time anyone had a rain barrel in their dream?) where Grassman said, "You stupid fuck! Now I'm all wet!"

"You shouldn't have fucked with me then!" I yelled back in my 12 year-old voice.

"Arrrrr! You fuckity fuck-fucker!" yelled Grassman, and this is when I woke up laughing.

Two things you should notice here...I was NOT the first one to say "fuck" in the dream; Alex and Grassman had much filthier mouths than I do. Also, I was not laughing an "evil" laugh at Grassman, it was more of an amused giggle more than anything else. I guess the concious part of me thought a 10 foot-tall man made of grass glaring at you from a cartoonish rain barrel (when was the last time anyone say one of those, anyway?) was just goofy and funny.

God knows why my brain makes up stuff like that.

I told Chris about this dream this morning on the subway, and he looked at me, rolled his eyes, and just shook his head. I don't blame him; it's the most random and fakakta dream I've had in a long time. Maybe I should have drank Coronas instead of those 2 Budweisers last night (yes, I only had two...it was a school night). Or maybe it was that Indian Spirit cigarette I smoked...damn Indian spirits getting inside my head and making me dream all sorts of crazy shit.

And I can honestly tell you that was the very first time I've ever had a dream with Alex Winter in it.

life in the underground

I have to make this post quick because I'm headed to Trannyshack shortly, but once again, an everyday, mundane part of life in San Francisco took a turn for the surreal this evening.

I was heading down into the Civic Center MUNI station after getting off a rather uneventful 19-Polk ride, listening to "Captivate" by Nitzer Ebb. I was in a little industrial-goth orgy world, since I just loaded it on my iPod and it had been about 10 years since I had listened to that song. When I got to the bottom of the stairs onto the platform, a shabbily-dressed, twitching, hopping, scab-covered tweaker woman came up to me. She was probably not too much older than me, but looked horrid.

"Hey man! Hey man!" she yelled. I took off my earphones.

"Hi there."

"Is it like, really cold and windy outside?"

I wondered exactly how long she had been hanging out in the MUNI station. "Not too bad, actually."

"Are the winds like, 10 or 20 miles an hour?"

I thought this question was a little odd, but since I had forgotten my portable wind gauge I usually carry with me so I am better-equipped to answer such random questions, I had to guestimate the wind speed right there on the spot.

"I'd say the wind is a good solid 8 miles per hour."

"From the north or south?"

"Um, west, actually."

"Is it really cold?" she pressed.

"Not really. I'd say it's cool, but not cold."

"How cool?"

I figured since I had a few minutes to kill until my train arrived, I thought oh, what the hell. "Kinda like an air conditioned bedroom in the summer."

For some reason, this made perfect sense to her.

"What setting?"

"Hmmm...I'd say high cool, air exchanger open."

"So it's not stuffy outside?"

"Nope. Nice and fresh."

"Is it a strong air conditioner or a weak one?" she fired at me.

"I'd say at least 18,000 BTU's."

"Oh boy, I wish I had my scarf." She then started running up the escalator, but turned around and said, "Hey, thanks man. Stay cool."

I smiled at her, and walked toward the edge of the platform. The train pulled up, and I got on. The train was mostly empty, save for two men with mohawks in leather jackets sitting across the aisle from me. They had intense, serious expressions on their faces, and I noticed one of them was wearing a dog collar. They detrained with me at Montgomery station, and when they got up, I noticed the one with the collar was also attached to a leash. His owner/boyfriend yanked the leash and growled, "Come on!" as if it hadn't occured to him to walk towards the exit. I kept a safe distance hehind them.

When I got to the stairway, I passed a man with obvious severe obsessive compulsive disorder. He was well dressed, but touched the wall 5 times when he reached the bottom of the stairwell, then turned and touched the escalator rail 5 times. Then he spun in a circle, and touched each ticket machine once before selecting the one on the end. By this time, I was just getting hungry, and didn't want to see the rest of his routine.

'Tis life in the underground metro system in San Francisco. Who needs cable TV when you can use that money for a MUNI pass?

Okay, I have to run. Trannyshack awaits. :-)

he tried.

I did yoga solo tonight; Chris was busy and decided to skip class. Afterward, I thought I'd unwind with a little bit of treadmill action (trust me, I pay extra attention to what I'm doing now). Now, World Gym is set up a little differently than Gorilla Sports, where I usually work out. The treadmills at Gorilla are in the old upper theater balcony, but the ones at World are at the edges of a big room where all the machines and free weights are located. This makes the World treadmills a great place to people-watch.

Or, as what happened this evening, a place to get cruised.

I noticed a guy walking back and forth in front of my treadmill. Now, that in itself isn't unusual...people walk in front of treadmills all the time. In fact, I didn't pay much attention to him at first, except to think to myself "He's kinda cute." The second time he walked by, he looked at me...about 5 seconds longer than a usual glance.

"Hmmm," I thought to myself. "You go there, Miss Susie Cruisy."

The third time he walked by, I knew I was being cruised, hard. I didn't mind, actually. He was kind of cute, black hair, nice build, handsome face, nice tan. I watched him do his workout, causally glancing away every time he turned around to look at me. It's a little skill I've picked up while living in San Francisco. I can ignore you and stare right at you at the same time. I don't do it very often, but when I do, I do it well. I learned it at Badlands. What can I say?

I soon finished my run and headed to the locker room. Lo and behold, guess whose locker was right across from mine? You guess it. Cruisy Cruiserson, and he was standing in front of me, half naked. Still in my own little world, I started undressing. Finally, he broke the silence.

"You were running pretty fast on that treadmill there," he said, smiling.

"Yeah, I guess. I like to sweat," I answered.

And the small talk continued from there. I like to sit in the dry sauna after yoga, and apparently, so did Cruisy. When I got to the sauna, he was standing there, holding the door open for me. "Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he replied, and sat down right next to me. We were the only two in there, but he still sat less than a foot away from me. I could see this was going to be interesting.

We chatted a little more. Suddenly, he asked me, "Do you run marathons?"

"No, why?" I wondered where this was going.

"You sure have the legs for it."

Bless your heart. "Really? Thanks." I didn't quite know how to answer that.

"Yeah, they're nice." He lightly poked my right thigh.

There was no doubt in my mind that this boy was a big major homosexual, especially since he started twiddling with his [quite large] uncut penis. It kinda looked like a baby elephant trunk. I felt a bit uncomfortable; I'm not one for gym sex. I think it's horribly tacky, and I am actually pretty disgusted when I happen upon two guys going at it in a steam room. There is a time and place for everything, and gyms are NOT a place for sex. Take it to the bathhouse, boys. Call me a midwestern prude if you like, it's just my personal opinion. I suspect Cruisy sensed this, because he quickly took his hands away from his weenie.

"I think I've had enough. Time to get out of here," I said, getting up and wrapping my towel around me.

"Yeah, me too." Cruisy followed me out the door. "Hey, this is nice," he said, fingering my tattoo on my shoulderblade.

"Thanks."

We got dressed, and Cruisy offered to walk out with me. Stepping outside, he asked me, "So, where are you parked?"

"I don't have a car."

"Really?" he asked, a bit incredulously.

"Nope. Don't need one. I mean, I live in North Beach. Where the hell am I going to park?"

"You have a point. Well, do you need a ride somewhere?"

"Sure, would you take me to the top of Potrero Hill?" I had told Chris I would stop over at his house after yoga. He lives on the very top of Potrero Hill, the highest one in San Francisco, and I really didn't feel like trudging all the way up the hill if I didn't have to.

"No problem, I live on Potrero."

"Ex-cel-lent!" I said in my best Montgomery Burns voice. We walked down De Haro street a bit, and I wondered which car was Cruisy's. Was it the Jetta? Or perhaps the Impala? Or maybe that Toyota or one of those BMW's. Nope...turns out it was a bright orange New Beetle convertible.

I was sure he was gay before that, but now...well, not only was I sure he was gay, I suspected he was a bottom.



I climbed in, and off we went. We chatted a bit more, nothing too serious, just small talk. Turns out he moved to San Francisco only three months ago from Columbus, Ohio, and didn't know too many people. Actually, he's a pretty nice guy, intelligent as well as cute.

Halfway up Potrero Hill, I suddenly felt something on my leg. I looked down, and saw Cruisy rubbing his hand up and down my left thigh. "Hey now," I said, gently.

"Huh?" he asked.

"Whatcha doing there?"

"Rubbing your thigh, I hope you don't mind."

"Well, why don't you get to know me a bit better first?"

"Oh, sorry." He pulled his hand away, looking a bit embarassed.

"Don't worry about it, I just think it might be nice to hang out with you and get to know you. Besides, I don't usually fool around with guys right after I meet them." Now, that last part isn't necessarily true, but even if I was single, I would have done the exact same thing in this situation.

"Yeah, you're right. Wait, you live in North Beach. Why are you going to the top of Potrero?"

"Going to see my boyfriend."

"Oh." He looked really embarassed now.

"Hey, don't worry about it. You gave me your card, I'll send you an e-mail and we'll hang out. I'll show you around the city...I know where a lot of the cool spots are."

"I'd like that," he said, his cheeks still bright red. He was absolutely adorable.

"Okay, have a good night." I stepped out of his car, and he drove off into the night.

Welcome to San Francisco, guy.