Not a bad Valentine's Day at all.

That's my Valentine's date there...I met him on the 22-Fillmore MUNI bus a few days ago. We're gonna get married. I don't know his real name but I call him my 'lil boo. Well, he's not really "'lil" per se, but you know.

So last night, I walked over to the Castro to meet Derek. Yeah, that's right, I walked. I thought it was a good idea until I got to around Market and 7ht, where I was buffeted by hurricane-force winds whipped up by Fox Tower and almost blown into the street. Twice. They died down a bit, but a blast of wind at Market and Van Ness sent me careening into a homeless encampment. Thing is, I didn't know it was a homeless encampment...it looked like a pile of blankets.

I finally met Derek at Cafe Flore, and we walked over to Daddy's, where we met 2 Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence, and one sister in training. When we left, one of the Sisters gave me a hug, wished me a Happy Valentine's Day, smiled at me warmly, and told me to have a "very joyful tomorrow." Call it some sort of divine power, but a wave of euphoria washed over me. Maybe the Sisters really are on to something. It was the best part of my entire day.

We hopped around the Castro a bit before Derek got into a cab and I walked back home to North Beach. By this time, the winds had died down somewhat and Market Street looked like Night of the Living Dead. People in rags shuffling around, and for some reason they ALL wanted to talk to me. Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...I saw their mouths moving but all I heard was LCD Soundsystem. I had my iPod buds in my ears (but not turned up too loud...in case someone was behind me). Everyone I passed made motions for me to take out my earbuds, and one woman lunged at me and tried to grab them from my ears. Thing is, she was only 4 feet tall and couldn't reach them.

WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH PEOPLE??? LEAVE ME THE EFF ALONE ALREADY. Damn you, MUNI, for shutting down the metro at 10 EFFING P.M.!

Oh yeah, I forgot. It's to "serve me better" or something.

At any rate, I hope everyone had a good Valentine's Day...I sure did. If you have a chance, listen to these two cats podcasting from Cleveland, Ohio. They're hysterical.

Now you'll know where my accent comes from. We really do talk like that.

Long, long overdue.

I hung out with Daigle Daig last night for the first time in a long time. I had forgotten how much fun it is just to hang out with him, sass each other, laugh, and talk about everything under the sun. I must congratulate him on his 100+ days of sobriety...to be honest, it's a lot more fun hanging out with him when he's not completely shitfaced and borderline out of control (or me being merely shitfaced). A maturity, drive, and intensity has replaced the somewhat-wandering soul that was the Old Daigle. As a result, he's influenced me on many levels, kinda smacked me in the face to wake me up, and has caused me to begin to make many positive changes in my own life.

At any rate, I met him at the Castro Street MUNI station. The plan was to walk to a mutual Coast Guard friend's house at the very top of Twin Peaks, where he was having a small dinner party with other Coasties. When we walked past the Bar On Castro, the smell of cigarette smoke, booze, and too many sweaty bodies in a small space greeted us. We both recoiled at the same time, and that nasty smell made me realize how much more fun it is NOT to be crammed into a place like that.

Of course, when we got to the top of Twin Peaks, we were both panting (me more than him, unfortunately) and cursing whoever decided it was a good idea to develop Twin Peaks and our friend for moving up there. We both decided we needed a drink (me wine, Daig ice water) and walked into the party all sweaty. It was fun, loud, raucous (military boys will be military boys), and the words "fuck" and "motherfucker" were tossed about freely. Even *I* don't cuss that much. But still...it made me miss the Air Force a bit.

But only a bit.

Afterward, we headed back down the hill, where we ran into (Mercury Grand) Marquis, who was waiting in line at Badlands. Even though I had consumed 1 or 2 or 6 glasses of wine, the thought of stepping into that place just nauseated me. I mean, really now. We flagged a cab, hopped in, and went over the hill to my friend Thomas' house in the Haight/Ashbury, where his roommate, who appeared in the movie Hair as a dancer, was celebrating his 54th birthday. It's a total Haight Pad they have up there...lots of art, unusual color choices for the walls (lime green in the hallway), and lots of food. They even had a spiral ham there. A goddamn spiral ham. Now, that's just swank. Who the hell bakes hams anymore for parties? If you have a candied spiral ham at your party, you are one class act and will DEFINITELY be considered for San Francisco A-List Gay status.

Barbecue meatballs are good, too. I like parties with barbecue meatballs and little containers of toothpicks so you can just stand there and gorge yourself while drinking a glass of Napa's finest.

At any rate, I kinda tore up part of that ham. What can I say? I like ham.

Afterward, we stopped down at Trax-ational cocktails on Haight Street (between Ashbury and Masonic), the sole gay bar in the neighborhood. After deciding it was a bit too quiet, we called it a night, flagging a cab back to Daigle's place in the Tenderloin. As we rode, I remember the last time Daigle and I were in a home-bound cab. My ears burned.

I vowed to myself to never take his friendship for granted ever again.

I dug out some photos I took of Daigle Daig this past year. I need go grab my camera and take some more of him...because as of June 1st, he's going to be gone, moving to Honolulu.

I'm gonna miss you, Daigle.

Brain Wash, Folsom Street, San Francisco:



The rental car, 19th and Castro, San Francisco:


A San Francisco bar:


Flat on Union Street, North Beach, San Francisco:


My apartment, Lower Telegraph Hill (technically):



Beer Bust at the Eagle Tavern, San Francisco:



Moving Day, Union Street flat, North Beach, San Francisco:


North Beach alley, San Francisco:


Grant Avenue, North Beach, San Francisco:


The original Daigle Project shoot, my roof:

Trader Ho's

I do most of my grocery shopping at Trader Joe's. No, it's not because I'm a crunchy, granola kind of guy, it's because there really aren't any major supermarkets in my neighborhood. The Telegraph Hill Dwellers tend to keep out any sort of major chain. This produces a mixed bag of results...on one hand, North Beach is one of the most charming, old-San Francisco neighborhoods you'll ever see. On the other hand, if you don't have a car, it's a royal pain in the ass to get groceries, with liquor stores being your major source of milk, cheese, slimy lunch meat, and butter. Not to mention 40-oz bottles of the finest malt liquor money can buy.

At least there is a amazing butcher shop and an Italian/French bakery within walking distance.

But sometimes I need something more than a stick of butter and bottle of St. Ives. This is when I trudge the 10 blocks down to the Fisherman's Wharf Trader Joes, which opened less than two years ago. There is quite an eclectic mix of folks milling about in there, both patrons and employees. You have your North Beach wierdos, you know, the ones who have lived in the neighborhood for decades and whose families stopped checking up on them years ago, allowing them to morph into quirky, yet interesting individuals. You have the Marina ladies in there as well...the Barbies of the Bay, bouncing around in there, chatting on their cellphones, and thrusting their titties toward any man they think might pay attention to them.

I get a lot of titties thrust in my face. People, especially women, generally assume I'm straight when they see me walking down the street or rummaging through freezers looking for packages of Organic Vegetable Medley. Thing is, I'm usually furtively glancing at their boyfriends' butts. I admit it. I'm a big 'ol butt-looker.

That's "looker" and not "licker" so just hose your mind out. This is a family blog, goddammit.


Then you have the Marina Guys who shop in there as well. You see, the Marina is a predominantly straight neighborhood filled with young, fit, pretty, professional, enthusiastic young people. And when they're not shopping at the Marina Safeway (the cruisiest goddamn supermarket I've ever been in...more so than the Castro one) they're buying frozen burritos and organic frozen pizzas at TJ's.

Now here is where it gets interesting. Those Marina boys are the biggest bunch of Cruisy Suzies I've ever seen in my life. Thing is, they aren't cruising women. They're mostly with their girlfriends. They're cruising EACH OTHER.

It's hysterical.

So I'm in there last night, basket in hand (shopping basket...stop it), just about ready to check out of there. I was trying to decide what kind of cheese I wanted (eventually decided on sharp cheddar), when I saw this hot guy wearing sweatpants, a sleeveless T-shirt, and a sweatshirt tossed casually over his shoulder (but I'll bet he spent at least 5 minutes in the parking garage getting it to drape just right). He was the Gayest Looking Guy I have ever seen outside the Castro. He was strolling down the aisles as if they were some sort of runway and he was the diva. He was getting a lot of looks, actually. You could HEAR the boobies being thrust towards him (I think that's some sort of straight mating ritual). However, the strongest looks were coming from the other guys in there. Let's just say there was a lot of discreetly-implied buttsniffing going on in TJ's. I was standing there, amused at the scene playing out in front of me, when we locked eyes. I wasn't going to look away first...I am the Alpha Male of Trader Joe's, goddammit. Finally, after about 7 agonizingly-long seconds, he looked at the floor.

Heh. Bottom. I own you, boy.


I grinned to myself, made my final cheese selection, and made my way to the checkout. The pierced, tattooed, and multicolor haired girl who rang me up had the sweetest, cutest smile I've seen on anyone in a long time. I brought my canvas TJ bag with me to carry home my groceries, but it was buried underneath everything in the basket.

"Hey," I said, "my canvas bag is in there. It's a little dirty."

"That's okay," she replied with a grin, "they're cooler when they're dirty."

"The only reason why I bought it was to look cool. Screw the planet," I said, deadpan.

"They are the only way to look cool," she said, equally deadpan.

"I have to try so hard to be cool, I really do. Goddamn self-esteem!" I sobbed.

"Well, these frozen halibut filets will do the trick," she giggled, rolling her eyes.

"Halibut filets are the new black."

She snorted. "They'll make people want to be you."

She finished ringing me up, and bagged up my food in my trusty canvas tote. At that moment, Really Gay-Looking Guy walked by, runway-style. We both looked at him, his supple, muscular butt, then back at each other.

Then we both giggled.


:::UPDATE:::

About a dozen people have inquired about the owner of the khaki-clad booty a few pictures above. Said booty belongs to a porn star nicknamed "Stretch" and I photographed said booty last summer at a Pride party in the Castro as he did drunken yoga on the sidewalk in the middle of 20th Street.

So there you go.

Mom, I'm sorry you're subjected to all of this. I'm glad we had that discussion earlier about the word "motherf**ker" and why I use it so much. It's all Noble School's fault.

Aw shucks.

Okay. That is a picture of the control board at KGO 810 AM that I took in December when I was hanging out with Karel. Why am I posting that, you ask?

Let me tell you.

So I'm talking with Kelly tonight on the phone, and somehow we got on the subject of 92.7 FM KNGY here in San Francisco. Kelly is a radio guy, and has worked at several different radio stations as a traffic reporter or something. He decided to call up 92.7 tonight, where Your Boy Brandon was at the helm. Thing is, Brandon and I have been emailing each other, and actually talked on the phone today as well. We're going to hang out this weekend. I'm looking forward to it.


So imagine his surprise when Kelly called from Austin to make a request tonight. In fact, I caught it on tape.

I was floored. And then, this site got a spike of hits all of a sudden. Thanks, Kelly and Brandon. :-)

[shuffles feet, cheeks redden]

It prompted me to dig up this little ditty...when one of my radio idols Dave Morey over at KFOG 104.5 FM did a birthday dedication to me at the beginning of his 10@10 show on September 22nd, 2004. At the time, I was standing shirtless in my kitchen, frosting my birthday cake, and again...was floored.

I think I even got some frosting on my tummy.

At any rate, I'm beginning to think I know some of the coolest people in the world.