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: