tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-57185662024-03-07T11:24:38.544-08:00.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comBlogger243125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1156177417269567212006-08-21T09:05:00.000-07:002006-08-21T11:57:10.846-07:00Send some love.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/ryan3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/ryan3.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Right now, a <a href="http://www.rottenryan.com">fellow blogger</a> is undergoing a hellish tonsillectomy, which is a pain in the ass when you're 8, but absolutely awful when you're 30. As I type this, he's under the knife, gassed out of his brain, and probably not feeling any pain...yet. However, I suspect this afternoon he's going to be wishing he was either dead or drugged up so much he'd make Stephen Hawking look like a tweaker running through the Tenderloin.<br /><br />Here's a picture of Ryan showing us his tonsils:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/ryan1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/ryan1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I'm not sure why the tongue is blue, but it works on him. Maybe he went to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, got into some lady's purse and ate her eye shadow.<br /><br />Hey, it's a possibility.<br /><br />At any rate, if you can, pop over to his place and send him some love. He's going to be extra rotten for the next few days and will probably need all the warm fuzzies he can get.<br /><br />At any rate, I'm headed to the San Francisco DMV right now to re-take my driving test...apparently, if you let your license expire (like me) they make you not only retake your written test, you have to take the driving test over again. Hey...I don't have a car and haven't been behind the steering wheel of one in almost a year (except the time I tried to back my mom's car up their driveway a few weeks ago but quickly gave up because of the 6 glasses of wine in my system...damn house kept getting dangerously close to the driver's side mirror). At least I get to use the Gaguar (Chris's gay Jaguar) for the driving portion.<br /><br />Wish me luck. And tell poor Rotten Ryan to hang in there. These New Orleans women love him:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/ryan2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/ryan2.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><b>UPDATE</b><br /><br />I just got back from the DMV. I'm now once again a licensed California driver. Turns out I didn't have to take ANY tests...I just forked over $26, reregistered to vote (changed political parties), filled out a form, gave them a thumbprint, and posed for the camera. I saw my picture on the monitor before I left...AWFUL. I have a double chin, dark circles under my eyes, and I look like I'm missing a tooth. Damn those DMV cameras! Also, for some reason, the usual gang of freaks that have to get their licenses the same time you do were conspicuously absent. I counted no less than 10 hotties in there this morning...quite refreshing. Last time I had to stand in line at the DMV a woman with dreadlocks was in line in front of me. She had (and I'm not kidding) a pork chop and a chicken leg in the back pocket of her shorts. Wrapped in plastic, of course. Every few minutes she'd take one of her meat snacks out of her pocket, unwrap them, gnaw on them a bit, then rewrap them and stick them right back in her pocket.<br /><br />I had to endure this for 2 hours. Every time she did that I couldn't help but stare as if I had just witnessed a car accident or train wreck. Add the woman behind me screaming into her cellphone in Tagalog, and you get a genuine San Francisco DMV experience.<br /><br />To any San Franciscans who read this thing: MAKE AN APPOINTMENT AT THE DMV BEFORE GOING IN THERE. It's worth it. For me, in and out...29 minutes. Not to mention they remodeled the place...it's no longer that green and pink nightmare with the filthy carpeting. The walls and floor are now a calming powder blue, and instead of standing in line, you sit on a plastic chair and wait for an electronic voice to call you to a certain window. It sounds like the woman who gives you "MUNI Security Reminders" on the 38 Geary and 22 Fillmore. Bleh.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1155831224403944482006-08-17T09:06:00.000-07:002006-08-18T15:48:59.853-07:00Kill your television.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/killyourtelevision.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/killyourtelevision.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Apparently, someone didn't like their Comcastic programming. I had the "KILL YOUR TELEVISION" bumper sticker on my car 12 years ago, but I never thought I'd see a television impaled on a fire hydrant. It was pretty remarkable to look at, though.<br /><br />Captured by my cellphone somewhere in the Mission.<br /><br /><b>UPDATE</b><br /><br />Thanks to Mark for being my <a href="http://sexy-gay-blogger-of-the-day.blogspot.com/2006/08/chad-is-my-sexy-gay-blogger-of-day-17.html">Ego-Boost of the Day</a>.<br /><br />But trust me...you don't want to see me sans clothing. Not cute.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1154742106801119532006-08-04T18:38:00.000-07:002006-08-04T19:15:12.486-07:00Sick to my stomach.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/scream.png"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/scream.png" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I just found out that a friend of mine, who I thought had <a href="http://chadfox.blogspot.com/2005/04/rebecca-hell.html">died an accidental death</a>, was actually a victim of a murder/suicide.<br /><br />I'm stunned.<br /><br />I'm beyond angry; I can't describe how I feel because I don't think a word exists that could possibly begin to express the emotions I have inside me.<br /><br />I want to cry.<br /><br />I want to scream.<br /><br />I feel numb.<br /><br />I want to run as far away from here as I can, yet I have no idea in which direction to flee.<br /><br />I want to kill someone who is already dead.<br /><br />How dare you take my friend with you down your dysfuntional pit of self-destructive despair.<br /><br />You motherfucker.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/st-helens-car-45.4.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/st-helens-car-45.4.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1150766799625274542006-06-19T16:51:00.000-07:002006-06-19T21:42:28.560-07:00A post for my pop.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/pop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/pop.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />If you've been reading this blog for a while, you've seen that picture before. I ran it last October <a href="http://chadfox.blogspot.com/2005/10/hilly-hates-on-southwest-airlines.html">in this post</a>, actually. That would be my 6'5" tall father tearing it up on a dance floor at a wedding last year. No, he's not making a goofy pose for the camera, he was dancing. I'm serious...think <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cx9qDehb42M" target=0>Bill Cosby</a> meets <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ixsZy2425eY" target=0>Napoleon Dynamite</a> meets the <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oYlzTdSZeI4" target=0>Minister of Silly Walks</a> and you have a pretty clear picture of how he dances.<br /><br />My sisters and I used to be embarassed when he'd dance, or show up somewhere wearing his incredibly LOUD plaid golf pants or a goofy-looking pair of shoes. Thing is, what we didn't realize at the time was he was teaching us a valuable lesson in being an individual and being comfortable with who you are in your own skin. It's a lesson that reverberates through the Fox kids to this day, and a lesson I try to pass on to anyone who will listen.<br /><br />Yesterday was Father's Day, and I spent a large part of the day thinking about how lucky I am to have that goofy dancing guy in that picture as my dad. More than once, he's proven to me what being a father and a role model is all about. For one, he's extremely fair, and tends to look at things from all angles before forming an opinion about something. He's the kind of guy who can have a martini lunch and a golf outing with the CEO of a major corporation, but then go knock back beers and hang out with the guys who work on the factory floor, making the same kind of personal connections; it's why he's been such a successful buisnessman, someone well-liked among his peers.<br /><br />He's also the master of the Art of Bullshit. Let me tell you a story.<br /><br />One winter night, he and 19 year-old me were ambling down Interstate 271 in Cleveland in my mom's rusty old 1982 Chevrolet Celebrity coupe, but one of many <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=winter+beater">Winter Beaters</a> my mom drove through the years (except she drove them year-round). As we neared the Interstate 480 junction, the car started bucking, then suddenly, with a loud sighing noise, the engine quit. It was like it was telling us, "I'm done." Dad tried to restart it, but was unsuccessful.<br /><br />"Aw, shit," I said. "I think it's out of gas." I had totally forgotten to put gas in it after I had used it earlier in the day.<br /><br />My dad peered at the gas gauge. "I think you're right."<br /><br />"I guess this means I'm gonna be pushing this soon, huh?"<br /><br />He chuckled and looked over at me. "Maybe," he said, knowing I had forgotten to feed the gas tank, but choosing not to press the issue. "But I think we'll be fine." He snapped off the radio as not to drain the battery any more than he needed to.<br /><br />I slumped down in the seat. "Yeah, right. Whatever." I pulled my gloves onto my hands.<br /><br />Since we were rolling down a slight grade, we maintained enough momentum to merge onto I-480. It's a good thing we were doing about 70 when the engine died, because not only did we have enough momentum to merge onto another freeway, we also had enough momentum to roll down the first exit past the interchange.<br /><br />"Dad, that light is about to change," I warned, as we rolled down the exit ramp, again gaining momentum.<br /><br />"No, it's not," he replied.<br /><br />"Yes it is!" I exclaimed, as it turned yellow about 5 seconds before we passed beneath it.<br /><br />"It's green enough," he said as we rolled through the intersection at the end of the ramp.<br /><br />The nearest gas station was still a quarter mile ahead and over a hill, but my dad was undaunted. As we rolled along silently, the car slowed to maybe ten miles an hour.<br /><br />"Fuckity-fuck goddamn son of a bitch," I mumbled to myself. My dad understands a good stream of obscenities in times of stress, and didn't make an issue of my language. Had I said that in front of my mom, he would have knocked me unconcious into next week.<br /><br />"Oh, brrp brrp brrp brrp brrp," my dad taunted through pursed lips. That's the sound he makes when he's mocking you and wants you to shut up.<br /><br />As we crested the hill, we started picking up momentum again. I looked at the gas station ahead, thinking maybe I'd only have to push the car a short distance. The traffic light that separated us from the gas station suddenly turned yellow.<br /><br />"Dad, pull over! There isn't enough time to make that light!" I yelled.<br /><br />"Oh, bullshit, don't give me that crapola," he said, calmly. "We've got plenty of time."<br /><br />He was right. We rolled through the intersection just as it turned red, which gave us enough time and momentum to pull up to the gas station. Amazingly, at about five miles per hour, we rolled into the gas station, past the cashier, and up to the first set of pumps. The car ground slowly to a halt, with the fuel door aligned perfectly with the pump.<br /><br />My dad smacked the steering column gearshift lever with his palm into Park.<br /><br />"Chad," he said, with a grin, "that's what's called 'Knowing Your Vehicle.'"<br /><br />Since the engine died, my dad had not ONCE touched the brake pedal.<br /><br />I was in utter disbelief. "Bullshit," I said, laughing, "we just got lucky."<br /><br />"Oh, brrp brrp brrp," came the reply.<br /><br />To this day, I've never seen anyone so smug. He kept calm and level-headed throughout the whole thing, even though we had gone over a mile on two busy interstates and through two major intersections - without the aid of a working internal combustion engine.<br /><br />It was a valuable life lesson. I can't tell you how many times I've been in situations where I was SO screwed, but because I kept calm and focused, I was just fine.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/pops1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/pops1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />His calm level-headedness is precisely why I feel like I can tell him almost anything. I say "almost" because there are some things you just don't discuss with your parents, and some things they just don't discuss with you. Those are Private Things. However, let me tell you about the time I had to share my Deepest, Darkest, Scariest Secret with my father.<br /><br />The day I told him I was gay.<br /><br />That day in July of 1994 was warm and sunny, with low humidity, with a light, refreshing breeze blowing off of Lake Erie. I had driven up to Cleveland in my new Volvo (the one from the previous entry) from Florida to visit, as I sometimes did. It was only a 16-hour drive, and there's nothing I love more than a good roadtrip. Since I wanted to tell my parents I was gay seperately, I waited until my dad went out to Alesci's (an Italian food store) to get some groceries before I dropped The Bomb on my mom.<br /><br />She didn't take it very well initially. To her credit, she wasn't so upset I was gay, but rather, she was bothered by the fact I had told my sisters and friends before I told her. Don't get me wrong, the whole gay thing was quite a shock to her because I'm so incredibly manly, butch, and masculine with absolutely no gay tendencies whatsoever. However, that's a completely different blog entry...let's fast-forward to the part where my dad walked in the back door, bags of groceries in his arms, whistling a little tune, just being...his goofy, good-natured self.<br /><br />He walked into the living room.<br /><br />"Tell him!" my mom demanded.<br /><br />"Mom, I'll tell him-" I started.<br /><br />"No, tell him now!" she shouted.<br /><br />I cringed, and realized I had to tell my father I was a homosexual.<br /><br />I rose from the sofa, and looked at my dad. "Dad," I started stammering, "there's something I have to tell you."<br /><br />He looked absolutely confused. "What? You can tell me anything." He put the groceries on the dining room table, which was significant because my dad would NEVER put the groceries on the dining room table. He can't sit down unless ALL the groceries are put away and the bags in which they were carried home stored properly in the old milk chute in the pantry. Yes, he's that anal-retentive at times.<br /><br />"Let's go outside," I said. With leaden feet, I trudged through the living room, dining room, and kitchen, through the back hallway, out the back door, and across the small back yard. I followed a stepping stone path to a bluestone patio I had built myself out of discarded chunks of old sidewalk as a surprise for my parents a few years earlier. It was to compliment a brick patio that my dad and I installed the autumn I turned 14. We walked up to a glider bench my dad and I had assembled ourselves shortly after I had built and landscaped the patio.<br /><br />To this day, it's the longest walk I've ever taken in my entire life. I felt like I was walking to my execution...an utter eternity.<br /><br />We sat down on the bench and faced each other. My dad put his hand on my knee, squeezed it gently, and asked gently, "What do you have to tell me?"<br /><br />"Do you know that girl I've been dating, Karen?" I had told them I was dating someone, which was technically true.<br /><br />"Yes, you've talked about her a few times. What about her?" His forehead wrinkled a bit, and he looked concerned. I think he thought I was about to tell him he was a grandfather.<br /><br />I was trembling. I had no idea what was about to happen, but I hoped for the best.<br /><br />This was it. One of the scariest moments in a gay man's life. Telling his father.<br /><br />"W-well..." I stuttered, with a lump quickly rising in my throat and tears starting to form in my eyes, "her name isn't Karen." I was going to finish with, "Her real name is Philip," but I simply couldn't utter another syllable. I was trembling too much, and my voice was completely failing me.<br /><br />My dad looked really confused for a second and stared at the ground. Suddenly...the fogginess lifted. He closed his eyes, and nodded gently.<br /><br />"Chad," he said, "you're my son, and I love you. No matter what. I want you to know that." He reached over and hugged me tightly.<br /><br />I started bawling.<br /><br />"Dad, y-you...I c-can't..." I spluttered.<br /><br />"Shhh," he replied, hugging me tighter. "Calm down, collect yourself, and let's go talk to your ma, okay?" He sat back, looked at the big, blubbering, emotional gay mess sitting on the bench next to him, and smiled. "I love you, don't you ever forget it," he finally said after a few seconds.<br /><br />I knew right then and there I'd be able to tell him anything, and no matter what, he'd always be in my corner and have my back. Not that I didn't think that before, but when your dad reacts like that when you tell him you're gay, it's like the Cadillac Escalade you've been carrying on your shoulders since you were 12 years old is suddenly flung into a distant junkyard (where most Escalades belong, but again...that's a totally different blog post). It made me cry even harder.<br /><br />"Come on," my dad said, motioning towards the house. "I think we need to be together as a family right now and talk about this, okay?" We stood up, and faced the house.<br /><br />A final sob wracked my body, and a huge blob of snot suddenly flew from my nose and hit my arm, which snapped me out of my messy emotional state. I wiped it on my pants and said, "Okay." I mustered a grin.<br /><br />He grinned back and put his arm around my shoulders. I will say that is probably the only time I've ever wiped snot on my pants and my dad hasn't said a word about it. When I was a kid, he would have said, "Oh, come ON, use a Kleenex!"<br /><br />As we walked through the backyard to the house, the air seemed a little sweeter. The birds chirping were even more cheerful than usual. The sun was brighter and warmer. The flowers were more fragrant and colorful than they were a few minutes earlier. The sky was bluer, and the little white clouds overhead were fluffier. There was clarity in my head, and joy in my heart.<br /><br />Deep down, I knew life was going to be better.<br /><br />That day, my father taught me what being a dad was all about. He taught me never to be afraid to be anything but myself. He showed me what unconditional love was all about, and that no matter what, I could tell him anything and he'd never judge me.<br /><br />How lucky am I?<br /><br />It's a day late, but happy Father's Day, Pop.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/pops3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/pops3.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1149609547116813272006-06-06T08:58:00.000-07:002006-06-07T09:44:31.390-07:006.6.06It's here.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5303396.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5303396.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5303395.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5303395.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5303393.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5303393.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The signs are everywhere.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5181853.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5181853.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5181846.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5181846.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Don't dare venture outside.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5303501.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5303501.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />You don't know who you're gonna run into.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P9293266.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P9293266.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I took an evil test. It surprised even me. I guess I'm way more evil than I realized.<br /><br /><table width=350 align=center border=0 cellspacing=0 cellpadding=2><tr><td bgcolor="#CCCCCC" align=center><font face="Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif" style='color:black; font-size: 14pt;'><b>You Are 78% Evil</b></font></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor="#DDDDDD"><center><img src="http://images.blogthings.com/howevilareyouquiz/evil-4.jpg" height="100" width="100"></center><font color="#000000"><br />You are very evil. And you're too evil to care.<br />Those who love you probably also fear you. A lot.</font></td></tr></table><div align="center"><a href="http://www.blogthings.com/howevilareyouquiz/">How Evil Are You?</a></div><br />Then I went back and answered the questions truthfully.<br /><br /><table width=350 align=center border=0 cellspacing=0 cellpadding=2><tr><td bgcolor="#CCCCCC" align=center><font face="Georgia, Times New Roman, Times, serif" style='color:black; font-size: 14pt;'><b>You Are 82% Evil</b></font></td></tr><tr><td bgcolor="#DDDDDD"><center><img src="http://images.blogthings.com/howevilareyouquiz/evil-5.jpg" height="100" width="100"></center><font color="#000000"><br />You're the most evil person you know. <br />The devil is even a little scared of you!</font></td></tr></table><div align="center"><a href="http://www.blogthings.com/howevilareyouquiz/">How Evil Are You?</a></div><br />Oh, man. Well, I <b>did</b> go through an especially evil period in my late teens, and again when I was 24. Some naughty people crossed me in a bad way and I got my revenge on them a hundredfold. We're talking severe personal property damage and dishonorable discharges from the military. I am not sorry, as they deserved everything they got, and they never messed with me again. I can't help it. I come from the Serial Family. Don't ever cross one of the Foxes. 'Cause we'll git ya, and good.<br /><br />I since have renounced most of my evil ways.<br /><br />Most.<br /><br />At any rate, be very afraid.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/636692.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/636692.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />In honor of today, I have prepared this very special podcast. I had to dig out the old vinyl for this one...I owned every single one of these records (not CD's, not cassettes, RECORDS). I'd buy them in bulk at a record store at the now-closed and dead Euclid Square Mall in Euclid, Ohio (the manager loved me and would order anything I wanted directly from WaxTrax! or Nettwerk), when I worked at the shoe store there during my Al Bundy years. Then I'd haul 'em back to Cleveland Heights on the #32 RTA bus, where I'd go tearing over to my turntable and just enjoy the endorphin rushes they would give me.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/kmfdm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/kmfdm.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Then I'd haul them to WUJC, where I'd assault the Cleveland metropolitan area with industrial madness every Tuesday morning at 10:30 AM, at 88.7 MHz. God, that was fun. If I still had a show on an FM station, it'd probably sound like this:<br /><br /><a href="http://chadfox.podomatic.com/enclosure/2006-06-06T20_32_36-07_00.mp3" target=0><b>STMF #9: The 6/6/06 Cast.</b></a><br /><br />Here's the playlist...I outdid myself this time:<br /><br />Thrill Kill Kult - <i>The Devil Does Drugs</i> (1989)<br />Meat Beat Manifesto - <i>Dog Star Man</i> (1989)<br />Front 242 - <i>Headhunter</i> (1988)<br />Skinny Puppy - <i>Tin Omen</i> (1989)<br />PTP - <i>Rubber Glove Seduction</i> (1989)<br />A Split Second - <i>Rigor Mortis</i> (1990)<br />Ministry - <i>Thieves</i> (1990)<br />Thrill Kill Kult - <i>A Daisy Chain 4 Satan</i> (1990)<br />Clock DVA - <i>Hide</i> (1989)<br />KMFDM - <i>Godlike</i> (1991)<br />Revolting Cocks - <i>Beers, Steers, & Queers</i> (1990)<br />Laibach - <i>Sympathy for the Devil (Who Killed the Kennedys)</i> (1990)<br />Front Line Assembly - <i>Mindphaser</i> (1991)<br />Gruesome Twosome - <i>Hallucination Generation</i> (1989)<br />King Missile - <i>Jesus Was Way Cool</i> (1990)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PTPSingleRecordCover.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PTPSingleRecordCover.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights were usually spent at the quite-swanky Aqualon (certain nights were called "The Lift" because of the old freight elevator that took you to the club on the top floor...the rest of the building was abandoned), the Nine Of Clubs (aka The Night Of Drugs...I never partook, curiously) which became the Alter House, and Metropolis, which was in an old foundry building down on the Cuyahoga river. Cleveland was a really cool place back then, and it was a great time for industrial music. It was pretty evil-sounding stuff, but I loved it, and kept in great shape by dancing to it for hours and hours and hours with my friend Christina. We'd drive down in her battered Plymouth Horizon, listening to KMFDM or Nitzer Ebb on the way.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/mindphaser.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/mindphaser.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />At any rate, I suspect about 90% of you who download this podcast are going to absolutely hate it. I mean, really hate it. Which is fine...Christina's mom called me at the radio station once to tell me she adored me, she liked listening to me on the air, but I played the most god-awful music she had ever heard in her entire life. <br /><br />At any rate, I had fun making this one...it reminds me of a very special time in my life, when I came into my own, came out of the closet to myself, and found a big group of people who accepted me for who I was, which was a refreshing change from high school.<br /><br />If there's anyone in Cleveland who remembers the clubs I was talking about before, drop me a line and say hi.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1148683626593806232006-05-26T15:45:00.000-07:002006-05-26T15:48:49.843-07:00Karmic justice.Now <i>WHY</i> did seeing this bring such joy to my heart?<br /><br />It must be a San Francisco thing.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P8170591.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P8170591.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Taken at the corner of Broadway and Larkin streets.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1148548830308352422006-05-24T23:20:00.000-07:002006-05-25T15:17:50.973-07:00Oh HELL yeah...Turn up your speakers. No, really...turn 'em up <b>LOUD</b>.<br /><br />Okay, this is dedicated to <a href="http://asksix.blogspot.com/" target=0><b>SIX!!!</b></a><br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xxl7iuydt_0"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xxl7iuydt_0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br />...and there's a certain person in <a href="http://www.coventryvillage.org/">Coventry Village, Cleveland Heights, Ohio</a>...who needs to be standing up right now and shaking that boo-tay.<br /><br /><a href="http://chadfox.podomatic.com/enclosure/2005-11-21T07_41_20-08_00.mp3" target=0><i>It's on Lee...it's on Lee</a>...!!! Monticello walkers...<b>all Monticello walkers!</b></i>*<br /><br />*This will only make sense to about 3 people in the entire universe. And the song, "It's On Lee" (which was drunkenly composed in the car on the way home from <a href="http://cleveland.citysearch.com/profile/7997188/" target=0>Brennan's Colony</a> up in the <a href="http://clevelandheights.com/" target=0>Heights</a>, was recorded by my sister Hilly and yours truly in the upstairs bathroom of my parents' house about 14 years ago on an 1980's Emerson cassette recorder.<br /><br /><b>:::UPDATE:::</b><br /><br />Apparently, there's a remix of the song:<br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/D88doSl61Kc"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/D88doSl61Kc" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br />And of course, they spoofed it on Family Guy (the episode where Stewie is in a plastic ball for some reason):<br /><br /><object width="425" height="350"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gBOUnL8mdlY"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gBOUnL8mdlY" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="425" height="350"></embed></object><br /><br />The Children's Television Workshop in the 1970's was absolutely genius.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1147813417246338852006-05-16T14:00:00.000-07:002006-05-16T17:19:31.746-07:00I guess I should update this occasionally, huh?First and foremost, the weather here has been AMAZING. Here are some pretty pictures I took of San FranPretty.<br /><br />Pretty, pretty, pretty.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P8160500.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P8160500.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P1235634.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P1235634.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P1235675.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P1235675.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P1235691.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P1235691.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />A lot has been going on, actually. However, I have to talk about 2 weekends ago when I was hanging out with the ever-beautiful and incredibly intense <a href="http://thelostfind.blogspot.com/" target=0>Atari</a> and <a href="http://mysecretivelife.blogspot.com/" target=0>Raybee</a>. I had such a good time...and I can't wait to go back.<br /><br />Raybee lives in an old garment factory in Weehawken, New Jersey, right across the Hudson river from Manhattan. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/mysterymachine.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/mysterymachine.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>In fact, his loft lines up with 34th Street in Manhattan, and he has an incredible view of the Empire State Building. No, I didn't take any photos. I was kind of taking a break from all of that, actually.<br /><br />Next time, I promise.<br /><br />Anyway, he has a crawlspace converted into a bedroom and the ceiling is like, 5 feet high. He doesn't have any normal "rooms" per se in his house, except maybe his bathroom...it's like a big clubhouse filled with crazy art and toys and fun stuff and good food and tea and snacks. I loved it...when I hang out with Raybee it's like I'm 11 or 12 and he's the same age. I sometimes forget what it's like to be a kid, and as soon as Raybee picked me up from the airport in his bright metallic green Tonka Truck-like Jeep Wrangler with an inflatable Mystery Machine on the dashboard, I knew we'd be fast friends. I had a chance to hang out with him and just chill, and we had a fantastic time singing karaoke in a Hoboken gay bar the night before I left. I had a blast...he gave me a shot while I was in the middle of singing a song, and right before I took a breath to start the next verse of the song I was singing (Forever in Blue Jeans by Neil Diamond) I chugged it and continued right on. I made a few friends...Tony the Personal Trainer from Hoboken (you'll hear him when I called the drunk dial line for the next <a href="http://darinstuff.blogspot.com" target=0>APNH podcast</a>) and Casper the 6'4" Tall Pierced-Tongue-Having Lead-Singer-Of-A-Band Emo Boy (who went back with us to Raybee's Clubhouse when we shut down the bar). The bartender, an adorable, friendly Sicilian twentysomething with a bubble booty, New York accent, and a dazzling smile bought me another shot when I sat down, and also gave me his phone number; he seemed sincere, so I called him and left a message the next day.<br /><br />Oh hell yeah!<br /><br />Now, I also got to hang out with Atari as well...we walked all through Manhattan, and he showed me the apartment building where he grew up. We did some serious bonding, and I realized that he and I probably would have been great friends when we were kids. We were getting hungry after a while, and even though I had some "street meat" (a delicious hot dog from a cart) we decided to hang out with his mom and stepdad on the Upper West Side. So we hopped on the subway, went to their fabulous apartment, and had dinner together in a great Greek diner around the corner from their pad. I love that neighborhood, and his folks are wonderful people. His stepdad is actually an <a href="http://wammac.web.aplus.net/" target=0>author</a> and <a href="http://extrawry.blogspot.com/" target=0>fellow blogger</a> and is a really cool guy. He gave me a copy of one of his books, and even signed it for me. I started reading it on the plane...it's already sucked me in. It's a murder mystery/supernatural sort of novel, set in rural North Dakota. I love it.<br /><br />The next day, I went to some bar in Chelsea...I can't remember what it was called. Atari was having brunch with his family, and said he'd meet me at the bar. So, while I was waiting, I phoned my ex boyfriend Nate (he lives in the gayborhood), and asked what he was doing. He sounded irritated, and it was so loud in the bar I couldn't really hear what he was saying over the din. I picked out "never call" and "once meant a lot to me" and "pointless" before I said I couldn't hear him and I'd just talk to him some other time.<br /><br />Frowning, I snapped my phone shut; I was now crabby and annoyed, and I actually felt a little lump in my throat. Goddammit, this is <b>not</b> how I wanted to spend my glorious Sunday afternoon in New York, and <b>definitely</b> not the way I wanted things to be between Nate and me.<br /><br />Because I had gotten up from the bar to try to find a quieter spot a few feet away, my seat was occupied by someone else when I stepped back over to the barstool. He looked at me like, "Whadda ya gonna do about it, huh?" Not wanting to get kicked out for breaking a barstool over someone's head and starting an all-out donnybrook (tempting as it was), I restrained myself and simply found another spot at the bar a few stools down [tee-hee-hee...I said "stools"] and sent Nate a text message. Just as I hit send, I felt the guy sitting next to me staring at me, and I looked up.<br /><br />It was Nate.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/nate-1.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/nate-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>He was <b>all</b> Chelsea'd out with a tight shirt that showed off his rippled, muscled physique and a pair of tight jeans that showed off his Hebrew National in the front and his kosher badonkadonk in the back. I smiled at him, noting how much bigger his arms were from the last time I saw them, and admiring the vein that ran along the top of each of his plump biceps. The boy has been taking good care of himself.<br /><br />"Hey babe," I said.<br /><br />"Hey darlin," he replied, with a trace of his Buffalo, New York accent on the vowels. <br /><br />"You look good." He did. Like, really good. Damn him for breaking up with me, I thought.<br /><br />"You do too," he lied. He's a terrible liar. He gets this twitch in his face when he lies, and his face twitched so hard I swear I thought he had Parkinson's disease or had bitten his tongue while washing out his mouth with vinegar.<br /><br />"No I don't," I sighed. I looked kind of dumpy and crunchy as I slouched there in my black Nor-Cal hoodie and baggy jeans, with no styling product in my hair whatsoever (I was feeling lazy and didn't feel like making myself pretty), compared to the carefully coiffed Chelsea boys in tight clothing that surrounded us. Not to mention I've put on about 20 pounds since the last time I saw him. Yuck.<br /><br />Okay, fine. 35 pounds. Yes, I'm painfully aware of it. I look in the mirror daily. Now I've acknowledged it, you can all stop talking about it behind my back. <br /><br />Bitches.<br /><br />He looked upset. I asked him why, and he told me. It was a good conversation...there was some closure that never happened when he broke up with me to move to New York (long story...it was for the best). He said I've been neglecting him. I said he hurt me. He said I've been elusive and non-communicative. I said he was right. I've been a hermit, a total shut-in hermit. When you're feeling pudgy and chunky you just don't want to see or talk to people, and apparently, this tends to piss my friends off.<br /><br />I let him just talk for a while, listening carefully to what he was saying. I responded in kind, knowing he was right. We had a good talk, and I realized as we did I still love him dearly, even if I'm no longer in love with him. We've been through WAY too much to just drift apart...Thanksgiving and Christmas with my family in Cleveland, his cousin's bris with HIS family from Buffalo at his sister's place in Chicago, being bumped off a flight at O'Hare on New Years' Eve and going to a party at the Crowbar in Chicago instead of spending it in San Francisco, a roadtrip across the United States from Cleveland to San Francisco in my rusty Chevrolet Lumina, my dad's 60th birthday party in Cleveland Heights where he met my extended family...we packed a lot into the short time we dated.<br /><br />"Nate," I finally said, "I love you, I always have, and I always will until the day I die."<br /><br />He looked like he was going to cry, but he did that cute thing he always does with his lower lip when he's smiling and starting to sob at the same time. Then I hugged him, and felt a bunch of emotions wash over me. I realized I miss him dearly as a friend, and how much we used to make each other laugh until we were gasping for breath. I thought about how he played Dance Dance Revolution at Battlefield Mall in Springfield, Missouri when my Lumina broke down and stranded us there for three days, and the crowds we attracted (apparently they had never seen a Jewish San Francisco circuit boy from Buffalo tear it up on that game before). I thought about our "Tard-Out Sessions" where we would just act completely retarded and loud in public. I thought of him buying cheap sunglasses in Chinatown because "they're a great value...Value Glasses!" or buying a huge sandwich at the Castro Safeway deli for us to share because it was "clearly a better value" than two smaller sandwiches. I thought about the parties and clubs we went to, and how much fun we had holding each other on the dance floor, shirtless, aware of only each other. I thought about how brutally honest he is, and how I never had any doubt in my mind he loved me the entire time we were dating.<br /><br />I love him for these things. I really do.<br /><br />I smiled at him, and he smiled back. My heart sang. Right then and there, I knew we'd always be friends, and we have something incredibly special with each other. Just as suddenly as he appeared, he left, leaving me in my own thoughts, nibbling on miniature pretzels with a red plastic cup of cheap beer in front of me. I glanced over at the guy who took my seat earlier, who was eyeing Nate as he walked out, then me, then Nate, then me, then down in his beer. Yeah, that's right, I thought. Drink your goddamn cheap-ass beer, you fucking cockslap.<br /><br />Snarky Snarkowski!<br /><br />My phone rang, it was Atari. I told him to meet me at the bar, and after hanging up I went downstairs to play bingo with a tweaker and a drag queen. I won 3 games! A $20 bar tab (which I used to buy drinks for a few cute boys with cute New York accents), a $60 gift certificate for a hair salon in Manhattan, and a $50 gift certificate for a sex toy store, also in Manhattan. Oh hell's yeah. I was on FIAH.<br /><br />Eventually, Atari joined me for a few games, then disappeared to get something to eat, saying he'd call me when he was done. I never heard from him the rest of the night; I later discovered the battery in my phone died.<br /><br />Then...I kind of forget what happened after that. Well, I remember bits and pieces, and the near-migraine headache that suddenly manifested itself as I was in Times Square, and how it just as quickly disappeared on the subway 15 minutes later. I somehow made it back to New Jersey by 3 am, but not before arguing with a cabdriver over the fare back to Weehawken.<br /><br />Anyway, do you remember me mentioning that hottie patottie Sicilian bartender boy from Hoboken? Like I said, I called him the next day when I was at the airport and left a message saying hi, not particularly thinking he'd call back. When I sat down on the plane and pulled out my phone to "place it into the 'off position'" (such a stupid thing for flight attendants to say...they should just say it needs to be "turned off"). My phone suddenly rang, and it was him. He apologized for not answering...he had been at the gym and was hoping he'd catch me before I took off. We had a nice chat, and he said he wanted to keep in touch with me because he'd be in San Francisco in August visiting friends and would like to hang out and spend some time with me.<br /><br />The cockpit door was closed and the flight attendants were coming my way, so we bade each other farewell; I hung up, placed my phone into the off position, and smiled to myself, realizing that regardless of my 35 extra pounds...no matter what...my mojo is still safely intact.<br /><br />And that was one to grow on.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1146811440908182962006-05-10T10:28:00.000-07:002006-05-11T04:06:38.403-07:003 interesting people.Yes, I'm back. I don't really want to be back, but I guess if I have to be <b>back</b> somewhere, San Francisco isn't a bad place to be. I could be living in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan - which, incidentally, I hear is an absolutely lovely place - and as much as I like saying "Saskatoon, Saskatchewan" obsessively to myself over and over and over (apparently, I'm <a href="http://rottenryan.com/archives/000504.html" target=0>not the only person with this problem</a>) I'm glad I hang my hat in San Francisco.<br /><br />At any rate, I cannot say enough good things about Atari and Raybee. They're absolutely amazing people, and I'm honored to count them among my friends. I'll go into details later...I have a half-finished post in my drafts, but I promised myself I'd finish this post I started last week. So first things first...<br /><br />One of the best things about living in San Francisco is you meet the most interesting people. I'd like to introduce three friends of mine...I think they deserve a little attention and kudos.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/mattcannon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/mattcannon.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />For starters, my friend Matthew Cannon. Matt is a musician and a painter and overall just a quirky, beautiful person. I've had the honor of spending time with him, and we just play off each other creatively and boost each other's spirits every time we hang out. Matthew is an extremely talented percussionist and is involved in a cabaret called Cotton Candy; if you want to hear samples of his work or see samples of his paintings, check out his website, <a href="http://www.mlcmusic.com/" target=0>mlcmusic.com</a>.<br /><br />This is probably my favorite picture of Matt:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/cannon.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/cannon.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />From his site:<br /><br /><blockquote>Cotton Candy will be exploding all over the scene in May as well. In a recent CNN.com article, Marcus Selby (a very popular and successful San Francisco jazz musician) gave his top 10 venues to hear good music in the City. On the list were Amnesia and The Red Poppy Art House. I am happy to report that we have performances at both locations this month and I highly recommend attending either of them. Both venues have their charms and are very intimate indeed. Lastly, but certainly not least, is <a href="http://martunis.citysearch.com/page/ns2o/Home_Page.html" target=0>Martuni’s-a lovely martini/piano bar in San Francisco</a>. Kielbasia will be opening for us, and we always enjoy playing with her. Come by for a Manhattan and get your Cotton Candy fix in an elegant and sophisticated setting.</blockquote><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/gemawards.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/320/gemawards.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Matthew and I are doing a sort of art trade; I am giving him a set of my photos (his choice of whatever he wants, or I will produce something original for him), printed, mounted, framed, and signed, AND a photo session of him that will probably be completely off-the-wall and wonderful. He, on the other hand, said he'd paint a portrait of someone quite influential and important in my family...someone who has had an incredibly lasting impact on who I am today. I'll reveal who that is at some point, but until then it's going to be a closely-guarded secret (that means I'm not telling you who it is, Mom). The portrait is destined to become a Fox family hierloom for generations to come. Not to mention it'll be worth tens or perhaps hundreds of millions of dollars someday (and I am dead serious when I say that...I have that much confidence in Matt and his artistic aspirations).<br /><br />I can't wait. :-)<br /><br />Next, I want to introduce you to <a href="http://www.darwinbell.com" target=0>Darwin Bell</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/signlanguage.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/320/signlanguage.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I've had the pleasure of knowing Darwin for a few years now, and whenever I think of his name, I think of the great time I have whenever I run into him or when we hang out. He's one of the few people who "gets me" if you know what I mean...I have a tendency to say things that really confuse most people but Darwin has evolved to the point to where he understands exactly what I'm talking about. He currently has a show called Sign Language, which is one of the most brilliant concepts I've seen...ever. He takes Polaroid pictures of words, scavenger hunt-style...of street signs, billboards, stores, graffiti, anywhere there is text in the urban setting...and creates phrases and sentences from them.<br /><br />As you can see, he goes to great lengths for his art:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/darwingarbage.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/darwingarbage.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />They're quite insightful, and they say a lot about how Darwin sees the world around him.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/knowyourworth.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/knowyourworth.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />From his <a href="http://www.darwinbell.com" target=0>website</a>:<br /><br /><blockquote>"Sign Language was born on a whim," says Darwin Bell, the man behind the Polaroid camera, "while I was trying to come up with an original gift for my friend's birthday."<br /><br />And so he began taking pictures of words from the urban environment surrounding him. With those words, he created phrases that were either twists on well-worn clichés ("Beauty is in the eye of the media") or personal statements, both humorous and serious in nature ("Natural selection is a bitch"). The end result has been a unique, fresh perspective on a familiar idea that is one-of-a-kind and impossible to duplicate.</blockquote><br /><br />Here is a portrait I took of Darwin last summer at the Eagle Tavern here in San Francisco at one of the weekly Beer Busts:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PB043436.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PB043436.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I must say I am in posession of a single Darwin Bell original Polaroid that he left here after an impromptu after-hours birthday party I threw for a <a href="http://chadfox.blogspot.com/2005/05/happy-birthday-ryan.html">mutual friend</a>. It's prominently displayed in my living room next to another Polaroid shot...of me with John Waters at a book signing at Amoeba Records up in the Haight. Darwin, if you want it back, I'll totally bring it to you. Just let me know. :-) At any rate, I am confident that like Matt, Darwin is also going to excel and take Sign Language to a whole new level. He's that intelligent and clever.<br /><br />Finally, I want you all to meet <a href="http://www.myspace.com/andrewbundymusic" target=0>Andrew Bundy</a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/andrewbundy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/andrewbundy.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />That sexy, beverage-sipping guy would be Andrew. Not only is he intelligent, engaging, and a master mathematician, he also has an incredibly soulful and sexy singing voice. From his <a href="http://www.myspace.com/andrewbundymusic" target=0> myspace page</a>:<br /><br /><blockquote>[Andrew] Bundy has been writing and performing his own music since 1997 and is currently working on his first full-length album. Since the release of his homemade demo EP, "Speak Easy," in December of 2002, Bundy has played open mics and concerts throughout the Bay Area. Citing the likes of fellow singer-songwriters Joni Mitchell, Tori Amos and Stevie Wonder as his key musical influences, Bundy's music contains elements of jazz, folk, soul, R&B and funk and spans lyrical topics ranging from internet dating to gay society. Vocally, Bundy is as influenced by the great jazz crooners Chet Baker and Bobby Darin as he is by the soulful sounds of Nina Simone and the folk stylings of Nick Drake.</blockquote><br /><br />Here's a picture I took of Andrew at a party last year...he's the one on the left wearing the bedazzled cowboy hat. If you click on it, you can see the larger version and also if you look carefully, you can see Andrew's pierced left eyebrow...a bit of bling I find absolutely sexy and irresistable:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5120628.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5120628.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Sexy! Hot! Talented! Acquaint yourself with him! You'll be hearing a lot more of him in the future! You can download a few of his tracks from his myspace page...I've listened to him more than once on dreary MUNI rides, with his crooning filling my ears and warming my heart.<br /><br />So while I miss New York, New Jersey, and the amazing people I've met and grown to adore who all live there, I'm quite glad to call San Francisco my home...where I get to meet, befriend, and hang out with some of the most interesting, quirky, sexy, talented, and amazing people in the world.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/keepitclean.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/keepitclean.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1147197643339604852006-05-09T10:59:00.000-07:002006-05-09T11:00:43.383-07:00You know, Fletcher......when you try to bite my feet while I'm walking across the room don't act all surprised when I step on your head.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/fletcher.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/fletcher.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1147123850988669512006-05-08T13:14:00.000-07:002006-05-09T11:11:43.256-07:00Torn between two coasts.Since I've been here in New York (well, actually Weehawken, NJ...right across the Hudson from Manhattan) I've realized just how much I love this city/metropolitan area. New Yorkers are surprisingly nice people...contrary to the popular misconception that says they're rude or unneccesarily brusque. They're quite nice, but if you ask them for directions, do so in less than 10 seconds and listen carefully when they respond. They'll tell you...ONCE. When you take a long time asking or ask them to repeat themselves they tend to cuss you out or lose interest and walk away.<br /><br />And I'd just like to say if you ever want to seduce me, just speak in a New York accent. Preferrably Brooklyn. Or the Bronx. Because I'll be all yours.<br /><br />Anyway.<br /><br />[climbs up to the pulpit]<br /><br />I made a trek to the Huge And Depressing Large Hole In The Ground Once Known As The World Trade Center. Honestly, The Large Hole irritates me. There is a "Viewing Fence" that surrounds it, and people just stand there and stare and take photos through the fence. It's ridiculous. I remember when there were two magnificent buildings standing there and there were places to go and restaurants to eat at and tacky, but cute souveniers to buy. Yes, it sucks that terrorists brought the buildings down. Yes, it's horrible that 2,752 people perished there less than 5 years ago. Yes, it was a blow to the economy and our collective psyche and our nation.<br /><br />BUT FOR F**K'S SAKE BUILD SOMETHING THERE ALREADY! From a business standpoint, it's a useless piece of real estate. No taxes are being collected. No business is being conducted. It should NOT have taken this long to build the WTC replacement. For eff's sake this is the United States of America...if 80% of San Francisco was rebuilt in 3 years following the 1906 earthquake and fire, then 100 years later we can put up another skyscraper...bigger and better and stronger than the one that was there. What the hell has happened to this country? The United States I grew up in would have rebuilt something <b>immediately</b> after cleanup. The United States I grew up in would have set aside differences and pulled together as a country in defiance of our enemies. The United States I grew up in wouldn't have bickered and bitched over the designs of the World Trade Center replacement, with everyone being afraid of offending someone, with architect's inflated egos preventing any true innovation. Quit the weeping, bitching, and complaining and get back to business as usual!<br /><br />New York, it's about time. I'm glad they've <a href="http://www.glasssteelandstone.com/BuildingDetail/439.php" target=0>"broken ground" on the Freedom Tower</a> but it shouldn't have taken this long. Let this be a lesson...a country divided is a country that will ultimately fail.<br /><br />I didn't bring my camera this trip...I honestly didn't feel like lugging it around. However, I did take this photo with my camera phone:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/wtc.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/wtc.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It was quite poignant, and I got a lump in my throat when I read it.<br /><br />They're also dismantling this building floor by floor, the former Deutsche Bank Building at 130 Liberty Street:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/130liberty.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/130liberty.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />That huge gash in the front is where a large piece of one of the towers hit it, destroying its lobby and several support columns. They keep finding human remains in it...such a waste. It was built in 1974, and would have provided over 100 years of service. However, it's now a rotten shell, filled with mold, asbestos, and dioxin. They can't implode it, because New York has way too many fragile underground utilities that could be damaged by the force of a 40-story building crashing to the ground. I look forward to the day where it's business as usual down there, with people working in the tower and enjoying the plaza, and tourists spending their money freely in what I think is the best city in the entire world.<br /><br />[steps down from the pulpit]<br /><br />Okay, where was I? Oh yes...<br /><br />[climbs up onto the Bitch Box]<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/nyfordcrownvictoria.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/nyfordcrownvictoria.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>New York cab drivers. They're pretty much omnipresent until you actually need one. They are 99% extended-wheelbase (by 6 inches) Ford Crown Victoria P72's with long rear doors with lots of leg room in the back seat. Nice and roomy and comfy, and clean and well-maintained. However, as soon as you tell the driver you need to go over to Weehawken, New Jersey, the bitching and the moaning starts. Not to mention the bullshitting. I have yet to have two drivers tell me the same fare to New Jersey. Sometimes it's double the fare. Sometimes it's a flat rate. Sometimes they just complain and moan and forget to start the meter. But I have discovered the fare through the Lincoln Tunnel is highly negotiable.<br /><br />Atari and I flagged a cab at 72nd and Broadway on the Upper West Side. A shiny-new, bright yellow Crown Victoria obediently pulled over. I opened the long rear door, and we climbed in.<br /><br />"I need to go through the Lincoln Tunnel to Weehawken."<br /><br />In a thick Haitian accent, the driver immediately started bitching. "But I am only a part-time driver! I do not know the toll for the tunnel! I cannot pick up passengers in New Jersey!"<br /><br />"It's just on the other side of the tunnel, guy."<br /><br />"They are very mean to New York cab drivers over there!"<br /><br />"You'll be back in New York in ten minutes."<br /><br />"I do not know the toll!"<br /><br />"Hold on." I pulled out my phone and called Raybee.<br /><br />"Who are you calling?!?"<br /><br />"My friend."<br /><br />"Who? Who?"<br /><br />"Relax, dude." He sounded like an owl. He then proceeded to complain and bitch and moan about having to take us to New Jersey while I was on the phone with Raybee. I hung up. "It's six dollars."<br /><br />"The fare is double as soon as I exit the tunnel and you must give me tunnel toll money!"<br /><br />"Fine. Just take us to Weehawken."<br /><br />We sailed down Broadway, making pretty good time. Traffic was heavy, but it was moving. The driver was mumbling under his breath the entire time. Soon, we were around 42nd Street where the entrance to the tunnel is located.<br /><br />"You must give me tunnel toll!"<br /><br />"Yes, I know. I already said I would."<br /><br />He bitched all the way through the tunnel. I was starting to wish the ceiling would collapse from the weight of the Hudson River, killing us all, just so he'd shut his goddamn mouth. When we got to the other side of the tunnel, he was driving like New Jersey State Troopers had placed land mines everywhere to kill unsuspecting New York cab drivers.<br /><br />"I do not know where I am!"<br /><br />"Don't worry, it's 4 blocks from here."<br /><br />"Where do I go?"<br /><br />"Turn right." He continued going straight. "Dude, turn right." He started panicking and hit the gas. "DUDE...TURN RIGHT!" He continued forward, his hands gripping the wheel. I suspect if he had been Caucasian his knuckles would have been white. But I guess when you're Haitian...oh you know what I mean. He hit the gas again, and our right turn was now way behind us.<br /><br />Next thing I know, we're over the bridge in Hoboken.<br /><br />"Turn around, please."<br /><br />"They are very very mean to New York cab drivers in New Jersey! I do not want to make a U-turn!"<br /><br />"Dude, turn around and take us back to Weehawken." At this rate, we'd be in Atlantic City before long.<br /><br />"They are very mean!"<br /><br />"Well there are no cops around so don't worry."<br /><br />"I do not like it in New Jersey! They are mean here!"<br /><br />"You'll be back in New York soon, don't worry."<br /><br />"Where do I go? Where do I go?"<br /><br />"Dude, stop the cab." I had had just about enough of his harried Haitian histrionics.<br /><br />We got out, and ended up waiting for Raybee to pick us up and take us back to his house.<br /><br />More later...I'm off to dinner...Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1146796217012537262006-05-04T19:10:00.000-07:002006-05-04T19:36:41.090-07:00The dust is settling.<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P9233170.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P9233170.jpg'></a><br /><br />I haven't had much time to post, but I figured I'd update just the same. My cousin is probably one of the nicest, sweetest, dearest people I've met in a long time; I'm convinced he doesn't have a mean bone in his body. He's quick to smile, is thoughtful, generous, and kind. I'm honored to be his cousin, and everyone who has met him so far has been completely enamored with him. I'm glad he's living here...for some reason, this town seems different with a blood relative living here full-time. We're getting to know each other, and the more I get to know him the more I see just how much we have in common, even though we're like night and day on the surface.<br /><br />Tomorrow I'm headed to New York for a few days to hang out with <a href="http://thelostfind.blogspot.com/" target=0>Atari Age</a> and <a href="http://mysecretivelife.blogspot.com/" target=0>Mr. Secret</a> for a few days. It's one of those "I Have To Get The Hell Out Of San Francisco This Instant To Keep My Sanity Otherwise I'll Turn Into A Bigger Freak Than I Already Am" excursions.<br /><br />At any rate, I'll be back Tuesday night, and hopefully by next week things will slow down a bit so I'll have time to actually post something substantial and fun. I'm working on a new podcast; I'll be done with it by the end of next week. It's going to be one of those casts where you're either gonna love it or completely hate it.<br /><br />At any rate, until then, I'm out the door and headed for the East Coast...<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P8078657.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P8078657.jpg'></a><br />Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1143664045992831212006-03-29T12:21:00.000-08:002006-03-29T20:34:39.256-08:00Hairy Tranny Alert!No, really...click on the photos to see how hairy her back is.<br /><br />Montgomery & Sacramento, near the foot of the Transamerica Pyramid on a weekday during business hours:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P8220748.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P8220748.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Along with a Toyota Prius...it doesn't get more San Francisco than this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P8220749.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P8220749.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />At any rate, it takes some serious balls to walk through the Financial District showing your back hair.<br /><br />In addition to hairy trannies, I also keep my eyes peeled for hotties, such as this one I snapped from a moving vehicle on Van Ness Avenue near California Street:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P8170599.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P8170599.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I will not say what kind of vehicle it was, and it wasn't MUNI.<br /><br />Like I'd be caught dead on the 49.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1143093715608880602006-03-22T22:01:00.000-08:002006-03-22T22:29:55.100-08:00The end of I-80.<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146176.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146176.jpg'></a><br /><br />That's what the very end of Interstate 80 looks like, for anyone who lives along it; the highway runs from San Francisco to just short of New York City. If you've ever driven across the United States on 80, this is the dramatic photo finish you get to feast your road-bleary eyes upon.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146183.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146183.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146178.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146178.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146181.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146181.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146191.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146191.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146204.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146204.jpg'></a><br /><br />This is my neighborhood, as viewed from the Bay Bridge:<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146208.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146208.jpg'></a><br /><br />For the time being, this gentleman greets westbound motorists as they arrive in San Francisco:<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146217.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146217.jpg'></a><br /><br />I think it's a hot sign, actually.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146219.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146219.jpg'></a><br /><br />Until you see what's on the other side...AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P2146220.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P2146220.jpg'></a><br /><br />When driving on the Bay Bridge, it's important to have good music. Like this:<br /><br /><a href="http://chadfox.podomatic.com/enclosure/2006-03-22T21_32_33-08_00.mp3" target=0><b>STMF 7</b></a><br /><br />I call it the "Shut Up" podcast...because I don't talk on it AT ALL. I've decided I really can't stand the sound of my voice on my podcasts. Derrick Hanson said I sound like a dork, even though he said he's a dork himself and loves the fact that I bask in my dorkiness.<br /><br />However, I've decided to tone it down for this one.<br /><br />Here is the playlist:<br /><br /><b>Fischerspooner - Never Win<br />Arling & Cameron - Dirty Robot<br />Ima Robot - STD Dance<br />Belle and Sebastian - Your Cover's Blown<br />Mylo - Muscle Cars</b> <-- this one is dedicated to my friend Rob in Berkeley<br /><b>Moloko - Sing It Back<br />Juliet - Avalon (Jacques Lu Cont Mix)<br />LCD Soundsystem - Losing My Edge</b><br /><br />And that's about enough out of me.<br /><br />PS...today is my half-birthday, and my friend Sean's birthday. He had a <a href="http://chadfox.blogspot.com/2005/03/seans-30th.html">great party last year</a> but unfortunately I couldn't make it tonight.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1142928029052047782006-03-21T00:00:00.000-08:002006-03-21T09:57:58.833-08:00Fun with camera phones.<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/0127061239.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/0127061239.jpg'></a><br /><br />What did we ever do before camera phones? I snapped that picture at Broadway and Franklin a few weeks ago...that woman's brakes locked up on wet pavement, she slid into the intersection against the light, and took out that Toyota truck with her Nissan Xterra. It was a spectacular accident...that Toyota went spinning around the intersection and down the insanely steep Franklin Street hill before slamming into my friend's apartment building and almost took out one of the garage doors, shedding one of its wheels and liberating various trim pieces in the process. Since nobody was hurt, I can safely say it was one of the coolest things I've ever witnessed. Since it was Pacific Heights and it happened between Nice, Well-Behaved San Franciscans, she hugged the Toyota guy because she felt so bad. He was actually a really nice guy, and she was a really nice woman. And Nice, Well-Behaved San Franciscans apparently hug and say it's okay after totaling each other's cars. Go figure. The rest of the country should follow the example set by them.<br /><br />I asked her to pose in front of her handiwork. Well-done, Nissan Lady!<br /><br />That said...Broadway and Franklin is one of the most dangerous intersections in the city. In the past year, there has been no less than FIVE major accidents at that corner, with countless other fender benders. It's not unusual to cross the street there and see a fractured headlight assembly lying in the gutter, or broken bits of red plastic from some taillight that got smashed by some red light runner. They really need to upgrade the signals at that corner like they did on Colombus Avenue and Fell and Oak Streets. Are you listening, <a href="http://www.sfgov.org/site/bdsupvrs_page.asp?id=22396" target=0>Michela Alioto-Pier</a>? That's YOUR district now that The Gavin is mayor. PAY ATTENTION!<br /><br />Don't make me call <a href="http://www.sfgov.org/site/bdsupvrs_index.asp?id=4637" target=0>Aaron Peskin</a> because it'll just be <b>ugly.</b><br /><br />And in another, completely unrelated cellphone incident, I recieved this photo this evening from <a href="http://asksix.blogspot.com/" target=0>Six Shooter</a>, taken in the Sanford, Florida Target store:<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/choxie.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/choxie.jpg'></a><br /><br />Daigle, stop laughing.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1142363605384810082006-03-14T11:13:00.000-08:002006-03-14T12:30:40.336-08:00Walking vs. MUNII like to walk everywhere I go, instead of getting in a car or on a bus. (as always, you can click on any photo to get the large version)<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315911.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315911.jpg'></a><br /><br />You tend to see more things that way.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315919.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315919.jpg'></a><br /><br />Even if sometimes I'm just gazing at nothing in particular.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315915.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315915.jpg'></a><br /><br />Up and down the hills I go.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315920.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315920.jpg'></a><br /><br />You see the most interesting people (this guy was singing "Never" by Heart at the top of his lungs until I took his picture...then he glared at me, then as if nothing had happened, resumed his song).<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235572.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235572.jpg'></a><br /><br />You hear the rumbling of the streetcars.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235587.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235587.jpg'></a><br /><br />The city isn't that big anyway.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235590.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235590.jpg'></a><br /><br />New buildings are going up.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235603.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235603.jpg'></a><br /><br />And sometimes I just get so distracted I forget where I'm going or what I need to do.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235604.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235604.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235606.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235606.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235616.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235616.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235618.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235618.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235637.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235637.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235619.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235619.jpg'></a><br /><br />Plus you get to look at the cool graffiti tags...these have been on this building since the mid 90's...for some reason, I find them strangely comforting.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235636.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235636.jpg'></a><br /><br />I wish I was a better chess player.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235639.0.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235639.0.jpg'></a><br /><br />My favorite thing in the world is to listen to music while walking through the city, whether I'm just out for a stroll or commuting somewhere. For some reason, the city comes alive to me, and almost seems like a living, breathing entity.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235675.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235675.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235757.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235757.jpg'></a><br /><br />Sometimes it's just nice to have a soundtrack accompanying it.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235692.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235692.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1235770.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1235770.jpg'></a><br /><br />Which brings me to the whole point of this post:<br /><br /><a href="http://chadfox.podomatic.com/enclosure/2006-03-10T20_51_47-08_00.mp3" target=0><b>STMF 6</b></a><br /><br />Special thanks to my good friend Mike C. in Cleveland, Ohio for parts of the playlist, which is as follows:<br /><br />Crazy Penis - <i>Lady T</i><br />Spoon - <i>I Turn My Camera On</i><br />Annie - <i>Chewing Gum</i><br />Mylo - <i>Otto's Journey</i><br />Avenue D - <i>Sex That I Need</i> <b><-- NOT WORK SAFE</b><br />Blackalicious - <i>Alphabet Aerobics</i><br />LCD Soundsystem - <i>Disco Infiltrator</i><br />Gnarls Barkley - <i>Crazy</i><br />Belle & Sebastian - <i>Step Into My Office Baby</i><br />Erick Morillo & the Audio Bullys - <i>Break Down the Doors</i><br /><br />Mom, you should probably skip this particular podcast. Trust me on this one.<br /><br />Also, happy birthday, Tom in San Diego. :-) xoxoChoxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1142275422891351982006-03-13T10:25:00.000-08:002006-03-13T10:48:52.090-08:00I want one of these.I mean, how fun does <i>that</i> look?<br /><br />Taken last week on Vallejo Street between Polk and Larkin in Russian Hill.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315895.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315895.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315896.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315896.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315897.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315897.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315900.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315900.jpg'></a><br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/P1315905.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/P1315905.jpg'></a><br />Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1140027031611670202006-02-15T09:03:00.000-08:002006-02-15T10:49:43.973-08:00Not a bad Valentine's Day at all.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/chadiquasdate.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/chadiquasdate.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I finally met Derek at Cafe Flore, and we walked over to Daddy's, where we met 2 <a href="http://www.thesisters.org/" target=0>Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence</a>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.!<br /><br />Oh yeah, I forgot. It's to "serve me better" or something.<br /><br />At any rate, I hope everyone had a good Valentine's Day...I sure did. If you have a chance, listen to <a href="http://www.robanddavid.com" target=0>these two cats podcasting from Cleveland, Ohio</a>. They're hysterical.<br /><br />Now you'll know where my accent comes from. We really do talk like that.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1139183338540873732006-02-05T14:53:00.000-08:002006-02-06T09:22:52.193-08:00Long, long overdue.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5141525.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5141525.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I hung out with <a href="http://www.snugfitbottom.com" target=0>Daigle Daig</a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But only a bit.<br /><br />Afterward, we headed back down the hill, where we ran into (Mercury Grand) <a href="http://panaphobe.livejournal.com/" target=0>Marquis</a>, 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 <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0079261/" target=0>Hair</a> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />At any rate, I kinda tore up part of that ham. What can I say? I like ham.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I vowed to myself to never take his friendship for granted ever again.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I'm gonna miss you, Daigle.<br /><br />Brain Wash, Folsom Street, San Francisco:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7217777.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7217777.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7217725.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7217725.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The rental car, 19th and Castro, San Francisco:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7157682.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7157682.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />A San Francisco bar:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7157673.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7157673.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Flat on Union Street, North Beach, San Francisco:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7157649.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7157649.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />My apartment, Lower Telegraph Hill (technically):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7107196.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7107196.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7107171.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7107171.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Beer Bust at the Eagle Tavern, San Francisco:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7087124.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7087124.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7086961.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7086961.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Moving Day, Union Street flat, North Beach, San Francisco:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P7015708.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P7015708.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />North Beach alley, San Francisco:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5141436.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5141436.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Grant Avenue, North Beach, San Francisco:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5141377.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5141377.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The original Daigle Project shoot, my roof:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5141229.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5141229.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5141223.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5141223.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5141209.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5141209.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1138991347374667842006-02-03T09:41:00.000-08:002006-02-03T20:42:19.393-08:00Trader Ho's<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5303534.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5303534.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />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 <a href="http://www.thd.org/" target=0>Telegraph Hill Dwellers</a> tend to keep out any sort of major chain. This produces a mixed bag of results...on one hand, <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/traveler/guide/sf/neighborhoods/nb.shtml" target=0>North Beach</a> 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.<br /><br />At least there is a <a href="http://www.google.com/local?hl=en&hs=QA5&lr=&c2coff=1&safe=off&client=firefox&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&q=little+city+meats&near=San+Francisco,+CA&sa=X&oi=locald&radius=0.0&latlng=37775000,-122418333,15385651717687656352" target=0>amazing butcher shop</a> and an <a href="http://www.yelp.com/biz/9RQJez2wiLesX0zBnpTkhw" target=0>Italian/French bakery</a> within walking distance.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />That's "looker" and not "licker" so just hose your mind out. This is a family blog, goddammit.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5262889.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5262889.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />It's hysterical.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Heh. Bottom. I own you, boy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5303533.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5303533.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />"Hey," I said, "my canvas bag is in there. It's a little dirty."<br /><br />"That's okay," she replied with a grin, "they're cooler when they're dirty."<br /><br />"The only reason why I bought it was to look cool. Screw the planet," I said, deadpan.<br /><br />"They are the <i>only</i> way to look cool," she said, equally deadpan.<br /><br />"I have to try so hard to be cool, I really do. Goddamn self-esteem!" I sobbed.<br /><br />"Well, these frozen halibut filets will do the trick," she giggled, rolling her eyes.<br /><br />"Halibut filets are the new black."<br /><br />She snorted. "They'll make people want to be you."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Then we both giggled.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/P5313650.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/P5313650.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><b>:::UPDATE:::</b><br /><br />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.<br /><br />So there you go.<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.chuh.org/Noble/homepage.htm" target=0>Noble School's fault</a>.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1138949300529704472006-02-02T22:48:00.000-08:002006-02-02T23:19:16.843-08:00Aw shucks.<a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/PB123713.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/PB123713.jpg'></a><br /><br />Okay. That is a picture of the control board at <a href="http://www.kgoam810.com/home.asp" target=0>KGO 810 AM</a> that I took in December when I was hanging out with <a href="http://www.kgoam810.com/showdj.asp?DJID=13535" target=0>Karel</a>. Why am I posting that, you ask?<br /><br />Let me tell you.<br /><br />So I'm talking with <a href="http://whothrewthatham.blogspot.com/" target=0>Kelly</a> tonight on the phone, and somehow we got on the subject of <a href="http://energy927fm.com/" target=0>92.7 FM KNGY</a> 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 <a href="http://www.myspace.com/adidasdude" target=0>Your Boy Brandon</a> 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.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/energy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/energy.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />So imagine his surprise when Kelly called from Austin to make a request tonight. In fact, <b><a href="http://chadfox.podomatic.com/enclosure/2006-02-02T22_44_18-08_00.mp3" target=0>I caught it on tape</a></b>.<br /><br />I was floored. And then, this site got a spike of hits all of a sudden. Thanks, Kelly and Brandon. :-)<br /><br />[shuffles feet, cheeks redden]<br /><br />It prompted me to dig up this little ditty...when one of my radio idols <a href="http://kfog.com/Programming/DaveMorey/default.asp" target=0>Dave Morey</a> over at <a href="http://kfog.com/default.asp" target=0>KFOG 104.5 FM</a> did a <b><a href="http://chadfox.podomatic.com/enclosure/2006-02-02T22_44_48-08_00.mp3" target=0>birthday dedication to me</a></b> at the beginning of his <a href="http://kfog.com/10@10/default.asp" target=0>10@10 show</a> on September 22nd, 2004. At the time, I was standing shirtless in my kitchen, frosting my birthday cake, and again...was floored.<br /><br />I think I even got some frosting on my tummy.<br /><br />At any rate, I'm beginning to think I know some of the coolest people in the world.<br /><br /><a href='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/800/PB123736.jpg'><img border='0' class='phostImg' src='http://photos1.blogger.com/hello/212/3220/410/PB123736.jpg'></a><br />Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1137882935636627602006-01-21T13:20:00.000-08:002006-01-22T01:04:53.473-08:00More desktops.Wow...I didn't think folks would start doing this so fast. First of all, I do want to say it wasn't my idea, that credit goes to <a href="http://www.madlife.net/" target=0>Sam of madlife.net</a> in Dallas, Texas, whose desktop looks like this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/sammadlife.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/sammadlife.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I like it.<br /><br />I've also updated my own desktop...on second thought, digital scales, hookah pipes, and lighters AREN'T what I'm all about right now. A huge stoner I am not. This is a picture I took of my sister Hilly when we went to go look at the <a href="http://cleveland.about.com/library/weekly/aa120400b.htm" target=0>Nela Park Christmas lights</a> (although, much to my chagrin, they put white tape over the word "Christmas" on a sign that once read, "Christmas Display on Noble Road Only") at General Electric's <a href="http://www.gelighting.com/na/business_lighting/education_resources/conferences/institute/fun_facts.htm" target=0>Nela Park lighting research facility</a> just down the road from where we grew up...to quote Hilly, it was "cold as balls" that night:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/chadiqua.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/chadiqua.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Now, <a href="http://gravelygay.blogspot.com/" target=0>Rigo over at Gravely Gay</a> asked how you take a screen shot. Well, if you use a mac, you probably already know how to do that. For Windows users, you hold down the [alt] key and then hit the [prt scr/sysrq] key. If you've never heard of the [prt scr/sysrq] key, it's right next to the [F12] key at the top. After you hit those two keys simultaneously, an image of what your screen looks like is now on your clipboard. Next, you open MS Paint, hit [ctrl] and [v] at the same time, and bam...there ya go. Title it (preferrably your name or your blog name), save it as a .jpg (not a .bmp) and you're done. It's easy.<br /><br />Even *I* can do it on this computer. And just for the record, I really want a <a href="http://store.apple.com/1-800-MY-APPLE/WebObjects/AppleStore.woa/7200507/wo/1jNrrBK0d2Mf2w2PKHW121rZqqg/2.?p=0" target=0>G5 iMac running Mac OS X v10.4</a>. All I need is $3,727 and I'll be in business. By no means am I a Microsoft Person. I abhore Windows. Windows is the bane of my existence. Windows raises my blood pressure and makes me scream on occasion. Windows has caused me to hurl objects into my laundry pile (less damage that way) and almost punch holes in my walls (I refrain, but I still want to). Windows once drove my friend Thomas here in San Francisco to literally heaving his computer out his bedroom window, where it smashed all over Larkin Street, scaring some tranny hookers in the process. Windows is shoddy, shitty software that is so full of security holes it looks like goddamn Swiss cheese. I am using Windows now because that's just how things turned out and will remain until I have saved up enough money for my Mac.<br /><br />/rant<br /><br />So I started getting images in my email and I lifted some off some other blogs. <a href="http://ryanaceto.blogspot.com/" target=0>Ryan Aceto</a> of San Francisco has a cool one. I had the pleasure of running into him last weekend at The Mix on 18th Street in the Castro (don't ask me what I was doing there...<a href="http://doctorjoel.blogspot.com/" target=0>The Good Doctor</a> had something to do with it). Not only is he cute (his smile will melt your heart), he's intelligent, witty, quite un-pc, irreverent, and clever. This is his desktop:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/ryanaceto.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/ryanaceto.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://blog.largetony.com/" target=0>Large Tony</a>, from the mountains of Eastern Tennessee, has a cool desktop...hmmm...that photo looks familiar. The fact that he has it as his desktop has totally made my entire year:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/tonydesktop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/tonydesktop.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Next, we have the sultry southern belle, <a href="http://thegirlcanthelpit.blogspot.com/" target=0>Ms. Sugarfoot Sara</a>, of Biloxi, Mississippi (one of my favorite people):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/sarainbiloxi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/sarainbiloxi.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Incredibly sexy <a href="http://monsoux.blogspot.com/" target=0>Monsoux</a>, the top dog of Romania (or not):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/desktop.0.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/desktop.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://slyderco.blogspot.com/" target=0>Slyder</a> of Denver, Colorado, has a decidedly un-Colorado scene on his desktop:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/rainsinparadise.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/rainsinparadise.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://medosin.net/" target=0>Dennis</a>, also in Denver:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/medosindesktop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/medosindesktop.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://maraduh.blogspot.com" target=0>Jade</a> over in Franklin, Massachusetts, has a poignant story behind this image:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/maraduh.blogspot.com.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/maraduh.blogspot.com.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Trés gay STMF reader Joel P. emailed me this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/joel.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/joel.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://darinstuff.blogspot.com/" target=0>Darin</a>, of All Prep & No H in Phoenix, Arizona, did not disappoint me...would you expect anything LESS gay than this from Darin? Honestly, now:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/DarinDesk.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/DarinDesk.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />However, my absolute favorite I've saved for last here. It's from <a href="http://www.chonkychinochang.typepad.com/" target=0>Chino over at ChonkyChinoChang, or just Chonky! for short</a>. For one, that's probably the best blog URL I've seen in a long time...I laughed for about 5 minutes when I first logged onto his blog...and he has the best desktop I've ever seen. Of course it doesn't surprise me he's from Los Angeles. He also calls me "Chox" now. Chino, you have a fan up here in San Francisco...I like your style:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/MeandMariah.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/MeandMariah.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Keep them coming...this is fun. :-)<br /><br /><b>::: UPDATE :::</b><br /><br />Good lord...they're pouring in now.<br /><br />As soon as I posted this, my friend Chris C. here in San Francisco's beautiful Noe Valley sent me his desktop...those are his and his husband Don's kids, Oscar, Nemo, Unagi, and Homer:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/baddogsno.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/baddogsno.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />My sister Hilly in Cleveland Heights, hanging out at my parents house today, sent me their desktop (Hilly controls what they have on their machine...she changes it all the time, and it's always a picture of her or with her in it). I love the fact that poor Hezeriah's face is covered with icons, yet Hilly's isn't:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/Hilly%20Dassright.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/Hilly%20Dassright.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />And <a href="http://michaelmeadows.blogspot.com/" target=0>Michael Meadows</a> up in Seattle, Washington...I so adore him (he just emailed me asking to make sure everyone knows he's the one on the right with lipstick all over his face...if you look closely you can see a little piece of Michael's nipple):<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/desktop.1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/desktop.1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a href="http://bigreddave.blogspot.com/" target=0>Big Red Dave</a> down in Mountain View (between San Francisco and San Jose) has the giant rainbow flag that flies over the Castro...he snapped it himself during Pride 2004:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/truedave.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/truedave.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />From the heart of Mid-America, St. Louis, Missouri, <a href="http://www.scrubnugget.com/" target=0>Jim of Jumpy Jumpy Vitamins</a> (I love that blog title) sends me his desktop:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/snapshot1.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/snapshot1.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />From New York's Long Island, <a href="http://gaymanwalking.blogspot.com/" target=0>Mike of Gay Man Walking</a> sends me <i>his</i> desktop:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/mydesktop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/mydesktop.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Andrew, a native Clevelander, who authors <a href="http://andrew61.deardiary.net/" target=0>Confessions of A Slacker</a> in Chicago, Illinois, has a photo of Edgewater Drive in Lakewood, Ohio, where he lived for ten years:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/meme.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/meme.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />More to come? We shall see. :-)Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1137802212585901552006-01-20T15:52:00.000-08:002006-01-20T16:10:12.666-08:00I'm trying...I'm trying.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/desktop.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/desktop.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Hey...I guess it's been a while since I've updated. Well, I've tried. I really have. I made three 40+ minute podcasts...and three times the computer crashed and burned as it was rendering them...and I lost everything. Same goes with a bunch of photos I tried to upload onto this computer. However, since I am out of memory and my CD burner no longer functions, I have no choice but to either delete photos or music, neither of which I want to do. I can't even watch videos on here, which I normally don't care about but it's been making me batty ever since <a href="http://secretsimon.blogspot.com" target=0>Secret Simon</a> posted a video of himself that I can hear but not see.<br /><br />Arg.<br /><br />Several times this week, I've come close to stomping my computer to pieces in <a href="http://chadfox.podomatic.com/enclosure/2006-01-20T16_03_11-08_00.mp3" target=0>a murderous rage</a>, but since it's the only computer I have, save for the new one I bought that doesn't work (keeps shutting itself down for no reason and opening up programs and popping windows in my face when I don't touch it) my cooler-headed side prevailed and I just ended up going out and tripping old Chinese grandmothers in crosswalks and knocking ice cream cones out of the hands of children.<br /><br />I feel better now, thank you.<br /><br />Anyway, the photo above is part of a "photo meme" that <a href="http://www.rottenryan.com" target=0>Rotten Ryan</a> was passing along. You take a screen shot of your computer desktop, and post it...it's supposed to tell a lot about you. Well, there's mine at the top there. Pretty much sums me up right now. Click on it if you want to make it bigger. I took the photo somewhere on Polk Street, I think. I kinda like Ryan's, actually...I think it says a lot about him:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/rottenryandesktop.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/rottenryandesktop.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Feel free to join in...if you want, I'll post them all here since I can't seem to post any of my own stuff for the time being.<br /><br />Feh.Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1136184548981887352005-12-31T22:32:00.000-08:002006-01-01T23:06:35.096-08:00Ke nono au, e kala mua mai, i keia manawa ho'i.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PB304837.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PB304837.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC015035.0.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC015035.0.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />We moved from the Moana to the <a href="http://www.royal-hawaiian.com/" target=0>Royal Hawaiian</a>...which is even nicer. After some initial drama with the front desk giving our suite away, and then "upgrading" us to one which not only had no ocean view, but also had an EMPTY BOTTLE OF CHAMPAGNE AND SOME HALF-EATEN CRACKERS SITTING ON A TABLE when we walked in.<br /><br />Oh HELL no, that was just NOT going to do.<br /><br />My traveling companion, who knows the director of cultural something or other for the Honolulu Starwood hotels, placed a call and had it fixed IMMEDIATELY. We ended up with this suite, which is probably the nicest one in the entire hotel outside their Presidential Suite. Again, because of the lens, I had to stand against the far wall and snap photos from 30 feet away:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC015042.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC015042.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC015036.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC015036.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />We have a nice view of Diamond Head:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC015043.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC015043.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Macadamia nuts, banana bread, and guava juice are quite lovely as well. Is it really December 31? This Ohio native is so confuse. So, so confuse:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC015054.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC015054.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />This is my traveling companion, who shall remain faceless and nameless for the time being:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC015051.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC015051.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />The sun bathed the building in golden light, turning the pink a warm peach color:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC015121.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC015121.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Together, from our suite, we watched the last sunset of 2005. We both agreed it was one of the worst years of our entire lives, and welcomed this particular sunset quite eagerly:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC025133.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC025133.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />As it slipped below the horizon, we made a pact to make 2006 nothing less than extraordinary.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC025142.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC025142.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />It's a new years' resolution we both plan on keeping.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC025146.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC025146.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Goodbye, 2005. May my memory of you soften and sweeten over time.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PC025155.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PC025155.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5718566.post-1136183497315930432005-12-29T21:48:00.000-08:002006-01-01T22:50:38.810-08:00E ke kuene, ua milimili 'e 'ia neia mikana.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PB304823.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PB304823.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />Finally...in Honolulu. The flight here was uneventful, other than the fact that first class on United sucks ass (Continental is much better). It's like coach with bigger seats.<br /><br />But I am quite grateful for being here, regardless of airline accomodations.<br /><br />The above photo was taken when my traveling companion and I were staying at the <a href="http://www.moanasurfrider.com/" target=0>Moana Hotel</a> in Waikiki, probably one of my favorite structures in the entire world. This marks my fourth visit to Honolulu, and I've always wanted to stay there. It was like a dream come true.<br /><br />BTW...somehow, my wide-angle lens got broken when I was in Cleveland, and I only have my telephoto until I replace the wide-angle. It's why my photos of this trip will have a different sort of feel to them.<br /><br />For example, this one I took while lying in bed at the Moana:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PB304831.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PB304831.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a><br />I kept pinching myself...it didn't even look real. My camera can't do this place justice.<br /><br />I'm going to relax now, and try to take my mind off of things.<br /><br />I should have done this a long time ago.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/1600/PB304825.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/534/26/400/PB304825.jpg" border="0" alt="" /></a>Choxhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13574937927293055917noreply@blogger.com