.

Send some love.

2006-08-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

Right now, a fellow blogger 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.

Here's a picture of Ryan showing us his tonsils:

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.

Hey, it's a possibility.

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.

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.

Wish me luck. And tell poor Rotten Ryan to hang in there. These New Orleans women love him:

UPDATE

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.

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.

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.

Kill your television.

2006-08-17T09:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Captured by my cellphone somewhere in the Mission.

UPDATE

Thanks to Mark for being my Ego-Boost of the Day.

But trust me...you don't want to see me sans clothing. Not cute.

Sick to my stomach.

2006-08-04T18:38:00.000-07:00

I just found out that a friend of mine, who I thought had died an accidental death, was actually a victim of a murder/suicide.

I'm stunned.

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.

I want to cry.

I want to scream.

I feel numb.

I want to run as far away from here as I can, yet I have no idea in which direction to flee.

I want to kill someone who is already dead.

How dare you take my friend with you down your dysfuntional pit of self-destructive despair.

You motherfucker.

A post for my pop.

2006-06-19T16:51:00.000-07:00

If you've been reading this blog for a while, you've seen that picture before. I ran it last October in this post, 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 Bill Cosby meets Napoleon Dynamite meets the Minister of Silly Walks and you have a pretty clear picture of how he dances.

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.

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.

He's also the master of the Art of Bullshit. Let me tell you a story.

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 Winter Beaters 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.

"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.

My dad peered at the gas gauge. "I think you're right."

"I guess this means I'm gonna be pushing this soon, huh?"

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.

I slumped down in the seat. "Yeah, right. Whatever." I pulled my gloves onto my hands.

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.

"Dad, that light is about to change," I warned, as we rolled down the exit ramp, again gaining momentum.

"No, it's not," he replied.

"Yes it is!" I exclaimed, as it turned yellow about 5 seconds before we passed beneath it.

"It's green enough," he said as we rolled through the intersection at the end of the ramp.

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.

"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.

"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.

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.

"Dad, pull over! There isn't enough time to make that light!" I yelled.

"Oh, bullshit, don't give me that crapola," he said, calmly. "We've got plenty of time."

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.

My dad smacked the steering column gearshift lever with his palm into Park.

"Chad," he said, with a grin, "that's what's called 'Knowing Your Vehicle.'"

Since the engine died, my dad had not ONCE touched the brake pedal.

I was in utter disbelief. "Bullshit," I said, laughing, "we just got lucky."

"Oh, brrp brrp brrp," came the reply.

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.

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.

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.

The day I told him I was gay.

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.

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.

He walked into the living room.

"Tell him!" my mom demanded.

"Mom, I'll tell him-" I started.

"No, tell him now!" she shouted.

I cringed, and realized I had to tell my father I was a homosexual.

I rose from the sofa, and looked at my dad. "Dad," I started stammering, "there's something I have to tell you."

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.

"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.

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.

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?"

"Do you know that girl I've been dating, Karen?" I had told them I was dating someone, which was technically true.

"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.

I was trembling. I had no idea what was about to happen, but I hoped for the best.

This was it. One of the scariest moments in a gay man's life. Telling his father.

"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.

My dad looked really confused for a second and stared at the ground. Suddenly...the fogginess lifted. He closed his eyes, and nodded gently.

"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.

I started bawling.

"Dad, y-you...I c-can't..." I spluttered.

"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.

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.

"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.

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.

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!"

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.

Deep down, I knew life was going to be better.

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.

How lucky am I?

It's a day late, but happy Father's Day, Pop.

6.6.06

2006-06-06T08:58:00.000-07:00

It's here.

The signs are everywhere.

Don't dare venture outside.

You don't know who you're gonna run into.

I took an evil test. It surprised even me. I guess I'm way more evil than I realized.

You Are 78% Evil

You are very evil. And you're too evil to care.
Those who love you probably also fear you. A lot.

How Evil Are You?

Then I went back and answered the questions truthfully.

You Are 82% Evil

You're the most evil person you know.
The devil is even a little scared of you!

How Evil Are You?

Oh, man. Well, I did 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.

I since have renounced most of my evil ways.

Most.

At any rate, be very afraid.

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.

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:

STMF #9: The 6/6/06 Cast.

Here's the playlist...I outdid myself this time:

Thrill Kill Kult - The Devil Does Drugs (1989)
Meat Beat Manifesto - Dog Star Man (1989)
Front 242 - Headhunter (1988)
Skinny Puppy - Tin Omen (1989)
PTP - Rubber Glove Seduction (1989)
A Split Second - Rigor Mortis (1990)
Ministry - Thieves (1990)
Thrill Kill Kult - A Daisy Chain 4 Satan (1990)
Clock DVA - Hide (1989)
KMFDM - Godlike (1991)
Revolting Cocks - Beers, Steers, & Queers (1990)
Laibach - Sympathy for the Devil (Who Killed the Kennedys) (1990)
Front Line Assembly - Mindphaser (1991)
Gruesome Twosome - Hallucination Generation (1989)
King Missile - Jesus Was Way Cool (1990)

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.

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.

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.

If there's anyone in Cleveland who remembers the clubs I was talking about before, drop me a line and say hi.

Karmic justice.

2006-05-26T15:45:00.000-07:00

Now WHY did seeing this bring such joy to my heart?

It must be a San Francisco thing.

Taken at the corner of Broadway and Larkin streets.

Oh HELL yeah...

2006-05-24T23:20:00.000-07:00

Turn up your speakers. No, really...turn 'em up LOUD.

Okay, this is dedicated to SIX!!!

...and there's a certain person in Coventry Village, Cleveland Heights, Ohio...who needs to be standing up right now and shaking that boo-tay.

It's on Lee...it's on Lee...!!! Monticello walkers...all Monticello walkers!*

*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 Brennan's Colony up in the Heights, 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.

:::UPDATE:::

Apparently, there's a remix of the song:

And of course, they spoofed it on Family Guy (the episode where Stewie is in a plastic ball for some reason):

The Children's Television Workshop in the 1970's was absolutely genius.

I guess I should update this occasionally, huh?

2006-05-16T14:00:00.000-07:00

First and foremost, the weather here has been AMAZING. Here are some pretty pictures I took of San FranPretty.

Pretty, pretty, pretty.

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 Atari and Raybee. I had such a good time...and I can't wait to go back.

Raybee lives in an old garment factory in Weehawken, New Jersey, right across the Hudson river from Manhattan. 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.

Next time, I promise.

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 APNH podcast) 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.

Oh hell yeah!

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 author and fellow blogger 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.

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.

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 not how I wanted to spend my glorious Sunday afternoon in New York, and definitely not the way I wanted things to be between Nate and me.

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.

It was Nate.

He was all 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.

"Hey babe," I said.

"Hey darlin," he replied, with a trace of his Buffalo, New York accent on the vowels.

"You look good." He did. Like, really good. Damn him for breaking up with me, I thought.

"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.

"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.

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.

Bitches.

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.

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.

"Nate," I finally said, "I love you, I always have, and I always will until the day I die."

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.

I love him for these things. I really do.

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.

Snarky Snarkowski!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

And that was one to grow on.

3 interesting people.

2006-05-10T10:28:00.000-07:00

Yes, I'm back. I don't really want to be back, but I guess if I have to be back 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 not the only person with this problem) I'm glad I hang my hat in San Francisco.

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...

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.

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, mlcmusic.com.

This is probably my favorite picture of Matt:

From his site:

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 Martuni’s-a lovely martini/piano bar in San Francisco. 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.

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).

I can't wait. :-)

Next, I want to introduce you to Darwin Bell.

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.

As you can see, he goes to great lengths for his art:

They're quite insightful, and they say a lot about how Darwin sees the world around him.

From his website:

"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."

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.

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:

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 mutual friend. 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.

Finally, I want you all to meet Andrew Bundy.

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 myspace page:

[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.

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:

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.

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.

You know, Fletcher...

2006-05-09T10:59:00.000-07:00

...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.

Torn between two coasts.

2006-05-08T13:14:00.000-07:00

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.

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.

Anyway.

[climbs up to the pulpit]

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.

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 immediately 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!

New York, it's about time. I'm glad they've "broken ground" on the Freedom Tower but it shouldn't have taken this long. Let this be a lesson...a country divided is a country that will ultimately fail.

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:

It was quite poignant, and I got a lump in my throat when I read it.

They're also dismantling this building floor by floor, the former Deutsche Bank Building at 130 Liberty Street:

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.

[steps down from the pulpit]

Okay, where was I? Oh yes...

[climbs up onto the Bitch Box]

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.

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.

"I need to go through the Lincoln Tunnel to Weehawken."

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!"

"It's just on the other side of the tunnel, guy."

"They are very mean to New York cab drivers over there!"

"You'll be back in New York in ten minutes."

"I do not know the toll!"

"Hold on." I pulled out my phone and called Raybee.

"Who are you calling?!?"

"My friend."

"Who? Who?"

"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."

"The fare is double as soon as I exit the tunnel and you must give me tunnel toll money!"

"Fine. Just take us to Weehawken."

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.

"You must give me tunnel toll!"

"Yes, I know. I already said I would."

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.

"I do not know where I am!"

"Don't worry, it's 4 blocks from here."

"Where do I go?"

"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.

Next thing I know, we're over the bridge in Hoboken.

"Turn around, please."

"They are very very mean to New York cab drivers in New Jersey! I do not want to make a U-turn!"

"Dude, turn around and take us back to Weehawken." At this rate, we'd be in Atlantic City before long.

"They are very mean!"

"Well there are no cops around so don't worry."

"I do not like it in New Jersey! They are mean here!"

"You'll be back in New York soon, don't worry."

"Where do I go? Where do I go?"

"Dude, stop the cab." I had had just about enough of his harried Haitian histrionics.

We got out, and ended up waiting for Raybee to pick us up and take us back to his house.

More later...I'm off to dinner...

The dust is settling.

2006-05-04T19:10:00.000-07:00

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.

Tomorrow I'm headed to New York for a few days to hang out with Atari Age and Mr. Secret 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.

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.

At any rate, until then, I'm out the door and headed for the East Coast...

Hairy Tranny Alert!

2006-03-29T12:21:00.000-08:00

No, really...click on the photos to see how hairy her back is.

Montgomery & Sacramento, near the foot of the Transamerica Pyramid on a weekday during business hours:

Along with a Toyota Prius...it doesn't get more San Francisco than this:

At any rate, it takes some serious balls to walk through the Financial District showing your back hair.

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:

I will not say what kind of vehicle it was, and it wasn't MUNI.

Like I'd be caught dead on the 49.

The end of I-80.

2006-03-22T22:01:00.000-08:00

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.

This is my neighborhood, as viewed from the Bay Bridge:

For the time being, this gentleman greets westbound motorists as they arrive in San Francisco:

I think it's a hot sign, actually.

Until you see what's on the other side...AAAAAAHHHHHHH!!!!!!!

When driving on the Bay Bridge, it's important to have good music. Like this:

STMF 7

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.

However, I've decided to tone it down for this one.

Here is the playlist:

Fischerspooner - Never Win
Arling & Cameron - Dirty Robot
Ima Robot - STD Dance
Belle and Sebastian - Your Cover's Blown
Mylo - Muscle Cars <-- this one is dedicated to my friend Rob in Berkeley
Moloko - Sing It Back
Juliet - Avalon (Jacques Lu Cont Mix)
LCD Soundsystem - Losing My Edge

And that's about enough out of me.

PS...today is my half-birthday, and my friend Sean's birthday. He had a great party last year but unfortunately I couldn't make it tonight.

Fun with camera phones.

2006-03-21T00:00:00.000-08:00

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.

I asked her to pose in front of her handiwork. Well-done, Nissan Lady!

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, Michela Alioto-Pier? That's YOUR district now that The Gavin is mayor. PAY ATTENTION!

Don't make me call Aaron Peskin because it'll just be ugly.

And in another, completely unrelated cellphone incident, I recieved this photo this evening from Six Shooter, taken in the Sanford, Florida Target store:

Daigle, stop laughing.

Walking vs. MUNI

2006-03-14T11:13:00.000-08:00

I 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)

You tend to see more things that way.

Even if sometimes I'm just gazing at nothing in particular.

Up and down the hills I go.

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).

You hear the rumbling of the streetcars.

The city isn't that big anyway.

New buildings are going up.

And sometimes I just get so distracted I forget where I'm going or what I need to do.

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.

I wish I was a better chess player.

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.

Sometimes it's just nice to have a soundtrack accompanying it.

Which brings me to the whole point of this post:

STMF 6

Special thanks to my good friend Mike C. in Cleveland, Ohio for parts of the playlist, which is as follows:

Crazy Penis - Lady T
Spoon - I Turn My Camera On
Annie - Chewing Gum
Mylo - Otto's Journey
Avenue D - Sex That I Need <-- NOT WORK SAFE
Blackalicious - Alphabet Aerobics
LCD Soundsystem - Disco Infiltrator
Gnarls Barkley - Crazy
Belle & Sebastian - Step Into My Office Baby
Erick Morillo & the Audio Bullys - Break Down the Doors

Mom, you should probably skip this particular podcast. Trust me on this one.

Also, happy birthday, Tom in San Diego. :-) xoxo

I want one of these.

2006-03-13T10:25:00.000-08:00

I mean, how fun does that look?

Taken last week on Vallejo Street between Polk and Larkin in Russian Hill.

Not a bad Valentine's Day at all.

2006-02-15T09:03:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Long, long overdue.

2006-02-05T14:53:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

But only a bit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm gonna miss you, Daigle.

Brain Wash, Folsom Street, San Francisco:

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

A San Francisco bar:

Flat on Union Street, North Beach, San Francisco:

My apartment, Lower Telegraph Hill (technically):

Beer Bust at the Eagle Tavern, San Francisco:

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

North Beach alley, San Francisco:

Grant Avenue, North Beach, San Francisco:

The original Daigle Project shoot, my roof:

Trader Ho's

2006-02-03T09:41:00.000-08:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's hysterical.

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

Heh. Bottom. I own you, boy.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Halibut filets are the new black."

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

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

Then we both giggled.

:::UPDATE:::

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

So there you go.

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

Aw shucks.

2006-02-02T22:48:00.000-08:00

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

Let me tell you.

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

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

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

[shuffles feet, cheeks redden]

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

I think I even got some frosting on my tummy.

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

More desktops.

2006-01-21T13:20:00.000-08:00

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 Sam of madlife.net in Dallas, Texas, whose desktop looks like this:

I like it.

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 Nela Park Christmas lights (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 Nela Park lighting research facility just down the road from where we grew up...to quote Hilly, it was "cold as balls" that night:

Now, Rigo over at Gravely Gay 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.

Even *I* can do it on this computer. And just for the record, I really want a G5 iMac running Mac OS X v10.4. 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.

/rant

So I started getting images in my email and I lifted some off some other blogs. Ryan Aceto 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...The Good Doctor 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:

Large Tony, 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:

Next, we have the sultry southern belle, Ms. Sugarfoot Sara, of Biloxi, Mississippi (one of my favorite people):

Incredibly sexy Monsoux, the top dog of Romania (or not):

Slyder of Denver, Colorado, has a decidedly un-Colorado scene on his desktop:

Dennis, also in Denver:

Jade over in Franklin, Massachusetts, has a poignant story behind this image:

Trés gay STMF reader Joel P. emailed me this:

Darin, of All Prep & No H in Phoenix, Arizona, did not disappoint me...would you expect anything LESS gay than this from Darin? Honestly, now:

However, my absolute favorite I've saved for last here. It's from Chino over at ChonkyChinoChang, or just Chonky! for short. 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:

Keep them coming...this is fun. :-)

::: UPDATE :::

Good lord...they're pouring in now.

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:

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:

And Michael Meadows 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):

Big Red Dave 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:

From the heart of Mid-America, St. Louis, Missouri, Jim of Jumpy Jumpy Vitamins (I love that blog title) sends me his desktop:

From New York's Long Island, Mike of Gay Man Walking sends me his desktop:

Andrew, a native Clevelander, who authors Confessions of A Slacker in Chicago, Illinois, has a photo of Edgewater Drive in Lakewood, Ohio, where he lived for ten years:

More to come? We shall see. :-)

I'm trying...I'm trying.

2006-01-20T15:52:00.000-08:00

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 Secret Simon posted a video of himself that I can hear but not see.

Arg.

Several times this week, I've come close to stomping my computer to pieces in a murderous rage, 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.

I feel better now, thank you.

Anyway, the photo above is part of a "photo meme" that Rotten Ryan 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:

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.

Feh.

Ke nono au, e kala mua mai, i keia manawa ho'i.

2005-12-31T22:32:00.000-08:00

We moved from the Moana to the Royal Hawaiian...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.

Oh HELL no, that was just NOT going to do.

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:

We have a nice view of Diamond Head:

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:

This is my traveling companion, who shall remain faceless and nameless for the time being:

The sun bathed the building in golden light, turning the pink a warm peach color:

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:

As it slipped below the horizon, we made a pact to make 2006 nothing less than extraordinary.

It's a new years' resolution we both plan on keeping.

Goodbye, 2005. May my memory of you soften and sweeten over time.

E ke kuene, ua milimili 'e 'ia neia mikana.

2005-12-29T21:48:00.000-08:00

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.

But I am quite grateful for being here, regardless of airline accomodations.

The above photo was taken when my traveling companion and I were staying at the Moana Hotel 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.

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.

For example, this one I took while lying in bed at the Moana:

I kept pinching myself...it didn't even look real. My camera can't do this place justice.

I'm going to relax now, and try to take my mind off of things.

I should have done this a long time ago.

A STMF Christmas greeting

2005-12-25T20:08:00.000-08:00

From my home in North Beach to yours...merry Christmas.

xoxo

The bitch needs snacks.

2005-12-12T15:55:00.000-08:00

If you ever find yourself at the the Bell Tower Restaurant, located at the corner of Jackson and Polk in San Francisco's Upper Polk/Marina Heights district, you'll find this obese, gentle creature snoozing out front:

You woke me up...why?

Sigh...do you at least have a snack for me? No?

Pttttph.

Hey, you don't have a snack for me in that bag, do you? No?

Aw shucks.

Maybe there's a snack nobody is using over there. No?

Sigh. Whatever. What do I have to do to get a snack around here? Ugh. I'm too tired to bite you. Just scratch my tummy.

I'm off to buy a Christmas tree right now. No, not a Happy Holiday tree, not a Hanukkah bush; I'm not going to ~~stab a lamb to death~~ slit a lamb's throat and let it bleed to death in honor of Eid-Al-Adha (I'm out of paper towels), nor am I going to get a Kwaanza Kikombe Cha Umoja, but a GODDAMN CATHOLIC CHRISTMAS TREE at the Delancey Street lot at Pier 32 on the Embarcadero down by Fisherman's Wharf. I always buy my trees from Delancey...the last one I bought was in 2000 when I lived in Hayes Valley. For various reasons, I haven't had a tree in years, mostly disinterested boyfriends and laziness. However, this year I want to have the Best Goddamn Christmas Tree In The Entire City Of San Francisco.

Hopefully I'll convince a nice cabbie to let me stick it in the trunk of his Crown Victoria and haul it back to North Beach for me.

I was going through some more tape cassettes again, and found this KABL aircheck from December 18th, 1997. At the time, I was an innocent 27 year-old, a year out of the USAF, living with my boyfriend in our large studio apartment on Leavenworth Street between Bush and Sutter (Lower Nob Hill, Tenderloin Heights, Tendernob, Nobberloin, call it what you want...I loved living there). The relationship dissolved 2 months later, but when I recorded this, I was very happy and content. Everything was right with the world. I had just worked a full day at GATX Capital in Embarcadero One, then from 5-10 I worked my night job at Pottery Barn at Sacramento and Battery (now a Sprint PCS store). I was sitting in a wing chair by the bay window, watching the rain and fog swirling around Sutro Tower (we had an incredible view) and drinking some spiked egg nog. My cat, Miss Chrysler Sebring Convertible (named that just to annoy the boyfriend), was curled up in my lap, purring, as I read the San Francisco Chronicle. It was one of those moments that was Absolutely Perfect. I grabbed a blank tape, popped it in the stereo underneath the TV set, and recorded this.

I had totally forgotten all about it until I found the tape.

I transferred it to mp3, and used Dolby C noise reduction to take out the tape hiss and AM-signal wow and flutter. It's low-fi, but for some reason, the music cuts through the AM ether and just sounds warm and comfortable. It's what I'm going to be listening to tonight when I decorate my tree. So here you go...the 11:00 PM hour of 960 KABL's Christmas special, Thursday, December 18th, 1997.

Blast from the past.

2005-12-09T14:54:00.000-08:00

I just got that photo in my email yesterday from one of my oldest friends in the world, Christina, who still lives in Cleveland. I was 19 in that photo...I think it was taken in either late 1989 or early 1990. That cat's name was Felix (he was just euthanized about 3 months ago at the ripe old age of 15) and he had just been neutered. Felix was a cool dude...you'd pet him like a dog, he'd fetch, go out and scrap with skunks and raccoons, and return home all beat up but ready to do it again the next day.

So because she dug up that old photo, I dug up an old record we would dance to around the same time that photo was taken at the Nine of Clubs in Cleveland, a long-gone industrial/house music bar/club thingie in the warehouse district. Not a gay bar, but not exactly a straight one either. We loved the place...I'd scam drinks by flirting with both men and women (I was only 19 and had huge black "X" marks on my hands), and we'd sit and chain smoke and talk shit about people until this song would come on...then we'd go to the middle of the dance floor...wearing our black motorcycle jackets...hair hanging down into our eyes...and dance like retards because we just didn't care.

Sometimes, I'd even smoke pot in the parking lot with a young Catholic priest. Edgy, huh? At least I never got into his Jeep. Mama didn't raise a fool.

By the way, that track is called "A Day in the Life" by Black Riot, a DJ Todd Terry alias. It was released in 1988, and you'd hear it coming out of clubs and being sampled like crazy all over the Great Lakes region. I heard it all the time in Cleveland, that's for sure. Funny, when I went to New York, the music was a much different. Not as edgy or raw as the stuff coming out of Detroit.

Now, when I said Christina was old, I'm not saying she's OLD old (she's almost exactly a year older than me) but I've known her since elementary school. I forget what grade I was in, but she shoved me at the drinking fountain once and I cut my lip. Years later when we were in Catholic school (I was in 7th grade and she was in 8th), we would walk home from school (she lived 3 blocks away) and just talk about everything under the sun.

One warm, sunny spring day, we were walking home together. We were wearing our school uniforms...hers was a white blouse and a plaid skirt, mine was a pair of navy blue corduroy jeans from the The Gap at the now torn down and redone Severance Center, a light blue shirt, and a navy blue tie, loosened a bit because it was warm. She was reading a book titled "Rabbit Is Rich" by John Updike at that point (she has a genius IQ and is one of the biggest bookworms I know), glancing at it while we talked about wierd random stuff. Time travel. How many moons Jupiter had. Cars (she's a gearhead like me). How much we hated the nuns. Who was the biggest bitch at St. Louis School. The Doppler Effect after an ambulance passed us.

Suddenly, as she glanced at her book, she started laughing.

"What?" I asked.

"This line...you have to read it," she answered, handing me the book. I looked down and read this:

Cunt would be a good flavor for ice cream.

"What the hell is a cunt?" I asked her, handing the book back to her. I knew every cuss word in the world but this one was kinda new to me.

"You don't know what a cunt is?" She laughed.

"No, I don't. Tell me."

"Nope."

"Fucking tell me!"

"Nope." She was being a brat.

"I'm gonna start yelling it," I threatened.

"Don't you dare!"

"CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT CUNT!" I hollered, walking down a peaceful, idyllic Cleveland Heights residential street on that warm, sunny April afternoon. A woman watering her flowers stared at me, mouth agape, hose hanging in her hand. "Christina is a cunt, a CUNTY CUNTY CUNT," I sang, until she smacked me on the back of the head.

"You'd better look that up before you start screaming it up and down the street, Chad," she said, laughing so hard she could barely breathe.

We parted ways at her street, and I continued walking home, whispering "cunt cunt cunt" under my breath so I wouldn't forget it. "Hey!" Christina yelled, "Call me when you look it up!" and started laughing again.

When I got home, for some reason my mom was home from work early, so I asked her where their Websters New World unabridged dictionary was located. I grabbed volume one, lugged it over to the kitchen rotary phone, and looked it up.

I gasped.

"What?" asked my mom.

"Nothing," I said, cringing, knowing full well this was the wrong thing to say to my very Catholic mother who would now use her Polish/Irish midwestern Catholic skills to pry the information she wanted from me. She was, and continues to be, a master at this.

"What did you need to look up?" she asked, brushing away a few errant strands of blond hair from her green eyes. She was only 37.

"Just a word I heard."

"What word is that?"

"I'd really rather not tell you." Damn, again, the wrong thing to say.

My mom put down a wooden spoon she was holding. "Tell me what word it was," with her Serious Tone. She was bluffing with the Serious Tone...but she didn't know I knew she was bluffing. It was a weak hand, but it was all I had.

"Mom, I'd really-"

"TELL ME," she demanded, pressing harder, slightly jutting out her lower jaw. Damn. I didn't know she was gonna pull out the "TELL ME" card accompanied with the Threatening Jaw Jut so soon.

"I don't think it's a word you've ever heard before," I replied, gingerly.

Mom snorted, then smirked. "Try me."

"Okay, but you asked me to tell you, so I can't get in trouble for saying it if it's bad."

"Oh for Christ's sake Chad, just tell me." She was tired of my shenanigans and my dodging, and I realized I was at past the Point Of No Return with her. Her curiosity was piqued, I was cornered, and she was gonna find out what The Word was at any cost. Checkmate. Mom: 1, Chad: 0.

I took a deep breath.

"Cunt," I said, matter-of-factly.

There. I said it. I hoped she was happy.

"What?" she asked, not quite believing her ears.

"Cun-"

"I HEARD IT THE FIRST TIME, CHAD," she said, with a strange look on her face. A few years I later came to recognize that face as the "I Need To Appear Stern Right Now But I Am Trying Not To Laugh, Unfortunately" face. Only then could I use it to my advantage.

I thought, Duh, then why did you say "What?" when I said it? Pshh.

"You know that's not the nicest word in the world, Chad."

"Yes, I know. I just looked it up," I said, gingerly, not quite sure if I was In Big Huge Trouble or not.

"Where did you hear it?" she demanded.

"It was in a book a friend was reading and she wouldn't tell me what it was and she told me to look it up." My mom did the exact same thing. She'd never tell me what a word meant if I asked her. I always had to look it up, even if she knew what it meant.

"Who asked you to look it up?"

"Christina."

"What book was she reading..." my mom muttered, trailing off. She shook her head. "You know what, never mind," said, heaving an exasperated sigh. "You know not to say that word, don't you?"

"Yes, mom." Duh. Like I was gonna walk down the street yelling it or something.

Mom rolled her eyes and returned to stirring a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough. "Stay the hell out of this dough, Chad," she said, with her Slightly Widened Eyes expression, coupled with her famous Jaw Jut and Gravely Firm Tone. Basically, a full house as far as playing her cards with me. The woman meant business, I was hopelessly outfoxed, and I sat there meekly.

She turned on her heel and went upstairs.

As soon as I heard the upstairs bathroom door shut, I grabbed a chunk of dough, stuffed it in my mouth. Mmm...so, so good. She made chocolate chip cookies from scratch and god damn they were good, but the dough was just simply ambrosial. Chad: 1, Mom: 1.

I grabbed the reciever off the hook, and dialed Christina's number, thankful it didn't take very long to dial because of all the 3's in it.

"Helluh?" It was Christina.

"Hey."

"Did you look it up?"

"Yeah."

Christina started laughing.

"Why the hell didn't you tell me what it meant before I started hollering it up and down Woodridge?"

"You are so fucking retarded."

Suddenly, my mom came downstairs and said, "You yelled that word while walking down Woodridge?" I was screwed.

"Christina, I have to go," I said, and hung up.

"And I thought I told you to stay the hell out of the cookie dough!"

"How do you know?"

"I always know, Chad. I always know."

Mom: 2, Chad: 1.

No point to this, really...

2005-12-08T08:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes it's so distracting just walking down the street, especially if I have my camera with me. Case in point...Pacific Avenue in Russian Hill. Apparently, it's the place to go to get your hair done, particularly if you have just arrived here from 1970 and want color AND exquisite styling:

But wait...what if my hairstyle isn't nice?

Oh, okay. Whew. I just want my hair to be perfect.

So then I crossed the street. Always look both ways before crossing.

First the left:

Then the right:

Oh crap...it's the phantom 12 Folsom that I never actually see stopped at a stop...it always just seems to appear out of nowhere. Good thing I looked both ways, huh?

This block is a little different...we have yoga:

Folk music:

Folk music lessons:

Vases:

Hidden alleyways:

And no exceptions:

The sky was pretty...

...and I cut through an alleyway...

...filled with the most interesting graffiti...

...and art:

Anyone care to translate this? UPDATE: This has been translated by a reader: FYI, my friend, who is originally from Taiwan, said the meaning of the four chinese characters is "pedestrian passageway"

So anyway...I was playing around with Audacity again, and I got an idea. You see, back in the day when I had my radio show, I once played the song "Boys Don't Cry" by The Cure, but I started it at the wrong speed. I played an 33 rpm record at 45 rpm, but since I had the monitors turned down and wasn't wearing my headphones, it sounded like this. I was unaware of it until the phone started going crazy with people telling me I was a complete douchebag. I turned up the monitors, and after my initial shock and an "OH FUCK!!!" yelled into a live microphone, I kinda liked it. I always thought "Boys Don't Cry" was a bit too slow and plodding, but the Robert Smith Chipmunk Sound was just too ahead of its time, unfortunately. Now, with Audacity, you can change the tempo of a clip without changing its pitch. So I thought to myself, "What if I speed it up to 45 rpm, but keep the same pitch? Here is the result.

Now we're cooking with gas!

So I started thinking...there's a song on the 1978 C'est Chic album by Chic (the one with Le Freak and I Want Your Love) called "Happy Man" that I think should have also been a big hit. I first heard it when I was a little kid at a neighbor's house down the street, and I liked its smooth and nasty Nile Rogers bassline and soaring synth. I remember humming it and singing it out loud as I rode my yellow and black Schwinn Tripper to school. Thing is, in 2005 we dance a hell of a lot faster than we did in 1978, so I thought, why not punch it up a bit? Speed it up 15 percent, throw some phasing on a few parts, bump up the bass a few db in the 200hz range, and voila...fresh life in an old forgotten disco song!

If there are any DJ's who read this blog, I think you should really, really consider remixing this song.

So anyway, here's my final rough product...I kind of like it. It's going to be on my Stairmaster Mix for the gym. If anyone would care to improve on it, add to it, or have fun with it, be my guest and send me a copy.

Hilly the Clevelander

2005-12-07T01:29:00.000-08:00

You can dump all the lake-effect snow you want...but you can't stop Hilly when she wants a sandwich and a hot chocolate after a long day at work.

...@aol.com to me
1:49 pm
hi Chaddy
Well, it was 8 degrees when I left for work this morning. 8 degrees. Is that even legal? I didn't tell you about my crack-induced trip to Tommy's last Friday. I was hell-bent on getting me a Rah and some hot chocolate from Caribou. But Cleveland weather was like, "I don't think so, sucka!" There was a huge snow storm, right before rush hour, natch. I attempted to pull into the driveway to my apartment building, but being the norm, my car got stuck. I spun my wheels, yelled a bunch of obscenities to the tune of "Why the heck do I live in Cleveland" but instead of heck I said something else. ANYHOO - so poor Jodeci is stuck in the middle of the sidewalk - and out of NOWHERE, two people came up and were like, "Need some help?" I swear they came completely out of nowhere. SO they dug me out and helped me get up the driveway. That's one thing I like about Cleveland in this perilous time of nasty weather - we always help each other out. It's almost like an unwritten rule. So after I successfully parked my car, I decided that I had nothing in my fridge and walked to Tommy's. Mind you, I had to walk like a friggen Clydesdale horse because the snow was up to my knees. But I'll be damned if I didn't get my Rah and hot chocolate. As I walked into Tommy's, I jumped in the air, flining my boots together to get the snow off. I think I looked like Mike Myers's "Phillip" from Saturday Night Live. You know, when he had that harness whilst he was attached to the jungle gym? As I trudged home, I passed an older Black man, and we gave each other the exact same look - "It's Us Against The Man" look. The man being the snow.
The End.

Good 'ol Catholic guilt.

2005-12-04T10:47:00.000-08:00

As many people know, I was raised Catholic. I was baptized Catholic, had the Sacrament of Reconciliation, my First Communion, and my Confirmation (my confirmation name, ironically to a few people who read this blog, was Andrew). The only two sacraments I haven't received are the really cool De Exorcismus et supplicationibus quibusdam and the kinda-scary but rather beautiful Extreme Unction. I was even an Altar Boy. Okay, before anyone starts snickering, Father Bacher, Father Nadeau, Father McNulty, and Father Cassesse never touched me or did anything remotely inappropriate. They were and are honorable men; molestation doesn't happen as often as you may think. The media has turned what was once an honor into utter bathroom humor so don't even joke about that...it pisses me off.

While I retain many of the core Catholic values instilled into me by my parents, years of CCD (when I was a Public School Kid), and finally, Catholic jr. high and high school, the one that is most apparent (aside from keeping most of the ten commandments except for the one about coveting my neighbor's wife...I'm sure she's lovely but she's not my thing) is the Catholic Guilt Complex.

You see, I felt bad after telling my mom not to click on that link of Cement Brunette's voicemail. The last thing I want is for her to feel like a double-A battery on Christmas morning...Not Included. Of course, as usual, an idea turned into a full-blown, ADD-fueled, time-consuming, headphone wearing, dozens of open windows on my computer, WAV and MP3-ripping, wildly complicated Chad Project.

Yes, I know...I'm a mess. I LIVE WITH MYSELF. I KNOW THIS.

So here's a post for my mom...so I stop feeling so guilty. It's complete with cars, radio jingles, and old photos. A Sunday morning Chad Fox Geek Fest.

First, a picture of her taken in 1968:

Now, at that time, she and my dad drove a sick-ass '68 Oldsmobile Cutlass, pale saffron in color, like this one (theirs didn't have the "Parma" spoiler because it would have clashed with the chic-mod-swanky black vinyl roof). Probably one of my favorite Detroit auto designs of the 20th Century:

In 1968, my mom's favorite radio station was WIXY-1260, a Cleveland top-40 powerhouse. She wasn't some early-twentysomething teenybopper or a dirty hippie by any means...she was one of those cool mod-chix who wore snug turtlenecks, big-buckled shoes from Chandler's, a Nehru jacket, smoking Kent cigarettes and digging the smoothbooty bossa-nova beats of Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66.

So I mixed this up for mom since I don't want her clicking on the link in the previous post. It's a bunch of noisy, disruptive WIXY jingles and promos I have in my collection dropped between 3 Sergio Mendes songs. It's a WIXY-1260 Brasil '66 Tripleplay...brought to you by ADD, being in my right brain for 2 hours and losing all track of time, and mild Catholic guilt.

So here ya go, Mamacita. Something fun to listen to instead of CB's voicemail. Something you might have heard one day tooling around Cleveland in the Cutlass in 1968.

Oh, and because it totally slipped my mind this year, here's my folks celebrating Thanksgiving, ~~1971~~ 1970, in their pre-Heights house in Euclid, Ohio (yes, it's a rerun but I love this photo):

Told you she had a Nehru jacket. :-)

[inside joke for Heather, Hillary, Siobhan, and anyone else who went to St. Louis School in the early 80's and had Sister Dorothy (bless her heart) for computer class...look at the nun photo, pretend you're sitting in front of an Apple IIe, and read this out loud (be sure to start in a normal tone of voice, then start shrieking halfway through it and throw a pencil across the room): "Control, open AP-PLE, RESET!]

4:20 AM. No, really.

2005-12-02T04:27:00.000-08:00

Yes, this is really what I am hearing outside my apartment right now. They do that three times a week.

I just wanted to share. I will now attempt to go back to sleep.

Good morning, people in Cleveland and New York.

12:09 AM, Columbus and Broadway

2005-12-01T00:32:00.000-08:00

The weather has finally changed; northern California's Indian summer has finally drawn to a close, and the air has a misty dampness that signals the beginning of yet another winter. I kind of like it, actually. It's like the first snow back in Ohio, quite novel when new, but by the time February rolls around you've had enough.

I was on the payphone outside a liquor store next door to one of the Broadway strip joints, talking to a cool bohemian cat, when suddenly I got a whiff of a familiar perfume; familiar, yet something one does not normally experience in North Beach. Suddenly, I saw a shock of bright red hair on the head of a tall woman with pale, porcelain-like skin. I smiled, knowing exactly who it was.

"Veronica!" I called out. The woman turned around; we locked eyes, and she smiled.

"Matt, I have to call you back," I said, and hung the grimy handset back on its chrome cradle. The coins fell into the coin bin with a dull clink.

It was none other than Veronica Klaus, the voluptuous San Francisco chanteuse I know and love...and absolutely adore.

"Chad!" she exclaimed, and we embraced. I hadn't seen her in months, since her show, Family Jewels, at the Exit Theater in the Tenderloin, which is quite possibly one of the absolute best shows I've ever seen. We talked a bit, then she handed me a flyer for a show she's doing at Pearl's, a live jazz club on Columbus Avenue.

Her show is called "Blue Holiday" and it's on Thursday, December 15th, one night only. There are two shows, one at 8:30, the other at 10:30.

"I can't wait," I said, looking forward to a night of Veronica Klaus in my very own neighborhod.

"You really should make reservations," she told me.

"Hmmm...if I go to the 10:30 show can we all hang out afterward?" I asked. After her Family Jewels show, Downie Syndrome, Glamamore, Veronica, and I hung out a bit, and I had a ball.

"But of course, darling!" She gave me a big hug. "I have to run, my ride is waiting for me."

She walked off into the night, and I reached into my pocket for two more quarters. Calling Matt back, I thought, maybe I'll ask if he'll go with me.

We'll see.

On the KGO in SFO.

2005-11-27T12:40:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago, my friend John of Lower Chicken Heights fame (that's his hair in the above photo), who is a producer at KGO radio here in San Francisco, asked me if I would like to sit in with him at the KGO studios for one of his shifts. Now, those of you who really know me realize that I would rather be sitting in a radio studio, in front of a console, in a production booth, especially at the #1 rated, award-winning radio station in the #4 radio market in the country. Screw going out to some skanky bar while getting skankily drunk with a bunch of skanks (no offense to those with which I've gotten shitfaced and skanky in the past...I'm no saint).

John came over at around 5:00, and we headed out the door for an especially nasty slice of pizza from some dump on Broadway. Since I only live 4 blocks from the KGO radio and TV studios (and 3 from KPIX-TV 5 and the SF studios of KNTV-11...go figure) we walked down the hill, enjoying the crisp, cool November evening. When we got to the studio, I signed in as a guest, and up we went to the mystical wonderland that houses the second-largest west coast ABC radio and television affiliates.

They weren't that glamorous inside, but had a cool view of the city nonetheless.

Now, I actually listen to KGO radio, and my clock radio is usually tuned to it. I grew up on AM radio, especially AM talk radio (when my dad was driving, it's pretty much all we ever listened to until my mom had her fill). At night, the KGO signal travels much farther than it does during the day.

You know what? I'm going to digress for a minute and explain why and how AM radio signals travel farther at night. I aim to inform others while entertaining myself with this blog. Feel free to skip through this part if it bores you.

You see, the Earth's atmosphere is divided into several layers, the troposphere (the bottom layer where all the weather takes place, the stratosphere (where spy planes, the the ozone layer, and weather balloons can be found), and the ionosphere, the uppermost layer that contains several different layers, the exact names I won't get into here (I get really nerdy and rambly with this stuff...bear with me). For the sake of simplicity, we shall refer to them as the D, E, and F layers.

From the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration's website:

The E-layer was discovered first. In 1901, Guglielmo Marconi transmitted a signal between Europe and North America and showed that it had to bounce off an electrically conducting layer about 62 miles (100 km) altitude. In 1927, Sir Edward Appleton named that conducting layer the (E)lectrical-Layer. Later, discovery of additional conducting layers were simply called the D-layer and F-Layer.

Since the ionosphere existance is due to radiation from the sun striking the atmosphere, it changes in density from daytime to nighttime. All three layers are more dense during the daytime. At night, all layers decrease in density with the D-Layer undergoing the greatest change. At night the D-Layer essentially disappears.

Got that?

It means at night, some thug can stand in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, hold a transistor radio to his head, and listen to a 50KW AM station broadcasting from the middle of the Pacific Ocean. See?

Get it? Got it? Good.

I've always been fascinated by radio and how it works...it's a big reason why I was a radio and communications troop in the Air Force. You might as well like your job, right? When I was in Cleveland as a kid, I used to have a log of stations I'd pick up while hiding under my covers with my Tom & Jerry transistor radio. I remember excitedly logging WOR, WABC, and WMCA from New York, WBZ out of Boston, KYW Philadelphia, KDKA Pittsburgh, WLS Chicago, WLW Cincinnati, CJMR Mississisauga, Ontario, CFRA Ottawa, CHWO Toronto...my list went on and on. I even picked up CBK out of Regina, Saskatchewan...and laughed at the pronunciation of both "Regina" (reh-GY-nuh) and "Saskatchewan" (sahs-KAH-cheh-wan). Just like now, back then I was easily amused. One night I was picking up KMOX in St. Louis (the "Voice of Mid-America") and tingling with excitement...I finally heard a real "K" station (P'burgh and Philly didn't count as far as I was concerned) because all the Cleveland stations started with a W. I could go into that, but I won't...just click here if you want to know more about that. These stations...the voices, the accents, the different languages (I got a lot of stations from Quebec), the commercials, and especially, the jingles ("Newww York Ci-tyyyyyyy" sounded beautiful to me). As far as I was concerned, these were beacons from outside my world, which suddenly felt confining. These distant voices beckoned me, taunted me, and made me dream. At this point, I knew there was an exciting world outside Northeast Ohio, and vowed to myself to explore as much of it as I possibly could, as soon as I possibly could.

Hey Mom, now you know one of the reasons why I was constantly roadtripping with my friends from the age of 17 until I left for basic training.

Okay now, where was I? [pushes thick glasses back up onto nose] Oh yes, hanging out with John while he produced Karel on KGO. Sorry, once a nerd, always a nerd.

So anyway, John gave me a quick tour of the station. It was cool standing in front of the racks of electronics that ARE KGO radio, that send the signal to the transmitter. There were many different studios, and I was salivating at the control boards, Shure microphones, little blinking lights everywhere, speakers mounted on the walls, and lots and lots and lots of little buttons and switches. You see, I LOVE buttons, blinking lights, microphones, and switches. I find them inherently fascinating, and it's why I used to get into a lot of trouble when I was a kid. I won't get into the Mobile Ham Radio Out In The Driveway Incident when I was 8.

Let's just say I broke a lot of laws, and won over my uncle's heart (the owner of aforementioned ham radio).

So there I am, in the KGO studios, completely in my element, with my body absolutely vibrating with excitement. "Screw those drunk skanks out at the skank-o-terias," I thought, "I'm sitting here in KGO with John."

He showed me how he screens calls, the systems they use to communicate between the studios, how the phones worked, how the console worked, and introduced me to the engineer on duty and another talk show host who came in to prepare for her show and bounce ideas off of John and me. Karel was broadcasting his show from his house in Long Beach, so I didn't get to meet him per se, but we got acquainted through the console board while John twiddled with knobs and switches.

I was jealous. I wanted to touch the knobs and switches. And make some lights flash. And talk into the microphone. And hear my own voice in headphones. Arg.

The Karel Show started, and John did his thing. I was helping him screen calls, and helping decide which ones got to get on the air first (it's not neccessarily the order they're received, you know). If you're a total idiot, chances are the producer won't let you on the air, or will keep you on hold forever. If you say, "Karel is an idiot who is completely off-mark, and this is why..." and explain intelligently your counterpoint WITHOUT profanity or racial slurs, you're bumped to the front of the line. John and I had fun screening those calls...and shunting them all to Karel. BTW, if you want to know more about him, click on his photo.

Karel started out his show with a monologue about how he feels about the so-called Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the year, apparently. The best line in the monologue: "You can just turn on Home Shopping Network any time of the day or night in your...trailer...sittin' in your Barcalounger...with your beer that's got its crocheted cozy around it...eatin' your mac and cheese...Swanson...[and you can] log into [Home Shopping Network] and buy any Capo di Monte figure you want at 3am...that's your business! I don't care!"

Here is Karel's rant about Black Friday. I kinda agree with him...Black Friday shopping behavior is getting out of hand, it's tacky, it's embarrasing to me as an American, and I, for one, refuse to be any part of it. Mama raised me right...I avoid stores on Black Friday. I made the mistake of walking through Union Square the day after Thanksgiving, and it was MOBBED.

Mobbed with people who don't watch where they're walking, crash into you and stare at you blankly. People who insist on DRIVING TO UNION SQAURE, THINKING THEY'RE GOING TO FIND A PLACE TO PARK. People who, after discovering there ARE NO PARKING SPOTS LEFT, create gridlock because they don't know how to drive in a city and get stuck in the intersection because the light changed. People who saunter 5 abreast along the sidewalk like they're in some suburban shopping mall, blocking those of us who Actually Have Important Things To Do. At one point, I was walking towards a group of people who were all walking in a line across the sidewalk, oblivious to the people behind them who wanted to pass without stepping out into the street. I thought to myself, "Let's play Red Rover, Red Rover, let CHAD COME OVER!" and I aimed myself at the biggest one, presumably the father. He saw me coming, panicked, and accidentally tripped his teenage daughter, who tripped the mother, who tripped 2 other people doing a balancing act on the curb because the Tons-O'Fuck Family wouldn't stop hogging the sidewalk. (Hint: smartly step to the side, and walk 2 by 2 instead of a single row of 5.) Keep in mind this all happened when I was still approximately 10 feet from them, so I am not responsible for the tripping of this group. Well, maybe a little, but still.

At any rate, bless their little Black Friday hearts. They made me laugh a little bit to myself.

By the way, during a commercial break, Karel asked me (through the console board) if I'd be his date to the KGO holiday party at the home of Gene Burns, whose show I listen to on KGO. I accepted...he sounds like a genuinely nice person and I think it'd be a lot of fun.

Now I need to figure out what the hell I'm going to wear.

After Karel's show was Edie Sellers (click on her photo for her bio), who decided to open up her show talking about the wild turkeys that are wreaking havoc across Northern California. She started off her show with her opinion of the turkeys, hoping to churn some interest in the listening public ("Churning" callers is a talk radio term I learned last night...and now you, a reader of STMF, have learned that as well). I love the fact she said "pooping issue" on the air, which made me laugh and laugh and laugh. Milk came shooting out of my nose, which was remarkable since I was not drinking milk at the time. John was convinced I was possessed by the devil, and made his "Jihad Noise" at me until I stopped my hilarious convulsions.

Okay, I made that last part up, but she really did say "pooping issue" and I did laugh, but it was more of a titter than a guffaw.

Eh-nee-way.

The people who called were mostly bores who wanted to rant about how much they hated turkeys, or about people who hate the turkeys, or turkeys' rights compared to those of people. Typical whiney Bay Area crap. Now, before you label me as some conservative, keep in mind where I come from. If a bunch of wild turkeys took over Cleveland, there would be no debate as to what would happen next. The Cleveland Police Department would shoot every single one of them, and before you know it we'd have the First Annual Cuyahoga County Barbecue Gamey-Ass Turkey Burnoff (with ribs and pierogies on the side with lots of Gennesee Cream Ale). It's not rocket science, people. But this being the Bay Area, folks think a little bit differently. Hey, turkeys are people too. Out of all the callers, one sensitive San Franciscan and a gravelly-voiced Sonoma County woman stuck out from the crowd, and John and I decided they should go on first.

Heh.

First was Garrett, from San Francisco. He sounded so...sensitive and strange on the phone; we thought there is no way we should prevent him from voicing his opinion up and down the West Coast (we were getting callers from Vancouver, BC to Riverside, CA). Listen to him tell us about his feelings on the turkeys, and ruminations of his childhood with his sister taking turns locking each other in a turkey shed. It's just a little bit creepy, albeit wistful, and the look on Edie's face was priceless when he started talking. He even says "crap" at one point, a word I learned has been banned by Disney, the parent company of KGO, during the daytime.

Next came Donna, from Santa Rosa...Sonoma County wine country. As soon as she started to speak, Edie looked over at John and me with a look on her face that said, "WHY did you give me this caller???" John and I snickered, convinced this woman was smoking a cigarette when she called, and was speaking through a stoma in her neck. I imagined her sitting in a chair, puffing a Winston Light 100, a glass of vodka on a table next to her, in her comfortable Santa Rosa home she shares with 400 cats. Watching Edie try to have an intelligent conversation with this woman AND keep a straight face was hysterical. When she hung up with Donna and went to commercial, she got on the PA system and asked, "So which one of Marge Simpson's sisters was that?"

I, for one, liked Donna. In fact, she provided me a final moment of zen for the day (a la Daily Show) that I will share for you here.

Click here for your moment of zen.

And that's about enough typing for today. I'm going to the Beer Bust at the Eagle. Anyone want to join me?

North Beach, Saturday night.

2005-11-13T13:40:00.000-08:00

I decided to stay in last night, simply because I didn't feel like leaving my neighborhood. I was kind of hungry, so I walked over to the Blanca Cafe on Grant Avenue for my favorite sandwich in the ENTIRE world...the Blanca Pollo Bocadillo. It has tender slices of grilled chicken, tronchon cheese, red-leaf lettuce, thin-sliced fresh tomatoes and red onions, and parsley aioli. I have yet to taste a sandwich as divine as the Blanca Pollo Bocadillo...and that's saying a lot.

You should try the plato de queso with a glass of 2001 Ramon Bilbao Rioja (Spain)...just marvelous.

While I was waiting for my sandwich, a guy I've had my eye on for a while came in to say hello, and ask for some change. He's a bartender at The Magnet Lounge across the street. I know he's straight, but still...call it a little local neighborhood crush. Tall, lanky, blond hair buzzed short.

Just...cute.

Anyway.

My sandwich emerged from the kitchen, wrapped up (as I was just going to relax in front of my television with a fire in the fireplace at Club Chad...the most exclusive club in North Beach). I sauntered down Grant towards home, pausing in front of Magnet to check out the large, friendly crowd inside and to see who was bartending. The owner of Magnet is absolutely adorable as well...I met him at Mojito one afternoon while hanging out with a friend of mine who bartends at the Savoy Tivoli down the street. What a bunch of friendly, genuinely nice, cute guys. What else can I say?

Almost home, I passed by Citizen Thai & the Monkey, an upscale Thai place that just opened up on the corner of Fresno Alley and Grant Avenue. I saw a girl I know bartending in there, so I popped in to say hello. Of course, once inside, I decided I wanted some yellow curry chicken, so I ordered that as well. As I sat at the bar, waiting for my food, the cute Magnet bartender I had seen at Blanca came in to have dinner, and sat down at the other end of the bar. Of course, I snuck in a few furtive glances, but otherwise behaved myself. I engaged in friendly banter with some of the people who worked there, finding out something we all had in common in the process. Seems we all like the same Californian herbal remedies on occasion.

At one point, I asked Citizen Thai Bartender Girl to lean over towards me, as I had something to tell her.

"You see that cute boy at the other end of the bar?" I asked her.

"Uh...yeah! He's really hot," she answered.

"I have the biggest crush on him."

She stifled a giggle.

"Seriously...my nipples are poking through my shirt," I said.

She guffawed loudly and went to serve a cocktail to someone.

Cute Magnet Boy saw all of the commotion at the other end of the bar, with me talking to three extremely attractive young women. He finished his dinner, got up from his bar stool, and came over to all of us, where I was holding court at the other end of the bar. He said, "Hey, this seems to be where all the action is!" and draped his long, slender (but toned) arm around my shoulder. Citizen Thai Bartender Girl shot me a look, lips pursed, trying again not to laugh. I discreetly gnawed on the palm of my hand as I sat there with Cute Magnet Boy leaning against me, arm draped around my shoulder, laughing and talking with us.

He introduced himself to me, and started flirting with the women. Alas, he soon had to leave and go back to work, leaving me there with a flushed face and slightly-raised blood pressure. I felt like a giddly little schoolgirl, but soon started thinking of trucks and cars and tools and the San Francisco 49ers and NASCAR and beef jerky, restoring my dashed masculinity in the process.

Before retiring by myself to my apartment, where I put on a comfortable pair of pajamas, lit my fire, put on [adult swim], and tore into my food, the four of us sat on top of Kearny Street hill for a few minutes. We were savoring the downtown view, waving at the police officers a half-block down the hill...and passing the dutchie on the left hand side. We were laughing at people huffing and puffing up the hill...one couple stopped halfway up the hill, sat down, and had some cigarettes. At one point, a wild-eyed guy claiming to be an Army Ranger sprinted up the hill at is (keep in mind this is one of the steepest hills in San Francisco), saying compared to Afghanistan, the hill was pretty flat. He challeneged us to race him up and down the hill...but my chicken curry and bocadillo were calling me, so I bade everyone farewell and retreated to Club Chad, where I was on the VIP list.

Now THAT'S Saturday night in North Beach.

(btw...with the exception of the first photo, which I took from the Vallejo Street Steps at the top of Russian Hill, the night shots were all taken from my roof)

Arnold Schwarzenegger's special erection.

2005-11-08T20:16:00.000-08:00

Many of you may know we had a special election here in California, prompted by our Governator, Arnold Schwarzenegger.

I'm still trying to get used to that...Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger. Every time I see him on TV hawking his ballot initiatives or giving a speech, I just shake my head in disbelief.

So anyway, I voted today, as I always do in every single election. They gave me that sticker, and since it didn't go with what I was wearing, I stuck it to my monitor. But that's not why I'm blogging tonight. You see, since I live on the edge of Chinatown, my polling place is at an elementary school where the vast majority of the students and teachers are Chinese. Now, that in itself isn't particularly funny.

However.

What happened while I was voting WAS funny, even if I probably shouldn't be laughing about it.

When you walk through the front door of this elementary school, it gets a little confusing. You have to walk down a hallway, through another hallway, and through a door that is somewhat hidden from view. Apparently, as I was voting, someone was wandering around the hallway, not sure where they needed to go, so a small, frail-looking Chinese woman got up and walked out the door to direct them to the voting booths.

"EXCUSE ME!" she yelled. "HEY!"

I looked up from my ballot, and the guy in the next booth looked over at me.

"ARE YOU HERE FOR THE ERECTION?" she hollered down the hallway.

I let out a very audible snort, which echoed around the room for a second and resulted in a blob of snot simultaneously flying from my left nostril onto my ballot. I heard a gasp next to me...my voting neighbor glanced over with a "Did I really just hear that?" look on his face.

"HEY! YOU! THE ERECTION IN HERE!" the woman yelled again, pointing towards the doorway, but unintentionally pointing directly at my head poking above the voting booth.

I bit my tongue, trying desperately not to giggle; I ended up giving myself hiccups. The guy next to me had his hand over his mouth, absolutely hyperventilating. The lost voters walked through the door, looking like they were absolutely about to lose it.

I fought the urge to mutter, "ka-BOING!" but my mama raised me better than that.

Anyway, I wiped up the blob-o-snot, finished voting, and fed the ballot into the counting machine. Erection Woman then handed me my sticker, and I walked out the door.

I waited until I was safely out of earshot before giggling all the way back to my apartment.

At any rate, The Song of the Day HAS to be "Lady T" by Crazy Penis. I've been listening to this song and really liking it...click on the picture above to hear it. Go to Shiva Records if you want to buy it.

1968 Shelby Cobra.

2005-11-07T14:23:00.000-08:00

If you want to see my latest "cargasm" check out my photo blog if you have the chance. This is a 1968 Shelby Cobra, based on the Ford Mustang. It's extremely rare...and I'd be willing to bet this particular example would fetch over $80,000 at auction.

I'm not kidding.

I know, I've been carcentric lately, but it's just a phase. If you don't feel like traipsing over to fotopages, you can always click on the photos for the full-size view.

The Week in Pictures.

2005-11-04T16:40:00.000-08:00

Well, not really. These photos have all been taken in the past few months, but for some reason, they've just been sitting in a folder here on my computer. The photo above is actually posted upside down...it's the reflection in my friend Greg's 1988 Porsche 944's windshield.

So...I figured I'd just dust these off since I really don't feel like writing anything right now, but wanted to put up some weekend eye candy so when I open up my blog I feel somewhat good about it.

So here we go...litle slices of everyday, colorful, surreal San Francisco life these past few months. As always, click on any photo to see it in its full-size glory.

Former Miss Trannyshack Ana Conda at Feather Sundays 2 months ago:

Ana doing her thing:

My friend Heath's gorgeous eyes:

And Heath's gorgeous back tattoo:

Of course, no post of photos would be complete without Daigle. Here's a portrait of the two of us in the shifter of a Chrysler 300:

A quesadilla dinner he prepared one night:

And afterward:

My friend, Derrick Hanson (we go back a long way, actually). You can see more of him here, here, and here:

Another Feather picture:

Don't ask what this was...long story:

And finally, a pavement marking San Francisco had to install at the corner of Columbus and Broadway in North Beach to help prevent Chinese grandmothers from tottering into oncoming traffic:

So there you go. Hope everyone has a good Friday night.

In honor of Mr. Sulu...

2005-11-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

...I have this gem, originally taped off of CKFM in Toronto, Ontario, Canada, presented for you here.

To hear these two get it on:

Just click on the Enterprise:

Dirty!

Hilly hates on Southwest Airlines.

2005-10-29T22:24:00.000-07:00

So last night, I was chatting with my sister Hillary online...she was telling me about a wedding she attended in Chicago this past weekend with my parents. Now, my folks drove from Cleveland; Dad's got a pimp, Northstar V8-equipped, Cadillac Seville with front and rear buttwarmers, so there IS no coach section in his ride. It is a First Class Vehicle all the way, and whisked them down Interstate 90 in comfort, class, and style. Tell you what, it makes the five-hour drive much more tolerable, especially when you deal with all those goddamn Michigan drivers who don't know what the hell they're doing (kidding...Detroiters always complain about Ohio drivers). Hilly, however, flew Southwest Airlines out of Cleveland's newly-refurbished Hopkins International Airport, and had to deal with the Unwashed Masses that utilize the Public Transportation of the Skies.

As she drove home last night, she called and left two messages for me. Now, Hilly speaks a very fast dialect of Clevelandese, which I or anyone else from the Great Lakes region have no problem understanding. It sounds similar to the Chicago accent, but since we're closer to New York (and share the time zone) we speak much faster than the average Chicagoan, and people from Buffalo speak even faster than we do.

However, as people in different parts of the USA speak differently, and most of the world speaks different languages other than English, the Cleveland Dialect can sometimes be difficult to understand. When my sisters are speaking amongst ourselves at Full Cleveland Yammer, merging entire sentences into single words, swapping vowels, and dropping consonants left and right with wild abandon, it tends to be somewhat unintelligible and rather obnoxious to people from the South (or so I've been told).

I've transcribed her messages below for everyone's convenience.

BTW...when Hilly came to visit me last summer, she grabbed my camera while I was taking a nap or talking on the phone and went up to my roof for some self-portraits. Give that woman a camera - or a microphone for that matter, she's worse than a drag queen...she even has her own karaoke machine - and you aren't going to get it back anytime soon.

So here is the first message, which you can hear by clicking here.

Okay. So, can anyone tell me when you're about to get on a flight on Southwest, which is a cattle call, right? And you get A, B, and C Group, right? Can you tell me why everyone shuffles and pushes to get to the front of the line? Who gives a rat's ass? It doesn't matter where you sit! What, "OOO, YA GOTTA GIT, YOU SIT UP FRONT, YOU GOTTA GIT A BETTER VIEW!" It's like, who gives a shit? It was one-hour flight to Chicago, okay? It's a ONE-HOUR flight. EVER-BODY PUSHIN. Uh...pointless! And then, when ya land, you, people stand up, and then they gotta push and they gotta be in the center of the aisle. Uh, that'll get you out of the plane faster, ding-dong. Ya know what I mean? And then they stand and then their ass is like right in your face and you're like, "How ya doin?" AND...SCENE. TOTALLY unneccessary. Ya know, it just makes no sense to me, why EVER-BODY PUSH. Becuz, it's not like you're gonna get out of there five seconds faster and that's really gonna...ya know...WHATEVER. It's so...hillbillies, I'm telling you. Anyways, so, aah...okay. AND SCENE. Bye-bye.

But Hilly wasn't done. You see, she's a woman who speaks her mind, and quite loudly. When she was a kid, we called her "Foghorn" because you'd always hear Hilly's voice on the playground, carrying over all the other kids. When she and my dad watched Indians and Browns games in the TV room, everyone in the neighborhood could hear them in there hollering (and if you know anything about Cleveland sports, we do a lot of hollering, mainly from frustration and disappointment).

She was driving down a road I know is crawling with Cleveland Heights police, parked every 20 feet, bathing you with 24.15 GHz K-band love from their radar guns. As a result, people have been browbeaten into submission, and poke down that stretch.

So, she called back.

Okay, this is another thing. Um, can ya tell me why when you're in a hurry, everyone seems to go fifteen miles [per hour] in front of you? And they're always in a Buick Century or a LeSabre? And they always seem to be like, "OOOHHH! LOOK AT THAT OVER THERE!" and they're like, pointing? I'm like, uh what are ya pointing at? Stop light? Stop sign? Not quite sure. Uh...really annoying. And I left another message before, but I'm not sure - I didn't - I FERGOT TO PRESS "POUND" so I don't know if it went through. Because I don't follow directions because I'm A Horse's Ass. Uhhhmmmm...okay bye bye.

So there you go. Every time she leaves a message for me, I save it...she kills me.

She sent me some photos she took at the wedding...was she taking shots of the bride or groom? No. How about the cake, or the party? Come on, now...we're talking about Hilly here. She was playing around with her digital camera and just doing her thing. She actually has a pretty damn good eye, and is one of the photographers where she works. Now that I think about it, my mom is one of the Cleveland Heights city photographers as well, and has had some of her work published in a book (but she didn't get credit), city publications, and on the city's website.

Hey, it runs in my family. What can I say?

So at the reception...a cool self-portrait:

The candle on her table:

Decorations:

They're cool photos! I like them.

Of course, my mom grabbed the camera and took this picture of my dad...just being...well, Dad. He's doing his Bill Cosby dance there, not because he was imitating Bill Cosby, oh no. You see, he actually dances like that. I'm NOT KIDDING. He's the kind of guy who doesn't give a shit what anyone thinks, and does his own thing. I've never seen anyone in my life so comfortable with himself and who he is.

So here's my Pop...62 years old, almost 6'5" tall, tearing it up on the dance floor:

Hey, the guy's got style. Class, too...notice his tie is tied, his shirt is tucked in, and he was wearing his sport coat.

So there you go...now you know what it's like in my family.

And now...some ghost stories.

2005-10-27T14:48:00.000-07:00

Seeing as we're in the days leading to Halloween, I've decided to "come out of the closet" with some strange experiences I've had. Ever since I was a little kid, I've been seeing things I KNOW are there in front of me, but I cannot explain. The earliest I remember is an old house in Chicago where my aunt and uncle used to live. The latest...well, is in the apartment in which I currently reside.

Now click on the ghetto blaster, and let's get this muhfukkin party started, aight?

And giving credit where credit is due, that above photo was taken on my roof one windy, freezing August night by my friend Jason Collins, who currently resides in Los Angeles.

Let's just say...I don't neccessarily believe in "ghosts" per se, I just can't come to any conclusions either way. I'm not a cleric. I'm not a scientist. Most importantly, I'm nobody who can say with any certainty that there is or isn't a "supernatural" force that is out there, but can't be explained.

All I know is what I've seen, heard, smelled, and experienced.

And speaking of experiences, I'll just lay them all out here, and let you all decide for yourselves if I'm crazy or not.

Chicago, Illinois, circa 1973-4

Note: The house pictured above is not in Chicago, but is actually next to a gas station on Divisadero Street here in San Francisco. It just looks spooky and run-down, that's all.

I don't really remember why I was in Chicago, but I do remember flashbulb memories of the old house. I was with my parents, who were visiting my mother's sister and husband before they moved to southern California. I think we had flown out there...I remember the crazy graphics on the airplane, the roar of the pre-noise controlled engines, the wild seat covers, and the "stewardesses" with huge hair and drag-queen makeup who looked like they had just stepped off the set of "Rowan and Martin's Laugh In" (am I dating myself or what?) and the smell of cigarette smoke everywhere.

Yeah, I'm in my thirties. Shut up already.

The strange incident I remember happened when I woke up in the middle of the night having to use the bathroom. I walked to the bedroom door, and opened it...it made a spooky-sounding squeak, and if I recall correctly, the glass crystal doorknob felt cold in my hand.

The hallway was pitch black, and I couldn't see a damn thing. I stepped outside the bedroom, and placed my hand on a wall so I could get some bearing. Suddenly, I saw a glowing, grayishly-fuzzy, shadowy figure standing at the end of the hallway. I wasn't frightened, as I was too young to know what a "ghost" was, and to be honest, I thought maybe it was my dad coming to help me find the bathroom. I didn't say a word, I just stared at the strange figure at the end of the hallway. Suddenly, it started walking towards me with long, confident, yet gentle and friendly strides. As it got closer, it extended its arms towards me, as if it wanted to take my hand and lead me to the bathroom. I held out my right hand, my left one still on the wall, and suddenly the figure stopped, seemed to turn around quickly, and the hallway light abruptly turned on, the old-style lightswitch making a loud snapping noise.

The shadowy figure vanished.

My 30 year-old father was at the end of the hallway, looking scruffy, sleepy, and bleary-eyed. Well, everyone kinda looked like that in the early 70's, so it was hard to tell.

"What are you doing up, Duder?" he asked me. ("Duder" was a nickname he had for me, a variation of "Dude")

I was baffled...but I really had to pee, and soon I stopped thinking about the shadow person. However, I've never forgotten it completely. What could have it been?

Who knows. I sure don't, and I suspect I never will.

Cleveland Heights, Ohio, 1974-1991

Ever since I was a little kid, when my parents moved from the townhouse in Euclid to the house in Cleveland Heights, many of us in my family, the dog included, have heard strange noises in the house and backyard from time to time. As it turns out, a woman died in the house (the TV room) and her husband suffered a heart attack or aneurysm just after starting his car in the garage and putting it in reverse. He went barrelling across the backyard, and hit the house next door; you can still see the damage to the brickwork to this day.

When I would go to bed, I would hear my folks downstairs watching television for a while, then I'd hear them talking, turning off the lights, bolting the back door, securing the basement door, calling the dog to come upstairs, bolting the front door, shutting the foyer door and locking it, and finally, trudging upstairs...first my mom, then my dad. The exact same order, every night. They'd go to bed, and the house would be silent, save for the passing cars or the wind whispering through the huge trees outside, the distant "whuff" of the furnace kicking on, the steam pipes clanking, my parents' snores, a leaky toilet tank refilling for a few seconds, an occasional radiator whistle, or assorted creaks and groans of an old house settling. Stuff that I had grown to love, that would lull me to sleep.

However, sometimes, that wouldn't be all, and my peaceful slumber would be interrupted.

I would hear someone else coming up the stairs, slowly, methodically, ploddingly. I would recognize the order of the steps creaking, as whoever it was would slowly walk down the stairs again after reaching the top. This would go on for a few minutes, up and down, up and down, then I'd either fall asleep with the covers tightly pulled over my head or it would stop.

Now, a few years later, I was talking to one of my sisters, and asked her if she had ever heard that. Her eyes flew open and her face turned white..."YES!" she exclaimed. We asked our other sister, who had also heard the strange footsteps on the stairs. It's strange...all of us heard it, but we NEVER talked about it. Maybe we were afraid everyone would think we were crazy.

But the craziest thing didn't happen until around 1989 or so...my best friend Chuck and I were downstairs one Friday or Saturday at 3:30 in the morning. We had just come home from dancing at the industrial clubs and more or less getting into trouble in downtown Cleveland. We had just finished a meal of chicken parmesan (Chuck was a chef at an Italian restaurant), and decided to raid my parents' well-stocked liquor cabinet in the breakfast nook for an after-dinner nightcap.

We chose to drink some scotch, and were in the process of pouring it, when suddenly, we heard a creak on the stairs.

"Fuck," I whispered to Chuck, "I think my parents are up." We froze in place (I was 19, Chuck was 18, and my mom didn't approve of underage drinking...dad said to just keep it under control on the weekends when we didn't have to drive anywhere).

We heard the distant snores of my parents, and Chuck said, "It must be that freaky ghost of yours." He had heard it before.

I heard the dog start growling from her basket in the upstairs hallway, but she abruptly stopped.

"Yeah right," I said, pouring myself a shot. Suddenly, we heard someone come pounding down the stairs, quite loudly, I might add.

I choked on the whiskey I had just sipped, and as we hastily returned the bottle to the cabinet, the heavy stomping on the stairs, which was actually shaking the entire house, continued unseen across the living room, through the dining room, and stopped at the kitchen door.

Chuck looked at me, wide-eyed, and we crept towards the kitchen door and peeked into the dark dining room.

Nothing. Nobody.

I turned on the light. Again, nobody.

I poked my head through the passageway into the living room, which was also devoid of any sort of entity, human or otherwise. I heard the dual snores of my parents come from their bedroom, so I crept up the stairs, taking care not to make any of the stairs squeak.

The dog was cowering in her basket, shaking, thumping her tail when she saw it was me. I bent down and nuzzled her for a second; the poor Dalmatian was totally spooked about something, and I pet her for a few seconds until she curled back up into a ball and closed her eyes. I cracked open my sisters' bedroom doors...one was gone for the night for a sleepover, and the other one was obviously sound asleep in her bed with a long line of drool running down her face. Even if she HAD run down the stairs, she couldn't have done so without making the dog bark frantically, PLUS she would have made a ton of noise running back upstairs, opening her bedroom door, closing it, climbing back into bed, and drooling on herself.

I went back downstairs...and made some stiff drinks for Chuck and me. At that point, we needed them.

Incidentally, Chuck never spent the night at my house ever again...and only visited me during daylight hours.

Next...Biloxi, Mississippi, New Orleans, Louisiana, and San Francisco, California.

By the way, if you have an interesting or scary ghost story (ahem, Ed) just email it to me and I'll put it up here.

The picture says it all.

2005-10-18T12:44:00.000-07:00

I took that photo a few months ago at the the San Francisco dump, and I can't think of a better picture to describe last Sunday night.

Let me explain.

It all started out at the last Feather Sundays party at the Bambuddah Lounge in the Tenderloin.

"Tenderloin." That should be your first clue. Everyone knows that's my favorite neighborhood in San Francisco, not to mention that's also where I get into the most trouble.

Nothing like the Walk of Shame up Leavenworth Street from Market at 2:30 AM.

So I walked in the party, and everyone I knew was there...Camper English, the Good Doctor, Tender Crisp, Cement Brunette. The music was hot and the people were pretty. I took a ton of photos...there are literally THOUSANDS of them on my camera now. I should really get on that.

The party started winding down, the Good Doctor left for a Castro Bootysearch, and Cement Brunette, Tender Crisp, and I left the Bambuddah to meet Daigle at a different kind of watering hole...the Gangway. Those of you who have been reading this blog a while will know The Gangway is my favorite Tenderloin gay dive bar of all time. The bartender that was working there that night is a really cool older gentleman who pours the drinks so strong, they'll knock you on your ass. It's hard to understand him sometimes, as he's had a tracheostomy and his stoma gurgles occasionally. It's kinda distracting. In addition, Daigle even somewhat-drunk-dialed my mom from the bathroom there once, calling her "Foxy" and leaving her in stitches.

I spent most of yesterday in bed with food poisoning...that's the last time I ever eat a Whopper. WHY I have such a sensitive stomach is beyond me. I'll just say it serves me right for eating at the Powell Street Burger King.

Bluh. Healthy food, Chad! Healthy food! I will say the Good Doctor made me a delicious, healthy meal last night, washed down with Napa Valley cabernet, so that more than made up for it.

But I'm digressing.

So when I picked up my camera this morning and looked at what was on it for the first time since Sunday, let's just say I was horrified, frightened, disgusted, delighted, and tittilated at the same time. Shame on you, Cement Brunette! Same goes with you, Daigle! You two are the filthiest people I know! Tender Crisp! Shame on you too! Why didn't you intervene?

And shame on me...I'm not exactly innocent here.

I've deleted the incriminating ones of me...so I'm thinking...should I post the others?

Decisions, decisions.

Another Madge album.

2005-10-17T18:25:00.000-07:00

So, I got an email from a fellow blogger yesterday, with the new single from Madonna, "Hung Up" attached to it. I downloaded it, then started listening. Now, I've never been a huge Madonna fan, even when I was in high school. I liked the songs "La Isla Bonita" and "Open Your Heart" but I could not understand people who absolutely puddled themselves over her. I will admit, however, the "Express Yourself" video I'd see on MTV when they used to play music was absolutely HOT. I tried to grow my hair out like the guy in the video, but it just didn't work out like that. Anyway, if she was on 92Q (the Cleveland Heights-based teenybopper station of the 80's, WRQC), I'd listen to it, but I rarely, if ever, taped any of her songs off the air.

So I listened to the song from the dirty, filthy blogger. And trust me, this kid is FILTHY. I heard the Abba "Gimme Gimme Gimme" sample almost immediately.

Wow! Nobody has EVER sampled Abba before! [eye roll]

The song is okay, but it's nothing groundbreaking. Don't get me wrong, I didn't dislike the song, it's fun with frisky use of color (xoxo, Ed), it's catchy, and not overtly offensive, but it just didn't wow me.

It had about the nutritional qualities of a piece of Bubble Yum bubble gum...and the intense flavor lasted about as long. Let's just say I won't be listening to it over and over again, and am bracing myself for the inevitable heavy play it's going to get in bars and the on the radio.

Now let's talk about that album cover.

"Confessions on a Dance Floor" huh? That's SO cutting edge! Wow! AND she sampled Abba!

Is it just me, or does she look like she fell down in that picture, fractured her hip, and she's trying to hold herself up? I mean, I confess a lot of things on the dance floor, and I have been known to get a bit scandalous when shaking my ass at Badlands (a guilty pleasure I indulge a few times a year) but I never do that. Pick yourself up, gurl! Dust yourself off and get another cocktail! You don't have to "confess" anything to be because I can't hear a goddamn thing you just said! Just smile, nod, feel hella-good, and just keep on dancing.

Now, before any hardcore Madge fans start pummeling me with hate email, I will say this. Madonna was, and remains, one of the most savvy businesswomen in the industry, and is the master of media manipulation. She has built a powerful media empire, and her children will be hiers to one of the biggest Hollywood media fortunes in history.

I say, good for her. I adore her for those accomplishments. Good for marketing her product to the masses.

Oh, and her "Ray of Light" album was tolerable.

But as an artist?

Well...bless her heart.

And that's about enough out of me.

Deev-UH.

2005-10-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

So I was enjoying my post-workout lunch at Polker's Gourmet Burgers at Polk and Green streets here in San Franfucko. Someone decided to stand on top of a fire hydrant, and I recorded it. However...

Suddenly...I see an amazing woman walk by outside.

She totally caught my eye.

With her purple chenille shawl and her bleach blond hair...who could miss her?

So, I followed her down Polk Street. She was Fab-U-Fucking-Lous.

Seriously...check her out.

I was totally dying.

Look at her keys...can you say "DIVA" here???

So I followed her to her car, and asked her if I could take her picture. She was happy to oblige, and was a complete sweetheart.

So...here you are.

See? Right there.

San FranTastic.

That's what I'm talking 'bout, dammit. You may not like what she's wearing, but this woman has STYLE.

:-)

The Camper English Project.

2005-10-06T16:33:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, Camper English asked me if I could take some photos to accompany his interview in the Village Voice in New York. They picked one, and I got published a few days later.

I was looking through some of the other photos tonight (I took over 1200 in the space of an hour) and I decided these needed to be shared with the world. Camper is one of the most fun people I've ever worked with.

So...here you go.

The first one wasn't actually part of the shoot; I snapped it at Feather Sunday at the Bambuddah Lounge a few months ago. The rest, however, were all taken on the same afternoon. As always, click on any of them if you want to enlarge them.

This one in particular is my absolute favorite...this drunk guy wandered out of the tavern at the corner of Grant Avenue and Fresno Alley and stumbled into the picture. The fact that Camper is smoking two cigarettes at once only adds to the absurdity. I have this one as my desktop on my computer:

Oh, and if you haven't read Camper's book yet, you really, really should.

Camper English. He's a goddamn dreamboat. Now go buy his book. If you ask nicely he'll even autograph it or maybe write something dirty on the inside cover.

The week in pictures...

2005-09-23T08:55:00.000-07:00

Published again! This time for playboy.com's college bars series...Camper and I went to the Bear's Lair in Berkeley to interview people and take pictures. It was kinda fun, but at the same time, I dirty walking up to these young girls saying, "May I take your picture for playboy.com?"

I may have been busy lately, but that doesn't mean I haven't been taking hundreds of random pictures of everyday life in San Francisco, California. For Friday entertainment...

This little guy was actually posing for his mom at the Moon Festival in Chinatown.

A Shelby Cobra parked on Castro Street.

The Downtown Berkeley BART station.

The Church of Scientology vs. the Transamerica Pyramid.

This guy was sitting at the bar at Badlands in the Castro...with that thing on his head, his headphones in his ears, and reading the newspaper. Keep in mind there was already loud music going on, but he was still in his own world. Good for him.

This little guy lives on Russian Hill.

Downtown just after sunset.

Ana Conda prepares to bite the head off of a Ken doll at Feather Sunday at the Bambuddah Lounge.

An aggressive-looking hotrod in the Outer Richmond district.

This poor thing was about to pass out on MUNI.

Sunset on Russian Hill.

It's MY day. :-)

2005-09-22T15:33:00.000-07:00

Yeah, I'm 35 today. It's a beautiful day out, and I'm quite content, even though I'm feeling a bit under the weather.

It started out beautifully...I got my hair cut in the Castro yesterday, and Michael James met me at the barber shop to shoot the shit with Tony (my barber) and me. Afterward, he said he had something for me at his apartment, so we hopped on the 24 Divisadero and rode over to Noe Valley where he lives.

Here's Michael in his cool Noe Valley pad:

He had a really cool apartment, actually. Turns out Michael is not only a talented actor, singer, and performer, he's also a gourmet chef and a baker. He baked me a bunch of spice cupcakes with cinnamon cream butter frosting (all from scratch, mind you) for my birthday. I was absolutely floored...I had to make my own cake last year (trying not to think about last year's birthday, actually) and nobody would even have a piece of it with me...I ate the entire thing by myself.

Dumb faggots and their faggoty diets!

However, this year, I said I wanted cupcakes because they're so noncommital...you don't need a knife, they're a pre-determined size, and you don't feel guilty about eating one as opposed to a huge slice of cake. So I walk into Michael's kitchen and there they are sitting on his aquamarine formica counter...homemade spice cupcakes! They were absolutely marvelous...I am going to go eat one in a second, actually. :-) They were on a cool Pottery Barn plate that was part of the whole package...what can I say, the guy has class.

He brought me a glass of water and we hung out for a bit before heading back to my place. Right before we left, I took this portrait of him through his antique Brownie Hawkeye camera...look at the viewfinder above the lens:

I like that shot.

So we hopped on the J-Church and headed back downtown...I was fading fast, as I haven't been sleeping very well lately. I was also running a low-grade fever, and when we got back to my house, I made some frozen pizzas and a sandwich and Michael popped over to the Chinatown Walgreens for some Ny-Quil. We then got comfy on my new couch to watch the movie Nine to Five (Michael had never seen it and I'm game for watching that movie ANY TIME as it's my favorite).

Here's the couch...it was a little birthday gift to myself:

Thing is, the Ny-Quil kicked in and I fell asleep curled up on the sofa with my head in Michael's lap. It was honestly the best sleep I'd had in weeks.

I think I may have a crush on him. Well see.

Anyway.

Tonight Chris A. is going to have a little cocktail party for me in his apartment in Pacific Heights, which means I'd better get some laundry done this afternoon so I can look presentable tonight...the only clean thing I have left is a pair of sweatpants and a Trannyshack sleeveless T-shirt.

Also...I'm not done with this template...I have many more blogs to enter in my blogroll, along with some other stuff from my old template. I've just been busy.

I'd also like to extend a very happy birthday to a few other folks who are celebrating today...for one, Matthew Rush. I got to hang out with him a few weeks ago at a Chi-Chi LaRue party downtown. We were both a little drunk, but we talked for about a half hour or so. Nice guy, actually.

Also, Renel Brooks is celebrating today...she's the morning DJ on 98.1 KISQ here in San Francisco.

And of course...Joan Jett. She's exactly ten years older than me.

published!

2005-09-16T17:51:00.000-07:00

That's Camper English in that picture...I shot it up on my roof. We did a huge photo shoot a few weeks ago because he had been interviewed in The Village Voice in New York (Click on that link now and you'll see that photo on their front page) so he could promote his new book, Party Like A Rockstar, Even If You're Poor As Dirt. Anyway, they published the article today.

Awww yeah. It's cool having one of my photos in the Village Voice. I'm going out to the Castro now to join Daigle (he has a new header I made him) and The Good Doctor for celebratory cocktails in the Castro. If you're in the neighborhood, join me. :-)

If you want to buy this book (you really should) for a very limited time only, you can order one directly from him and he'll ship you a copy immediately.

If you ask nicely he might even autograph it for you.

I know I said I wouldn't post anything else in here until I was done with my template but I've been busy.

suffering from blog depression?

2005-09-08T14:26:00.000-07:00

I found this gem today on thenonist.com via data jockey. Absolutely brilliant.

There's even a pdf file for it...a must-read.

not so easy in the big easy

2005-08-30T23:06:00.000-07:00

You know, I was thinking about posting some photos of the devastation in New Orleans, but what's the point? Anyone with an internet connection or a television set has undoubtedly seen the absolute carnage in Louisiana, Mississippi, Alabama, and Florida.

The reason why it's so difficult for me to watch the images on the internet and television is because I used to live in Biloxi, Mississippi and Pensacola, Florida...and spent many a weekend in New Orleans. Some of the best times of my life were spent on the Gulf Coast, and the people I met who lived there were among the most fascinating and hospitable people I've ever had the pleasure to befriend.

Now, I've been through 2 hurricanes, Erin and Opal, both in 1995. Erin was a Category-1 hurricane, which means it was like the worst thunderstorm I've ever witnessed, doubled in power, and dragged out for a few hours. At the time, I was active duty Air Force, stationed in Fort Walton Beach, Florida, but living in downtown Pensacola in the historic North Hill district.

Halfway through Hurricane Erin, my power went out, and I knew it would be out for at least a week (it was out for 16 days). My neighbors consisted of a bunch bohemian surfers and artists next door, and the Escambia County prosecutor who lived upstairs from me. Rachel (the prosecutor) brought her guns, her pet python, and all her wine down to my apartment to ride out the storm. We were well-armed, and I actually felt pretty safe. While my roommate slept away the hurricane, Rachel, her friend Becky, and I rode out the storm in an interior hallway, listening to the radio, drinking wine, and playing Mad Libs (the more wine we drank, the dirtier they became).

When the eye came through, I climbed up onto the roof through a hatch that had torn loose in the upstairs hallway. I'll never forget the stillness of the air, the blue sky above, and the angry-looking clouds that were swirling around the horizon. To this Ohio-bred boy, it was remarkable.

Soon, the winds returned, and we again battened down the hatches and finished the bottles of wine we had opened. After the storm, Rachel took one of her guns, secured the others, and we went out to investigate. Downtown Pensacola was TRASHED. My street was completely impassable due to the multiple magnolia trees that had fallen across the roadway, and the waterfront had been pounded by the surf and storm surge.

When we got back, my neighbors were in the process of building a huge bonfire in the middle of the street with some of the branches that had fallen in our yards. One of my next-door neighbors, Smokey, was a chef at the Sun Ray Taco Shop down on the boardwalk. He instructed everyone to clean out their freezers...'cause we were gonna have a barbecue to end all barbecues.

And...we did. Steak. Chicken. Pork chops. Sausage links. Alaska salmon (from Rachel, of course). I sat there, looking at all my neighbors, their young, excited faces illuminated by the bonfire, just thinking how lucky I was to live in such a cool place. Later on, I borrowed a generator from my squadron, and the next day, everyone gave me their picnic coolers, and I piled them into my Volvo. Since the air force base had power and gasoline, I'd fill my tank, let my neighbors siphon some out when I got back, and also filled their coolers with ice at the Officer's club (I had to sneak in, but my Volvo didn't attract any attention in the parking lot). In return, they let me shower at their place (they still had gas, my apartment was all-electric and had no hot water).

New Orleans is pretty much a third-world country right now...but you can help. Click here to find out how.

More later...it's late, and I'm emotionally drained right now, wishing there was more I could do to help.

un homme et une femme

2005-08-24T19:42:00.000-07:00

See those two young people in that photo? She was 22, and he was 25. They met in Munich, Germany of all places, in the mid 1960's...the young man was an Army soldier stationed there, and the young woman was an Army brat attending the University of Maryland's Munich campus.

Fast forward a few years...they were engaged, she was living and working in Chicago, and he was living and working in Cleveland. They were writing each other letters every day, as email was a good thirty years in the future, and long-distance calls between Chicago and Cleveland were rather expensive back then. One day, the young woman recieved a package from the young man, a 45-RPM record. It was a Burt Bacharach tune, "This Guy's In Love With You" by Herb Alpert. It was an appropriate song, because he was indeed in love with her, and she was in love with him. They were married at St. Cletus Church in LaGrange, Illinois 37 years ago today, Saturday, August 24th, 1968.

If you haven't guessed by now, the two young people in that photo are my parents. They're still married today...quite happily, actually.

My folks set an extremely high standard for me as far as relationships go. For one, they rarely go to bed mad...they're the kind of people who stay up and fight until the conflict is resolved. Now, they're not perfect, but then again, they've never claimed to be. These days, instead of my mom having to deal with my dad's annoying faults, she loves him for his quirky foibles, even if he does hoard scotch tape and toothpaste, blame "people" (there's only the two of them living there now) for leaving "the portable" (cordless phone) off the "cradle" (charger), and read entire Tom Clancy spy novels while sitting on the toilet.

Or course, my mother has no faults or foibles to speak of, and is absolutely perfect in every way. Isn't that right, Dad? ;-)

They're independent, but not co-dependent. During rough times (like any relationship, there were a few) they didn't call it quits, instead choosing to behave like adults and do everything they could to find common ground, mutual understanding, and balance. Not surprisingly, they ended up even closer and more in love as time went by. Not everyone can do that, and I am by no means knocking people who haven't been able to make relationships work in the past. If I did, I'd be hypocritical. That's a glass house I'll avoid with this boulder in my hand, thank you very much. However, I have never seen two people communicate between each other the way they do; they're at the point now where they can have an entire conversation with each other without uttering a syllable. It's quite remarkable, actually.

A long time ago - I must have been fifteen or sixteen - my mom and I were talking about relationships, and the dynamic between her and my dad. I don't remember why we were talking about it, but we were. She said something that struck me then, and stays with me now...that she and my dad were not only husband and wife, but also best friends. She went on to say that neither of them were "in charge" of things; rather, it was a partnership of equals, two people bonded together by love and respect, sharing their lives, and raising their family. That mutual love and respect for each other was the glue that held together our family...no matter what...so they could be the best rock and foundation they could for my sisters and me.

It was a rather profound Chad and Mom conversation.

I remember mulling over it later in the evening, sitting alone at my desk in my bedroom after I had finished my homework. I realized in order for a relationship to work, you need to be best friends with your partner and always - ALWAYS - have clear, open lines of communication if you have any chance of making it. There's just no other way. It makes NO difference if you're gay or straight...love is love, respect is respect, trust is trust.

It's all the same.

I've seen my folks in a different light ever since that day. They've shown me how to have a mature, adult relationship that isn't dysfunctional. They have raised the relationship bar stratospherically, no, ionosperically high. I'm not sure if I'll ever be able to emulate that, because I sure as hell won't ever, EVER settle for anything less...even if that means spending the rest of my life single. That's not to say I've haven't tried; I have, a few times, but I've always fallen short and landed flat on my face. But you know what? I'd rather be happily single (and I am...I'm in an open relationship with myself right now and absolutely loving it) than in a crappy relationship just for the sake of being in a relationship (I'm not looking for one, either). I see too many people like that, straight and gay alike, desperately holding on to something that just isn't working, and it's just a train wreck waiting to happen.

I should know. I've been there, and it sucks.

You see, when my folks met, I don't think either of them were particularly searching for a spouse; it just...happened. I firmly believe the more you desperately search for someone, more they'll elusive they'll be. So in the meantime...I'm just having fun being me, and loving life. That's probably the most important thing of all.

While I was writing this, an old memory surfaced, something I haven't thought of for years.

When I was a little kid, I used to sit at the top of the stairs and eavesdrop on everything going on downstairs for hours and hours. One night, after my sisters and I were tucked in, I climbed out of bed and settled down in my usual spot at the top of the stairs...I couldn't have been more than eight years old. I heard someone turn off the television, so I got ready to bounce back into bed. However, I heard the distinct sound of a stylus dropping onto a vinyl record, and music starting.

If you click on that record, you'll hear the song they played that night...a song that will always make me think of them.

Curious, I carefully descended the stairs to the landing (it was harder than you realize...in an old house, wooden stairs creak and I knew just where to step on each stair so I could sneak down there undetected). When I poked my head around the corner, careful to conceal myself behind the banister, I saw my parents standing in the living room. They were holding hands, and just looking at each other, smiling. They embraced, and kissed.

For the first time, I saw them outside their daily routines. The groceries had been bought and put away, dinner had been made, the dishes had been done. The kids were in bed, the dog had already been taken out, the front and back door were locked, and finally, they could have some down time. Instead of Mom and Dad, I saw two young people very much in love with each other. I sat there, watching them sway back and forth to the music, talking quietly, and just enjoying the moment. They'd worry about how they were going to pay the phone bill that month, the mortgage, the electric bill, the gas bill, the fact that the car's transmission was leaking, my bike had a flat tire, and the lawn mower was out of gas...later. Yes, those things needed attention, but their relationship was more important, and needed as much care and upkeep and nurturing as anything else. There's a time and a place for everything; this was the time; this was the place. They'd sweat the small stuff in the morning.

I watched them for about a minute, then silently sneaked back upstairs. I was careful to avoid the creaky parts of the hardwood floor in my bedroom, as they were directly below me and I didn't want them to come upstairs to see if I needed something. I didn't want to disturb them, because I had just learned that Mom and Dad needed some time where they could just be alone and give each other their undivided attention. As I got in bed, I thought about what I had just witnessed. As I fell asleep on my fresh, clean Snoopy sheets in the cool darkness of my bedroom, door slightly ajar so I could see the hallway light and hear the murmuring of my parents' voices, with the music softly filtering up through the floorboards, I felt safe, and I smiled.

In fact, I'm smiling right now, thinking about how lucky they are to have found each other...life partners, best friends. Through thick and thin, richer and poorer, sickness and health. 'Till death do they part.

Happy anniversary, Mom and Dad. I love you both.

fun with cassettes

2005-08-23T17:35:00.000-07:00

See those things in the picture above? For those of you under the age of 25, those are called Cassette Tapes. I used to use those back in the days before MP3's, when I was still transferring my favorite LP's and CD's so I could listen to them in the car or my Walkman while I rode the bus.

Those two cassettes have been traveling with me since the late 1980's, through 5 states, 2 hurricanes, several earthquakes, and over 20 addresses. The one on top was actually originally owned by my friend Ron, whom I have not seen in over a decade. He gave it to me because he made a copy of his Key Lime Pie CD by Camper Van Beethoven for me. That way, I could listen to it in my improvised sound system in my 1975 Mustang II (an old tape recorder running off the car battery, jammed under the dash, hooked up to the old AM radio speaker) as I fought traffic on I-271 every morning while driving to class when I was in college. When I bought the LP (yes, you read that right, I preferred vinyl to CD during my show), I used that cassette to record my radio show on John Carroll University's station WUJC 88.7 FM (now WJCU) in University Heights, Ohio, the City of Beautiful Homes.

Normally, I taped all my radio shows on Sony HF-90's, which could be bought cheaply in my old neighborhood at the Monticello-Noble Revco Discount Drugs (now absorbed by CVS Pharmacy...blech). They look like this:

However, I was out of HF-90's one hot, muggy July day in 1990, so I grabbed that particular one from the car as I ran into the station since I had just bought the Camper Van Beethoven CD. Now, the other side was blank, so I used it to tape stuff at the radio station, and also off the radio while I was sweltering in my apartment.

The BASF cassette was also from my radio show era...I showed up at the station one night to visit a friend of mine during his radio show. Again, I was out of the HF-90's, so I grabbed this one out of the car. I don't remember where it came from, actually.

Now, when I popped these in the stereo, it was like listening to a time capsule. I recorded this stuff like, 15 years ago. So for the first time in a decade and a a half, from a dusty old box in my closet to the entire world, here you are...my old crap. I used Audacity to transfer certain clips from the summer of 1990 to MP3, so I could bring these old cassettes to life in remastered digital glory.

In the age of digital music, it's easy to forget just how crappy music taped off the radio sounded.

Just click on the mini HF-90 to listen. For some reason, on Firefox, the audio drops out a little in the beginning...just start it over again and it'll play normally.

This one is from my radio show...I was reading public service announcements. They were required by the FCC at the top of every hour. This particular one is 19 year-old me instructing you how to claim the loss of a burned motor vehicle in the city of Cleveland. The guy who talks after me is my friend Matt. Our Cleveland accents are so noticeable here...you'd think we were talking out of our noses or something. Gawd. I'm so glad my accent has faded, now only manifesting itself after a few cocktails. Oh, and that's Perez Prado playing in the background. Don't ask.

I can't believe I'm actually putting this one on the internet...it's from one hot, sticky, sultry night (again, from July 1990) when my friend Chuck was hanging out with me in my parents' kitchen up in Cleveland Heights (my folks were out on the town partying or something). We had gone through three 64-oz bottles of Olde English malt liquor (link is to a sketch comedy site inspired by the stuff) and a bunch of Bartles & Jaymes wine coolers. I called the local top-40 station Power 108 to request the latest flava from Technotronic: Get Up (Before the Night Is Over). Again...the flat, old-school Cleveland accent is there. That old Maxell tape was sitting on the kitchen counter; since I had flirted with the DJ so much (she's actually cracking up at the end of the clip) I knew I was going to get on the air. I grabbed it and taped the song off the radio. The phone rang almost immediately after this aired. It was my friend Rachel, laughing her ass off, telling me she had just heard me and I was "so fucking queer."

This one...well, you be the judge of this one. This was taped directly off the console at the radio station on the night of Thursday, July 26th, 1990. A friend of mine was in the middle of his show, and I popped in to turn in my playlist, see what new music came in, and say hi to my friend. The station had a library of cheezy production music LP's from Los Angeles. We were supposed to use them in any projects or shows we wanted. I had found an especially horrid track, fallen in love with it, and recorded it on one of the cartridges we used for the PSA's (I was going to use it in a promo I was doing for someone else's show). It was in my bag, and I handed it to my friend so he could hear it. He dared me to make up lyrics to the music on the spot, LIVE ON THE AIR. I accepted his challenge. He cued up the next record, popped the cart I gave him in the console, waited for the PSA he was playing to finish, and mouthed "GO!" as he hit the play button and my microphone button at the same time.

So here's the background to this asinine song (give me a break...I was 19):

At the time, my mom drove a clunky, rusty 1982 Chevrolet Celebrity, and my dad drove a 1990 Chevrolet Lumina. I had my mom's Celebrity that night, and her keychain (with both cars' keys) was sitting on the console. I had been eating a bag of Fritos. My friend's laundry was sitting in the corner of the studio in a laundry basket (he went directly from the laundromat to the studio to do his show).

So there was my inspiration. The result? Well, you decide.

Let's just say there there is a certain individual living in Seattle (my cousin Joey Lazerhead) who lists this song as one of his favorite songs of all time...in fact, he might cover that tune and sing it himself. To be honest, I had forgotten all about it until I found that BASF cassette.

I have tons more cassettes to go through...who knows what else I'll find?

BTW...now that I know how to use Audacity AND I found an old mixing board, I'll be able to start podcasting as soon as I find my goddamn microphone.

marcia and ryan make san francisco so fun.

2005-08-19T13:47:00.000-07:00

That's my friend Marcia there. She's probably...well, not probably, IS one of the most amazing people I've met here in San Francisco. She's sexy, she's sassy, and I need to start calling her more often, because whenever we hang out, I never know what's going to happen next, and I'm left shaking my head in disbelief because I've had so, so much fun.

Now that's my friend Ryan in that picture. You may remember his birthday. He threw an incredible party at VXN, North Beach's latest Beautiful People bar. Afterward, about a dozen or so people came back to my house for the afterparty, since I live a half-block away from the place. Fire in my fireplace, wine, booze, music, and hors d'oeuvres. It was a lot of fun.

Now, last year they threw a party called Rehab Sundays at the now-closed Julie's Supper Club here in San Francisco. It was probably the most fun I've ever had at any party here in the city. Basically, it was a Sunday morning brunch with a live DJ spinning fun, obscure stuff from the 70's and 80's, and you could get pitchers of margaritas, bloody marys, and mimosas. They also served shots in test tubes from a medical cart by Ana Conda. That's her below:

(yes, Mom...Ana Conda is actually a boy in a big obnoxious wig)

I had a lot of fun too...this is me at one of the parties. I have no idea who those glasses belonged to.

Here's Marcia and me at another one of the Rehabs:

I have no idea why my mouth is always gaping open when I'm taking pictures of myself.

Quiet in the peanut gallery! That means you too, Daigle!

Marcia really knows how to throw a party. I don't know who that guy is with her, but he's cute. I guess that's why I was following him around with my camera until he posed for me. Stalkerish? Perhaps. But I had been drinking my own half-pitcher of mimosas with an extra-long straw.

God.

The DJ kept the party going:

And everyone had an incredible time.

This is Camper English, posing for me at one of the Rehabs. Everyone should know Camper English.

He has a new book out, called Party Like a Rock Star, Even When You're Poor as Dirt. A few months ago, he wrote an article called Nightlife Takes Flight for San Francisco Magazine. I've kinda known him since, I dunno, 1997 or 1998 when he had his Cocktail Clique, a random group of people on an email list that met at random bars around the city. It was a lot of fun, and a productive way to spend the dot.com boom years of the late 1990's. He also makes the best calendars, with pictures of him coupled with his poetry. My favorite is one of the first ones he did, January 1999:

There once was camper the fluzy
who spent lots of time in the jacuzzi
but after he was done,
and had dirty fun,
the water seemed awfully oozy.

Highly, highly recommended. His "Fishing for Turds" photo was the wallpaper on my computer when I worked at Red Herring back in the day.

More on Camper English later...I'm doing something really fun with him on August 27th, with me photographing and Camper interviewing, so stay tuned.

So what's the whole point of this post? Rehab is over, so what do San Franciscans such as myself do with ourselves now? Fear not...Marcia and Ryan have a new gig...Feather Sundays at the Bambuddah Lounge in the beautiful Tenderloin.

"A summer series of poolside disco day parties. Sunglasses, glamour, and Malibu kisses. Where chic meets le freak."

Oh yes, I'm so there. I'm bringing my camera. And Camper English will be there selling his roach clips, a must-have for chic le freaks such as myself.

Now, I know a lot of you who read this blog live in San Francisco and the surrounding Bay Area. There is NO GOOD REASON for you NOT TO BE AT THIS PARTY. Same goes with people from Sacramento, Portland, Oregon, and Los Angeles. Southwest flies into Oakland, take the shuttle to the BART station, and then take BART to the Civic Center station. For those of you choosing to fly into SFO, guess what? BART goes there too. So when you get to the Civic Center station, go on up the stairs, smell the nice fresh peepee on the sidewalk, and face north until you see Larkin Street. Walk up Larkin Street from Market until you get to Eddy. You can't miss it, trust me.

Bambuddha Lounge is located inside the Phoenix Hotel at 601 Eddy Street in San Francisco, CA between Polk Street and Larkin Street.

Here's a map.

Tel: 415.885.5088.

Be there! No excuses!

the word of the day is: meme

2005-08-18T17:31:00.000-07:00

Funny, I just got this word in my inbox today, the same day Darin (All Preparation and no H) tagged me for a meme.

Now, I usually don't do memes simply because I either think they're dumb, require too much thought, or I simply forget I've been tagged. Usually, I just forget. But since my Merriam-Webster Word of the Day is indeed meme, I'll accept the memechallenge.

Hey, I just coined a new word.

The Word of the Day for August 18 is:

meme \MEEM\ noun
: an idea, behavior, style, or usage that spreads from person to person within a culture

Example sentence:
"Blogs are an interesting way... of seeing which ideas, memes, trends and news events are getting the most comment." (Clive Thompson, quoted in the _Sunday Tribune_, February 6, 2005)

Did you know?
In 1976, British scientist Richard Dawkins wrote _The Selfish Gene_, and in his book he defended his new creation, the word "meme." Having first considered, then rejected, "mimeme," he wrote: "'Mimeme' comes from a suitable Greek root, but I want a monosyllable that sounds a bit like 'gene.' I hope my classicist friends will forgive me if I abbreviate 'mimeme' to 'meme.'" The suitable Greek root was "mim-," meaning "mime" or "mimic." Dawkins's "mimeme" was formed from "mim-" plus "-eme," an English noun suffix that indicates a distinctive unit of language structure (as in "grapheme," "lexeme," and "phoneme"). "Meme" itself, like a good meme, caught on pretty quickly, spreading from person to person as it established itself in the language.

Well, I'll be damned. I knew what "meme" meant, but I did not know it had such an extensive history.

And now you know.

So, the meme Darin asked me to do is this: List ten songs that you are currently digging ... it doesn't matter what genre they are from, whether they have words, or even if they're no good, but they must be songs you're really enjoying right now. Post these instructions, the artists, and the ten songs in your blog. Then tag five other people to see what they're listening to.

Oh god. Now everyone will know what a geek I am. For one, I was listening to "Superstar" by Sonic Youth when I got the meme, but that doesn't count. So I did what Darin did and looked at my iPod for what songs I've been listening to a lot, and this is what it told me, title followed by artist (and I mixed them up here so you all won't know what #1 is):

Sign of the Times - Petula Clark
Informer - Snow (Oh, stop. Leave me alone.)
Blips Drips and Strips - Stereolab
Wild Mushrooms - Lloyd Cole
Sir Duke - Stevie Wonder
Thank You - Coconut Monkeyrocket
Center of the Sun - Conjure One
Breathe (remix) - Blu Cantrell feat. Sean Paul
Come On A My House Cha-Cha-Cha - Della Reese
Connected - Paul Van Dyk

Moral of this story: Chad sometimes has horrible taste in music. Petula Clark is to music what Totino's frozen pizza is to food. Sometimes you just crave it and it's delicious when you take it out of the oven and tear into it. Della Reese...well, I'll just call her Lucky Charms 'cause she's magically delicious. And Coconut Monkeyrocket is brilliant...they take random old samples of obscure old songs from the 50's to the 70's and make these crazy mashups. What scares me is when I listen to their stuff I often recognize where these obscure samples are coming from.

Okay, here's my five people I'm tagging:

First and foremost, Michael in San Francisco. He sent me the sweetest email today and I want to know more about him. I also want the other Michael in San Francisco to do this simply because I miss him and I know one or more of the songs will be Rufus Wainwright, along with Cool Relax in Washington DC because he's cool and relaxed (and has a hot photo) and he intrigues me, (((pure noise))) down in Los Angeles (he's pretty fucking cool and I'm curious as to what he's listening to), aaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnd...oh why not...Piggy & Tazzy simply because I'm curious as to what they're listening to over across the Atlantic Ocean.

busy busy busy.

2005-08-17T17:32:00.000-07:00

I've been busy as hell, but thought I'd post another picure.

Before anyone in the USA starts moaning about the price of gasoline, just check out this photo I took at the corner of Castro and Market.

It was because they hadn't got a delivery, and the prices dropped to slightly above $3 a gallon soon afterward, but still...it got my attention.

I'm so glad I don't have/need a car.

this place is a mess.

2005-08-16T13:59:00.000-07:00

You know, every time I post something, then look at this blog to see if it posted correctly, I can't stand the way this place looks.

Seriously. It just nauseates me sometimes. Totally blorf-o-riffic.

I mean, it's a goddamn Blogger template, I've been using it since oh...2003 or so, and to be honest, I've never liked the way this place looks. It's like I'm blogging out of a musty old basement in a home built in 1919 with cracked plaster ceilings, exposed pipes, sagging shelves, a black asphalt tile floor, ancient windows that haven't been cleaned since 1974, piles of laundry everywhere, and soggy old walls tagged with 1980's-era graffiti and mushrooms growing out of them.

Not that I've ever been in a place like that, but still.

Darin over at All Preparation and no H has made an incredible new header for my blog, so I'm working on a new template. I'll have it up soon. Oh, and because Daigle fixed my sound card, I now have podcast capability. I'm going to set it all up tonight and test out my new software, in addition to hooking my stereo up to my computer. If it all works like it's supposed to, I have something kinda fun planned...something anyone over the age of 25 will definitely be able to relate to. Let's just say I was rummaging around in some old boxes and I found some fun stuff.

Now if I could only find my microphone...

blue monday.

2005-08-15T21:05:00.000-07:00

It's Monday night...and I figured I'd post a photo. In a few minutes, I'm going to take care of a friend who has just started a new round of experimental Interleukin 2 shots. Unfortunately, this also means in about an hour or so (he injected himself a few hours ago) he's going to be experiencing a high fever, chills, and severe nausea. The only effective remedy to these side-effects is medicinal-grade marijuana.

Fortunately, I stopped by the club today and picked some up...it's called "Brain Eraser" and it's pretty strong stuff...not the kind of weed you'd smoke with your friends if you wanted to remain lucid and conversational.

No folks, this is serious medicine.

I'm going to be heading over there in a few minutes with my bong...his has sprung a leak and he's fretting a bit. Well, don't fret, my pet...my bong and I are on our way.

Let's hope his revitalized CD4 count keeps him around longer, eh? I sure hope so.

I also apologize for subjecting everyone to the phrase "balloon knot" in Friday's post. Stewie on Family Guy used that phrase while describing Brian's butt and I thought it was hilarious. Only did I reread that post did I realize just how filthy it actually sounds.

My poor mom.

Anyway, I'll post the photos of Sean and Aimee as soon as I can. And yes, Greg and Bennett, I'll send your photos too. I promise.

friday night.

2005-08-12T17:55:00.000-07:00

BernalBoy: Chadwick, my dear old chum. I've just been to see a lovely and talented drag queen named Kennedy who practices follicular design at the Mission salon Glamarama. S/he spent the better part of our afternoon outfitting me with a smashing blue and silver checkerboard 'do. I dare say we must preserve this masterpiece in digital form for the missives to parents and friends abroad who would otherwise miss the opportunity for gaiety afforded by my new-found haircut.

Chadiqua: You have been blessed by Princess Kennedy. She once picked me up in a pink limo in front of City Hall, gave me weed, and drove me to The Stud. If you want to be preserved digitally, come on over. The light is good, I have a roof and a camera, and lots of weed.

BernalBoy: I'll make my way there in just a tidbit. I'm getting together with Aimee tonight, too, so maybe we'll just have her come by. I'll be there around 6:30?

Chadiqua:It's a plan, Stan. I'll go do the dishes and douche out my balloon knot.

BernalBoy: Yum.

the colorful tenderloin

2005-08-10T20:14:00.001-07:00

I've been busy these past few days, extremely so, as a matter of fact, but I've had time to play around with a couple dozen of the almost 1,300 photos I snapped this weekend. I also have a bunch of photos I snapped while kayaking on Friday with a waterproof disposable camera, but I need to take it to get them developed.

Remember when you had to get your photos developed? Jeez...that was when phones were attached to the wall by wires.

Anyway, I uploaded my edited digital images from this past weekend onto my fotopage, and they're divided into three different sections...the interior of a Tenderloin art gallery called The Shooting Gallery while a special event called "Wet Paint" was going on, Tenderloin street art, and Tenderloin street life. Once you're in the gallery, you can click on any image to enlarge it; it'll open in a new window.

Click on one of the photos below to see that particular gallery, if you're so inclined to do so. Maybe then you'll see why the Tenderloin is one of my favorite places in the entire city.

apartment shopping in the tenderloin

2005-08-08T20:35:00.000-07:00

A wonderful Monday evening to all. This weekend was pretty fun, but I kinda messed up a couple times and totally forgot stuff.

And that's about as far I care to go into that, thank you.

On Saturday, Daigle and I went to look at an apartment that caught his eye. After hearing about another property he was interested in, I wanted to go along to make sure it wasn't a total shithole.

I was pleasantly surprised. On the outside, it's quite an elegant-looking, urban apartment building...quite similar to something you might see in New York. As always, click on any picture to enlarge it.

The building is freshly painted on the inside, and has brand-new carpeting in the hallways and on the stairs.

I almost forgot we were in the Tenderloin until I saw this posted in the back service stairwell:

I swear I almost peed in my pants when I saw that. However, I resisted. I just didn't want to be mistaken for a local from the neighborhood.

The apartment Daigle looked at is a large studio that faces an interior courtyard. The hardwood floors are absolutely pristine:

The crapper is small, but has a tile floor and marble shower (pic is a bit blurry):

There is even a little escape hatch for Daigle's tricks:

The kitchen isn't bad either...nice tile counters and a newer stainless steel sink.

In addition to a large walk-in closet with the sliding mirror doors (visible in the hardwood floor photo), there is also another small closet next to some built in shelves and a small buffet.

Heat is provided by this small, yet quite ornate radiator.

Too bad there's not much of a view. Good neighbor-watching, though. Plus, I have a suspicion Daigle is going to be putting on his own reality show every single night. Stay tuned!

Afterward, we went to the local gay watering hole right around the corner, The Gangway, which is probably my favorite dive bar in all of San Fran-freaking-cisco, and has been for quite some time now. The San Francisco Bay Guardian once described it like this:

A trip to the local dive bar is the perfect pick-me-up for the poor and egocentric drinker. You're usually the youngest, best-dressed, and best-looking person in the place if you're under 50, have both eyes, and have updated your wardrobe since 1987. The drinks are half the price of those at bars where they actually clean the bathrooms, and often twice as strong.

Daigle and I walked in, and made ourselves comfortable.

Pitchers of MGD were $9. Daigle bought one, and poured me a nice refreshing glass of that goddamn cheap-ass piss beer.

The bathroom was kinda filthy, but at least it upheld California law by posting this on the paper towel dispenser. It's nice to know they wash their hands...even after breathing.

We hung out there for a while. The bartender's boyfriend brought their little Jack Russell inside, where one of the trannies sitting at the bar with us offered it a weenie stick.

I so love the Tenderloin.

Anyway, Daigle loves the place, and has put in his application for it. Keep your fingers crossed, won't-cha?

Oh, and in response to the several dozen people who emailed me and asked me to post more pictures of myself (which I loathe doing), here's a bone I'm tossing your way:

sunset kayaking on san francisco bay

2005-08-05T14:33:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago, I got an email from my friend Sean, asking me if I'd like to go on a kayaking excursion out on San Francisco Bay. Now, I've lived here almost ten years, and not once have I been kayaking, let alone kayaking on the Bay. Now, I've taken countless ferries and even an ocean liner on the Bay, but this evening, I'll take the plunge.

I plan on paddling to McCovey Cove behind SBC Park to see if I can catch a baseball.

Anyway, it should be fun...it's sponsored by One Brick. Here's their blurb about it:

There isn’t a better way to explore the bay than by kayaking at sunset on a summer evening. The beauty of the natural habitat and the spectacular view of the San Francisco skyline will get your adrenaline going and will make for a pleasing experience for the mind, body and spirit. Expect to see sea lions, seals, pelicans, seagulls and other migrating birds and marine animals. There will be a Giants game on this night so you might even catch a baseball!

Our course will provide us with great views of these San Francisco sights:
Bay Bridge
Ferry Building
Downtown SF
Coit Tower
Pier 39 sea lion habitat
Maritime Museum (submarine, historic ships)
Ghirardelli Square (Aquatic Park, turn around point)
Golden Gate Bridge
Alcatraz
Treasure Island

I'm actually really looking forward to it...but you're crazy if I'm going to bring my camera out on the bay. I'll buy one of those disposable waterproof ones.

jane russell trumps charo any day

2005-08-03T16:29:00.000-07:00

If you've been reading other San Francisco blogs lately, you may or may not have heard it's Charo Week here in San Francisco. No, really. It seems our board of supervisors had nothing better to do but make it Charo Week in the City by the Bay. Last night, she judged a Charo look-alike contest at Trannyshack. I was thinking about going to see it, but was actually dreading several things about going to the Stud, the crushing crowds who came to see the "coochie-coochie girl" being only one of them.

Good thing something better -- and definitely more civilized -- came along.

My friend Greg called me and asked if I wanted to accompany him on a roadtrip. Greg knows I love a good roadtrip, and I'll usually drop everything I'm doing to go on an unplanned excursion.

"Hey, I need to drive Jane Russell to her house in Santa Maria on Tuesday. You wanna go with me?"

"Who?"

"Jane Russell."

"The actress?"

"Yeah. She dated Howard Hughes, that's why she refuses to fly and I need to drive her there."

"Um...okay. Sounds like fun."

"It'll be in a 2005 Saab 9-5," Greg informed me. He's a fellow gearhead who is as nutty for things automotive as me.

"Yay. Even better."

"Cool...we'll leave on Tuesday morning."

My plans for Trannyshack quickly evaporated. To be honest, I'm glad something better came up, because there's no way I was going to sit at home while Charo was judging her own look-alike contest.

Greg came and picked me up on Tuesday morning in the silver Saab, and we drove to the Sir Francis Drake hotel on Union Square. Ms. Russell was waiting outside with her cousin; Greg jumped out of the car, I slid over behind the wheel, and pulled it as close to the curb as I could without blocking the cable car. I popped the trunk, luggage was stowed, doors were opened, ladies were assisted into the vehicle, and we were off.

Ms. Russell had an elegant, aristocratic air about her. Even at age 84, she was still beautiful; those trademark cheekbones were still there and her stunning blue-green eyes just sparkled. She was the epitome of the old-school Hollywood diva...cordial, just a bit of attitude, but not too much...an absolute lady. Greg handled most of the small-talk as we made our way through nightmarish traffic (it seems every street in San Francisco is being torn up right now) to 101 southbound, the historic El Camino Real route we'd take all the way to Santa Maria. Ms. Russell (I cannot bring myself to refer to her as "Jane" because she never authorized it...so Ms. Russell it is) was quiet at first, but eventually warmed up a bit. We stopped at an Arco station in Redwood City to refuel, and I asked her if I could get her anything to eat or drink while I was inside the food mart.

"Fritos. I'd love some Fritos," she said.

"Certainly," I replied, and went inside to fetch some. I grabbed a turkey sandwich out of the cooler (which later proved to be a mistake, as I am in utter agony right now as I type this, suffering from food poisoning...ugh) and a bag of Fritos. I returned to the car, handed her the chips, and started chatting a bit as we made our way back to the freeway. Once we were underway, Ms. Russell asked me if it would be okay if she stretched out her legs and rest them on the center armrest, effectively putting her feet about a foot and a half from my face.

Like I was going to tell her no.

So there I am, chatting with this Hollywood diva about just about everything with her feet stretched out into the front seat. We talked a bit about Howard Hughes, and how Leonardo DiCaprio came to her house to talk with her about Howard so he could portray him accurately in The Aviator. She said Howard definitely had a thing for cleanliness, but didn't obsessively repeat himself over and over again, or at least she never saw him do anything like that while they were "involved" if you may.

I asked her what it was like working with Mr. Hughes when she made the movie "Outlaw" back in 1943. She sighed and rolled her eyes.

"He was such a perfectionist. He spent nine months shooting a film that shood have wrapped in less than nine weeks."

Her cousin started talking about her grandson and how he was a vegan ever since he married a british woman who attended San Francisco State University. Ms. Russell was unclear on the concept.

"A what?" she asked.

"A vegan," replied her cousin.

"A veygan?" Jane asked again, not sure what she had just heard.

"No, no, a veeegan."

"What the heck is that?"

"It's someone who doesn't eat meat, or dairy, or eggs."

"Why on earth would anyone not want to eat meat?"

"It's just her thing. She didn't get into a vegan sorority because she used honey, and the sorority said the bees were forced and enslaved to make honey."

"But that's what bees do. What else are they going to do but eat honey?" Ms. Russell was baffled as to why someone would discriminate against someone who eats honey.

"That's what I said. It's ridiculous." Her cousin just shook her head.

Ms. Russell thought for a second, then gave us her final opinion on the whole subject.

"Shit."

Greg and I about died laughing at that one...she proceeded to drop a few more "S" bombs during the trip, but nothing more coarse than that. Like I said, she was an absolute lady.

There wasn't much to listen to on the radio, and I doubt our backseat passengers wanted to listen to anything Greg or I brought for the return trip, so Ms. Russell actually spent a bit of time just singing, giving us an impromptu concert in the Saab. I decided then and there I was quite lucky, and started shaking my head, thinking about how surreal my life gets at times.

Eventually, Ms. Russell's cousin said she was getting hungry, and wanted to go to Taco Bell. Luckily, we were just arriving in Soledad, and we saw the familar Taco Bell logo from the highway. So there I was, sitting in a Taco Bell in freaking Soledad, watching Jane Russell eat a Cheesy Gordita Crunch. She basically inhaled the thing and finished it in less than five minutes.

"Hungry?" I asked her, smiling.

"A bit," she answered, dryly, then smiled at me.

We eventually arrived at her suburban Santa Maria home, a modest dwelling of four bedrooms. I carried her suitcase and garment bag inside, and asked her where I could place them.

"Follow me," she replied, and I followed her into her bedroom. "You can put the suitcase there, and hang the garment bag there, pointing to the enormous walk-in closet. I stepped inside, and marveled at the dozens of hats, pairs of shoes, and gorgeous frocks. I couldn't believe it. I was standing inside Jane Russell's closet.

"Would you like something to drink, honey?" she asked, smiling. "I have some ice tea."

"Yes please," I replied. She walked to the kitchen and poured me a tumbler of tea, topped off with cranberry juice, and then filled a wine goblet with the same beverage for herself.

Gurl, that's what I'm talking about. Drink it with style!

Her house was dramatically decorated, with two deep violet draperies covering one end of the living room windows, and lots of brightly colored fabrics and candles. She, like me, is definitely not afraid of color.

Her cousin asked me if I wanted an autographed glossy of Jane, and of course I said yes. She spread about a dozen different ones on the dining room table. I found a copy of the one I picked on the net:

Ms. Russell smiled at me, and signed it:

"I'd shoot you, Chad, but I'm too tired to get up. Love, Jane Russell"

I vowed to myself to treasure it and frame it as soon as possible. I mean, it's kind of a hot photo.

At one point during my visit, I asked her if I could take her photo, and she said yes. Her eyes danced when she saw me pull my camera out of my bag (it's big, and professional-looking) and we went out onto her patio, where the light was good.

These two are my favorites...you can see she still has every bit of moxie she ever had:

Like I said, Diva to the Core. We were talking about when she did Gentlemen Prefer Blondes with Marilyn Monroe. She did a hysterical deadpan Marilyn imitation (which left me in stitches), and said yes, that's the way she really did talk most of the time.

As she showed me her home, I couldn't help but notice tons of old photos everywhere, several of Ronald Reagan in fact. Turns out she's friends with Nancy.

Who knew?

We said our goodbyes, and I shook Ms. Russell's hand, telling how what an extreme pleasure it was to make her acquaintence. Her cousin suddenly said, "Oh go ahead, hug her. She wants to hug you. Then I want one too!" I leaned over and hugged her, and she gave me a strong hug back. She may be 84, but she's definitely not frail.

Pulling away from the house, Greg and I briefly entertained the idea of visiting Neverland Ranch, but after getting lost in a labyrinth-like suburban housing development where all the houses were identically beige, we gave up and headed back to San Francisco, stopping at Denny's in Pismo Beach to eat dinner.

We eventually got back on the road, and at one point, I asked Greg to pose for a photo.

He did.

See, Greg? You should always smile nice. You never know what I'm gonna throw up on the internet. :-)

when q-tips just won't do

2005-08-01T23:19:00.000-07:00

I may or may not have neglected to mention I have a temporary roommate...because Daigle was too sick to look for a new apartment for a while, he found himself sans-place to live when the lease on his old apartment ended on July 31st. I'm not going to let the guy freeze to death on the streets of San Francisco in the middle of the summer (if you live here you know what I'm talking about) so I offered my couch and living room to him while he looks for an apartment that's suitable for him and his jet-set San Franciscohomo fabulous lifestyle (Note to Daigle: I will NOT ALLOW YOU TO MOVE TO TRINITY PLAZA! They're going to tear down that shithole next year, and speaking of shithole, don't ever eat at Moonstar Restaurant downstairs unless you want a nice heaping buttload of giardia). As a result, we've been seeing a lot of each other lately.

I really don't mind...he's not a bad roommate at all. His obsessive-compulsive nature cames in quite handy at times. For example, poking around in my kitchen cabinets looking for something to eat turned into a complete overhaul of my kitchen storage systems, complete with a mopped floor and scrubbed kitchen sink. Not being able to move my desk chair around as much as he wanted turned into a major cleaning project, complete with moving my stereo to a better location, reorganizing my entire desk (it needed it), cleaning every surface, and pimping out my bedroom with an old neon sign I had but wasn't using and moving some pictures around. The icing on this delicious cake was the fact that the sound card on my computer is now fully functional, and for the first time since I've had this thing, I can actually listen to the music I have on my hard drive. It's so nice to finally be living in the year 2005, even if I'm running Windows 98.

Tell you what, my place is looking shit-hot, and I'm more organized than I've been in years.

So I got home today, and Daigle greeted me at the door, tail wagging, jumping up on me, peeing all over the floor. I rolled up a San Francisco Chronicle and swatted him on the butt, saying "NO! DOWN!" firmly until he sat quietly. (when Daigle reads that, he's gonna yell "FUCK YOU, CHADFOX!" really loud...I just know it) He then presented me with two packages of ear candles, saying we were going to do some ear candling. I'm generally open and receptive to such things, so he explained to me how they worked and went to the kitchen to get some towels and aluminum foil. I figured, this is San Francisco, I don't care of my neighbors see me lying on my side in front of the television with a burning taper sticking out of my ear, and besides...I've seen a lot of strange stuff go on in the apartments across the alleyway.

Daigle stuck the taper in my ear, lit it, and soon, I felt a slight suction and heard what sounded like someone sucking a milkshake through a drinking straw when the milkshake is already gone.

You know what I mean?

When that ear was done, I was stunned to be able to actually hear things I normally don't hear. For example, the swishing of my feet as they slid on the hardwood floor. The fan I left running in my bedroom. A conversation in Chinese floating up from the apartment below. Someone lighting a cigarette in the alley. Photosynthesis in my houseplants (okay, not really).

I quickly a taper in my other ear, and exclaimed, "Light it! Light it!" When that ear was done, I felt as if my hearing had been restored. I couldn't believe it. I repeated the process for Daigle, who looked rather strange lying on my living room floor, head on a pillow, aluminum foil on the side of his face, with a burning stick protruding from his head like it was some freakish birthday cake.

I wish I had thought to take a photo.

Now, the skeptic in me did a bit of googling, and as it turns out, ear candling may not be such a good idea after all. This article from quackwatch.org debunks the whole practice, as did this entry from The Straight Dope.

Quackery or not...it felt kinda cool, but I think I just might stick with digging out my earwax with dirty wooden spoons and chunks of broken window glass, just like my mom used to do for me.

It's an old Cleveland remedy!

Okay, I made that last part up.

[smirk...]

2005-08-01T11:36:00.000-07:00

This landed in my gmail inbox this morning.

Snapped by my good friend Mike C. in downtown Cleveland, Ohio this weekend. If you're ever fortunate enough to travel through Cleveland, you can find this gem here.

One of the many, many reasons to love Prospect Avenue.

survey says...MUSTANG!

2005-08-01T11:04:00.000-07:00

You know, you can take the boy out of Erie, but you can't take the Erie out of the boy.

The Good Doctor has purchased the black-on-black 2005 Mustang convertible. Tell you what...it's a blast to drive around San Francisco. I Triple Dog Dared him to ram the cable car, but he wouldn't. So I dared him to pretend to ram the cable car, but still...he wouldn't.

I guess we don't want the tourists to soil themselves. We need them here.

It's a fun, fun car...much more so than anything else we looked at. Tell you what...the BMW 330i may be faster, the Audi A4 may have more panache, and of course any Mercedes will outperform the 6-cylinder Mustang. However, the Mustang has something the German offerings are lacking...heart and soul.

It's also the reason why the Mustang soldiers on after the demise of the Chevrolet Camaro...a ponycar that outperformed the Mustang on every level, but was nonetheless outsold by the Ford. Camaro sales were as flat as an Los Angeles bank robber's tires after running over spike strips thrown down over the 405 by the CHP. The Camaro was euthanized rather unceremoniously in 2002.

Yeah, that was some extensively wordy bad writing, but it's the best I could come up with right now. I need more green tea.

Anyway, Joel is happy with his purchase...and I'm glad he decided on an American car. It's just the Midwesterner in me. I blame my dad.

Besides...maintenance is much cheaper. :-)

car shopping

2005-07-29T15:40:00.000-07:00

The Good Doctor, Joel T., decided his 1991 Jeep Wrangler just wasn't cutting it anymore. The clutch was faulty, it got horrible gas mileage, it was totally falling apart...and besides...he just finished his residency so he didn't have to drive the damn thing anymore.

He asked me if I'd go car shopping with him, so we hopped in the Jeep and crossed the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin County, where all the Really Nice Car Dealerships are located.

It was one of those picture-perfect Northern California summer days.

Now, Joel was thinking about maybe a BMW, Volkswagen, or Audi convertible. I mean, he's gay, he's a doctor, and he lives in San Francisco, so it's expected of him to purchase a sporty, expensive, German automobile, no?

Well, Joel is from Erie, Pennsylvania...to be honest, he's always wanted a black Ford Mustang convertible with a black leather interior, manual transmission, and a 6-cylinder engine (this is San Francisco, remember...gasoline prices are just absurd) since he was sixteen years old. We walked into Marin Ford for shits and giggles, not really expecting to find anything. However, we were stunned to find this thing sitting on the showroom floor, gleaming in the afternoon sunlight. Immediately, Joel insisted they take it outside so he could play with it.

Trust me, I wanted to get my hands on it too. I've wanted to drive one of these since they came out.

We couldn't believe it...the exact car Joel wanted...right in front of us. It had such a cool interior...Ford did a good job with this one:

It begged us to take it for a spin...

So Joel climbed behind the wheel, I squeezed in the back seat, and the salesperson got in the passenger side. Joel put it in gear, released the clutch...

...and promptly stalled it.

I laughed out loud, and yelled, "GEEK!" Joel shot me a look in the rearview mirror and tried again. The Mustang roared back to life, and with a slight bark of the tires, we were on our way.

Joel and I were instantly smitten. It was the ultimate Boy Car, and at that particular moment, we weren't two gay men in their thirties, we were two midwestern teenagers playing with a grownup-sized toy. He let me drive it (I didn't stall it...ha ha ha Joel), and I took it out on the 101 and drove the thing like it was meant to be driven.

Fast, with precision. Just like my pop taught me.

Basically, I leaned into it a bit and accelerated to approximately 85 MPH before my built-in Drivers License Preservation Alarm went off...not to mention I remembered it actually belonged to Marin Ford.

I'm such a goddamn kid sometimes.

However, being sensible Midwesterners, we decided to look at those pretty, shiny, blinged-out rides the Germans were offering. So, we bade Marin Ford adieu, climbed back into the Jeep, and drove over to Sonnen Motorcars, where this rather stern-looking automobile greeted us.

I have to admit...it was pretty, but it was also approximately $10,000 more than the Mustang. We decided to poke our heads inside to see what else they had.

"Um, may I help you?" asked the receptionist with an annoyed tone as we walked inside.

Joel and I looked at each other, puzzled as to why the woman had no idea why we were there. I mean, it isn't like we were pushing a shopping cart and asking where the produce section was. For god's sake, it's a car dealership. What the hell did she think we were in there for?

"Well, we're just looking to buy a car, that's all." I was annoyed. "I guess we're just looking."

"There are no salespeople here right now, you'll have to come back tomorrow," she curtly replied.

At this point, Joel decided that even if there was a car there he might want to buy, he'd buy it somewhere else. Miss Bitchypants kinda stunk the place up with her shitty attitude. Now, maybe she was having a bad day. That's fine. But we walked into the dealership with a jovial and friendly attitude, and actually said hello to her first.

It would have been nice if she hadn't been so unpleasant.

Are you listening, Sonnen? You should teach your staff to not be rude to two gay men from San Francisco, one of which had a lot of money to spend, the other who acted like he did (I would have been the latter).

We decided to ignore her and look at some of the goodies parked around the showroom.

Now, this was was WAY too big, even if it was absolutely stunning. It's an Audi A8 with the W12 engine (translation: huge, powerful, 12-cylinder beast that sucks down copious amounts of petroleum). It was much more automobile than Joel needed, but I imagined myself crossing the United States in this gorgeous machine with the huge schozz:

It was also approximately $117,000. I had my checkbook with me; I figured if I wrote a check for it, I'd have just enough time to drive it to Honduras where nobody would ever find me.

We walked over to the Jetta instead:

It just left me wanting more.

We decided we had had just about enough of Sonnen, so off we traipsed to the next stop...RAB Motors in beautiful San Rafael, California.

Oh hell yeah...now you're talking.

I was enchanted by these machines...so bold, so powerful, so...Teutonic.

I was lost in my own world for a bit...Joel went to look at some other cars while I just snapped away.

Joel quickly decided that most everything on the lot was a bit out his price range, save for a few SLK's that were lined up on the lot.

Total Bottom Cars. Like VW New Beetle convertibles.

Blech. Not for me. I never liked these SLK's very much anyway...they're too damn small and I feel like a total homofaggotsissygirl in them. I do like the new ones, though. It only took Mercedes eight years to get the damn things right.

We were quite amused at this handwritten thing in the windshield of this used...oh wait, I'm sorry, pre-owned vehicle. Apparently, this is Marin County's answer to a tag sale:

You'd think for a car just $12 south of One Hundred Large they at least could have had someone with better handwriting scrawl that out. And what exactly is "European Pricing" anyway?

Maybe that's just part of the Marin County charm...who knows?

Joel and I had a good laugh over that one.

We headed back over the Golden Gate Bridge...

...where the last rays of sun bathed the towers in golden light.

Of course, there was no way around the $5 cover charge to get back into San Francisco...

...but I guess it was worth it. It was one of the most gorgeous evenings I've ever seen here. Usually it's cold and foggy at that time of day, but instead...

...it was kinda nice. Warm...the way summer is supposed to be.

And that wrapped up an afternoon of car shopping, Marin County style.

happy birthday, mom

2005-07-28T07:30:00.000-07:00

That's a picture of my mom, taken in 1968, shortly after she got married and moved to Cleveland from Chicago (where she grew up). I'm not going to say how old she is today, but I will say she is young at heart, and wise beyond her years.

Growing up, she made sure we all sat down as a family to a home-cooked meal, prepared more or less from scratch, every night...even though she worked full-time. She was a den mother for Cub Scout Den 3, Pack 7, and held the meetings every Tuesday afternoon in the dining room of the house. She was what you'd call a Power Mom...and all of her time and energy -- and Dad's for that matter -- went into making sure her kids were healthy, happy, well-fed, well-educated, exposed to fine art and music, and loved.

She also could have written Miss Manners' column...any time I am in some sort of tight social situation, I always think to myself, "How would Mom handle this?" It always turns out to be the right decision. She was loving, but also firm, almost always fair, and has extremely high standards. "Good enough" is not good enough for her. She always demanded The Very Best out of my sisters and me, and also herself (she's her own worst critic...and people wonder why I'm like that).

Speaking of columns...she's the editor of Focus Magazine, a publication that is mailed quarterly to every household and business in the City of Cleveland Heights. Most of the content of that magazine, and also clevelandheights.com, is her handiwork...her classy, smooth, and polished writing style is recognizable immediately. When I was a kid, I once told her anytime you read anything she wrote out loud, you had to move your mouth around a lot. Let's just say she knows a lot of big words, and was never afraid to use them around her kids.

Her beef stroganoff, meat loaf, beef stew, pepper steak, stir-fry, cream of carrot soup, Thai chicken coconut soup (yes, she makes a mean tom ka gai), baked chicken, and from-scratch mashed potatoes are the best I've ever had. I can't tell you how many chilly fall Monday evenings when I'd come home from CCD (it's a Catholic thing) and the aroma of whatever she was cooking would greet me -- along with an affectionate Dalmatian -- as soon as I walked in the back door. She also has eyes in the back of her head...she'd leave a bowl of chocolate chip cookie dough on the counter, and even if she was upstairs, she'd know when I was about to stick my hands in the bowl because she'd always yell "Get away from the cookie dough!"

I have no idea how she did that. I could never get away with anything. She's just too damn smart and clever, and she can smell bullshit from a mile away...and she doesn't tolerate it, either.

I guess you could say I'm pretty damn lucky.

Happy birthday, Mom. I love you.

(Mom, Easter 1967, Chicago, Illinois)

oh, balls.

2005-07-26T22:27:00.000-07:00

So I came home today, and I found a chartreuse piece of paper taped to the front door of my building. Apparently, they're going to use the alleyway and my building in a Sony commercial. This is what the note said:

MJZ Productions
2201 Carmelina Avenue
Los Angeles, CA 90024

July 26, 2005

Dear Residents of the Kearny & Vallejo Street Area, [funny, I was just thinking of changing my name to exactly that]

In coordination with the Film Commission, the San Francisco Police Department and the Mayor's Office, a local San Francisco film crew has been hired to film a national television commercial for SONY in your neighborhood on Wednesday, July 27th, 2005, between the hours of 5:00 am and 3:00 pm.

Okay, so they're filming another commercial around here. Nothing so unusual about that. I read on:

This commercial will have thousands of soft rubber balls cascading down the streets in your neighborhood. [No, really. I'm not making that up. It really said that.] We have a large group of personnel help to help wrangle all these balls when each take is concluded. A host of the balls will be caught in nets.

At this point, I looked around to make sure I wasn't being secretly filmed. This, I thought to myself, I have GOT to see. It was probably the strangest note I had ever seen taped to my front gate. I continued reading:

The overall concept of the commercial requires that we close the streets to the general public and to traffic so we may control the intersection during our shooting. However, WE WILL BE ALLOWING ANY RESIDENT TO DROVE THROUGH OUR SET TO GET TO THEIR RESPECTIVE GARAGE.

If you have any special concerns please feel free to contact us.

Thanking you in advance for your assistance.

Wait, MY assistance? If those muhfukkas think for one minute I'm gonna be running up and down the hills fetching a bunch of goddamn balls rolling around...well, maybe I'll help 'em out a little bit, but you'd better believe I'm gonna try to grab some of those balls.

'Cause I'm so good at it, ya know?

Get it? Ball grabbing?

Oh, whatever. This is gonna be strange. I already saw my building (including my bedroom and living room windows) one night in a Nissan Murano commercial, and of course, that Reese Witherspoon flick they filmed last November (that link is to my photoblog about that whole thing).

Great. Tomorrow, my neighborhood is going to be taken over by a bunch of balls.

Never a dull moment around here.

i. am. mortified.

2005-07-20T20:47:00.000-07:00

So my phone rang tonight, as it's often wont to do. It was my mom, and what she told me absolutely horrified me.

"You know, Chad, I was up until one o' clock in the morning last night, reading your blog," she told me matter-of-factly.

"What did you say?" I asked, hair standing on end.

"I read your whole blog."

"Like, the entire thing?"

"Yeah. I love your writing."

I immediately thought of this post, this post, this post and this post especially, this one where I actually quote her, this embarassing debacle, this particularly scandalous weekend, this cabride, this filthy rental car, and this favor I did for a friend of mine. NOTE: Mom, do NOT click on any of those links!

I just wanted to vanish and never reappear in this dimension ever, ever again.

"So basically, what you're telling me," I asked her, cringing, "is you read every single post I have ever written."

"Yes."

Oh god.

"Um, didn't I tell you NOT to read my blog?"

"Yes, but I was curious."

"MOM!" I yelled...it was all starting to sink in. "God, I can only imagine what you think of me."

"Well, I don't like your modeling debut."

"Oh, the one where my ass is hanging out?"

"Yes, I didn't like that picture."

"Well, now you know why I didn't want you to read my blog. You saw my ass."

"Oh, so it's okay for the entire world to see your ass, but it's not okay for your mother to see it?"

"That's right." Hell yeah. This blog is my outlet...my mom doesn't need to sift through my filth.

"Tell you what, Chad," my mother countered, "I have a challenge for you."

"Kinda like the Pepsi Challenge?"

"Yes honey, I have a Pepsi Challenge for you." Mom is used to random 1970's and 80's advertising tag lines suddenly manisfesting themselves in my mind.

"I love Pepsi Challenges."

"Yes honey, I know you do. So tell you what, for one week (she really stressed that), why don't you compose blog posts you would feel comfortable with your mother reading."

I mulled over her Challenge. "But then it won't be interesting, and I won't be able to use any cuss words."

"You don't need to use cuss words."

"Yeah, I know, but I like using cuss words. It's my goddamn blog."

"Just don't use so many cuss words."

"Okay, fine."

"And don't blog about [something bad that just happened]."

"Okay, I promise I won't write about that. I wasn't going to anyway."

"Promise?"

"Promise."

I guess I should clean this place up a bit. I'll try not to say fuck, shit, cunt, blubbercunt, fluffyblubbercunt, sissycuntpussybitch, motherfucker, cocksucker, or buttfucker as much as I have been recently. But don't be surprised if I occasionally slip up and a rogue "fuck" escapes from my fingertips.

However, she said nothing about posting off-color pictures like this one...a young homogay I snapped in the Castro because I simply loved his shirt:

Tee-hee-hee!

Okay, I'll clean it up for a week, but after that, I'm not promising anything.

the poseidon adventure

2005-07-19T11:14:00.000-07:00

There's got to be a morning after
We're moving closer to the shore
I know we'll be there by tomorrow
And we'll escape the darkness
We won't be searching anymore...

Ai yi yi. All I wanted was a relaxing evening, hanging out at home by myself, making some nice bowtie pasta with red pepper sauce and sauteed vegetables from Trader Joe's, having a single glass of wine, and vegetating in front of the Zenith System-3 (sadly, sans Space Command). I took that photo above when walking home from T'Joe's; it's the front window of Rosalie's New Looks on Columbus Avenue in North Beach. You can research the place here if you want. It's a fierce drag queen beauty salon and wig rental place.

I, for one, think it's fabulous. I love the fact it's in my neighborhood and not the goddamn Castro. Not to hate on the Castro, but I'm glad to be living far away from it. That neighborhood is so self-consuming, it's at the point of being absolutely cannibalistic at times.

Tires me out.

It all started unraveling when Daigle called and asked what I was doing. I thought it might be nice to have a little company, so I invited him over and asked him if he wanted some pasta. Daigle, however, was not in a pasta mood, instead saying he had a hankering for some mac and cheese with tunafish, and he was going to stop at the liquor store (our local supermarkets in this neighborhood) to get some mac and a can of tuna. Of course, Daigle assumed I had milk and butter (I had none) and when he got here, he had to run back out and go to two liquor stores before he found one that actually had milk, because he sure as hell wasn't going to walk all the way back down to Trader Joe's.

Thank you, Aaron Peskin, (my district's supervisor) for keeping those nasty little stores out of my neighborhood that actually sell groceries. You're doing a real bangup job there, bucko. Or should I say, angry dwarf? (Thank you, Joe O'Donaghue, for being such an uncivilized, foul-mouthed cretin)

And that's about enough of local politics.

So Daigle made his mac and cheese, and sat down...where he started eating the whole thing. He didn't realize I wanted some food as well...there was just a misunderstanding. He felt bad, and left to make a THIRD trip to the liquor store to fetch ChadFox his own box [of mac and cheese and a can of tuna]. Upon his return, however, he relayed to me what he had just seen in one of the downstairs apartments.

"Dude, Chad...ya downstairs neighbah (he still has a Masshole accent) has watah pourin' in theyah mothahfuckin apahtment, yo."

"Huh?" I asked, completely starving at this point. It was after 9 and I still hadn't eaten dinner. "Oh...fuck. Watch this and shut off the gas if it boils before I get back." I had just put a pot of water on my stove in anticipation of that delicious TunaMac.

Or should I have called it iTuna?

Okay, I apologize for writing that.

I ran downstairs, and was confronted with utter pandemonium.

That is the apartment of my neighbor V. Vale, out of which he runs the extremely successful RESearch Publications. Now, RESearch is one of my favorite publications, and I love his music complilations (I own all of them). I've been a huge fan of his stuff for almost a decade now...I mean, the guy knows Jello Biafra personally. How cool is that?

Now, Vale was in the process of Completely Losing His Shit. What appears to be paint splattered on the window in that above photo is actually cascading water, caught mid-cascade. You see, that's his entire life packed in that apartment, where he lives with his wife and 11 year-old daughter. Thankfully, his wife and daughter are overseas right now, and one of his employees was there emptying the soggy boxes of water on the floor that were rapidly starting to overflow.

I ran upstairs to the apartment above his, and honestly, I've never seen anything like it. For one, the apartment manager had to break the door down because the tenant, a suspected Vegas hooker, had installed an illegal deadbolt on the door and was subleasing the place to some Italian immigrants who play guitars in various touristy Italian joints on Columbus Avenue here in the 'Beach.

Smashy-smashy! The hand and green mug of coffee belong to my new neighbor across the hall from me, who was not quite sure what to make of the chaos unfolding in front of him.

So after my building manager Paul (you've all met him before) bashed down the door, they were greeted with a wall of water that literally poured out of the apartment into the hallway. It seems a faulty valve on the line that fills the toilet tank burst, effectively filling the apartment with thousands of gallons of water in a very short time. Remember we have extremely high water pressure around in these here parts. There was literally four inches of standing water in that apartment, and it was on the second floor. I walked in, and heard the rapidly-warping hardwood floor groan under the weight of all that water.

Yeah, you read that right. It groaned.

It's hard to tell from that photo (click on it to enlarge it), but I was standing on my toes in deep water in the living room of that apartment. I will say right now that the Italian dude living there keeps an immaculate household, which made our cleanup efforts infinitely easier. Vale started freaking out, because the last thing he needed was the floor collapsing in this place into HIS apartment, effectively destroying a business he had worked to build up since the late seventies.

I asked Paul if he had a garden hose. Not quite sure where I was going with this, he ran downstairs and produced one for me. I dropped one end out the window into the staircase alleyway, and told Vale to hold one end submerged in the deepest part of the flood. I ran down the fire escape, grabbed the hose, took it out to the street, and started sucking on it.

Okay. Fine, laugh. However, I knew my mad gay skills would come in handy some day.

Using my powerful diaphragm to suck a vacuum in the hose, I successfully started some siphon action. I got a few mouthfuls (and some in my lungs) of water, but after a few coughs and sputters, I managed to get the flow started...and it was actually quite strong. Vale and I drained most of the water out of the apartment in just a few minutes, 10-15 at most (that's him in the photo above). We finished up with towels produced from various neighbors and several mops.

Paul heard me gagging on the water outside (I need to work on my gag reflex), so he brought me an ice-cold 24-oz can of Budweiser with which to rinse out my mouth. Of course, being from Cleveland, I'm not gonna spit out any kind of alcohol unless absolutely necessary (I'm lots of fun at wineries) so most of that beer ended up in my stomach. Tourists and partiers walking by (I live across the street from a popular night spot) looked at me quizzically, wondering why the hell I had been sucking and gagging on a hose running from a second story window, and was now sitting there on the curb soaking wet and drinking a beer. I guess taken out of context, I must have looked like a total freak.

At one point, the Italian dude staying there came home, and was utterly confused as to what the fuck was going on. We filled him in, and then I pulled him aside and told him he should probably hide the joints he left in the ashtray on top of the TV. I mean, I was looking for a safe place to put a tealight (Daigle brought down my bag of Glimma tealights so we could see...Paul very wisely cut the power to that apartment so we wouldn't be electrocuted) and I discovered two fatties sitting in the ashtray.

Heeeeeey.

Anyway, the Italian told me he'd bring one up to me later if I wanted.

The place was completely trashed, but not as bad as poor Vale's place, which still still resembled a tropical rain forest during a downpour. His ceiling was starting to cave in a bit, so I grabbed a screwdriver and stabbed a hole so the water pooling above the sheetrock could drain out.

With a soggy "pluph" sound, a chunk fell, and the water started cascading into a strategically-placed, garbage bag-lined cardboard box on the floor.

Right after I took that picture, I felt a scalding hot drop of water land on my neck, which completely startled me. Turns out the light fixture off of which the drop originated was shorting out, effectively heating the leaking water to the boiling point. Paul grabbed a pencil and hit the light switch with it (he had wet hands) because the last thing he needed was an electrocuted and scalded tenant on top of everything else.

You know...after realizing I can only do so much...I Got The Fuck Out Of There. Another neighbor who had been assisting in the cleanup efforts announced he too was finished, and was going upstairs to smoke a bowl; soon the hallway was filled with the light, refreshing scent of Humboldt's finest.

Sometimes I think I live in Amsterdam.

By this time, it was 11:30 at night, and I didn't feel like making iTuna anymore, so I flopped down in my favorite chair and ate some leftover pizza, and Daigle and I simply vegged out and relaxed. Paul came to my door a few minutes later to thank me for everything I had done, and told me he'd be by in the morning with the plumber to fix some minor stuff I had in my apartment (dripping bathroom faucet, loose kitchen faucet & install a new aerator I bought).

Paul kept his word...and showed up this morning. I now have a drip-free bathroom sink, a nifty new sprayer on my kitchen sink (and it doesn't leak everywhere anymore, either), and he told me he'd be by later with something else for me [read: something herbal, like a nice fragrant Bag O' Boldt] and a spare key to my front door deadbolt I've been missing since I moved in.

I actually feel like I'm living in a not-so-ghetto apartment, even if my only heat sources are a space heater in my bedroom and my fireplace.

Yes...Tales of the City is alive and well in the year 2005, and sometimes I feel like I'm in some bizarre reality show where you never know what's going to happen next. 'Tis my life, I suppose. It sure beats living anywhere else right now.

Now before anyone asks me why the hell I did all this, keep in mind:

It was late at night, and Paul couldn't find any emergency plumbers to come out
I would hope my neighbors would help me if anything happened to my place
who the fuck else was going to do it?

It's just the way I was raised, I suppose. Besides, Paul told me he'd talk to the realty company that runs this mess we all live in and insist they knock off a half-months rent for me. Tell you what...here in San Francisco, that's not exactly chump change.

For the record, when I went to go make the iTuna for lunch today, I discovered much to my dismay Daigle drank all the milk last night. That fucking brat. No iTuna for Chad!

Bah!

I had to opt for a Tofurkey sandwich on whole grain bread with Trader Joe's veggie chips. Afterward, I felt like sticking a flower in my hair like a good San Franciscan, throwing on a Judy Collins record, making macrame, discussing vaginal empowerment, and just being crunchy.

:::UPDATE v1.0:::

I'd just like to say thanks to whoever nominated me over at Best Gay Blogs, not to mention the folks who run that site. You all rock. :-)

:::UPDATE v2.0:::

It seems Brian Shields caught this as well and threw it up over at KRON 4's aggregate. Thanks, Brian...if you were ever sitting around, listening to Judy Collins, weaving some macrame and talkin' bout 'ginas -- and suddenly, someone threw you into a huge vat of milk -- I suspect you'd stay nice and crunchy and flavorful.

Brian is a nutritious part of a complete breakfast. :-)

jackie-o's

2005-07-18T13:54:00.000-07:00

Where else but the Mission District could you buy a pair of sunglasses -- namely, the ones my sister Hillary has in these pictures -- for only $7.99? She was working those glasses for every cent they were worth.

We stopped at Puerto Alegre (546 Valencia between 16th and 17th for any SF locals who haven't been there) for a delicious $12 pitcher of margaritas and some guacamole, chips, and wet-style burritos. Yeah yeah, I know...Mission locals just love to deride the place. They say it's full of "hipsters" and the food isn't "authentic" but I love the margaritas, I love the burritos, and I also love it when the mariachis wander in and sing Neil Diamond songs en Español.

Soy, dije. Y nadie oyó en absoluto, no hasta la silla.

Besides, I hardly qualify as a "hipster" ...whatever that means. We were totally working those glasses, and we didn't take them off when we sat down at Puerto Alegre:

Now, those glasses were $7.99 each, but two pairs for $14. So I picked out a pair of Jackie-O's for myself. Brechi commented a few posts back that I should post a picture of myself on this blog. Well, I don't take very many pictures of myself, and the ones I DO take, or other people take, usually turn out so awful I don't even want to look at them. I especially dislike posting photos of myself in my blog. However, after sending Brechi this photo via AIM (he was the first one besides me to see that photo), he convinced me to post it here.

So here you go, Brechi. Me. Looking ragged and scruffy this past Friday afternoon, while talking on the phone to Hillary...who has been back in Cleveland for about a week now:

Gawd. I hadn't shaved that day. My hair was doing a funky f'auk thing, even though it didn't look like that when I left the house. I was actually in a good mood, even though I appear to be scowling.

I do like my sunglasses, though.

when driveby sassing backfires

2005-07-16T19:23:00.000-07:00

So I was lying on the couch this afternoon, watching a stupid Pauly Shore movie on TBS. Daigle was hanging out with me as well, and to be honest, we were both too lazy to get up and change the channel on my TV. You see, there's no remote because it was manufactured in 1984, so you actually have to Get Up to change the goddamn channel on it. So that's my excuse for watching a Pauly Shore movie, and TBS for that matter.

My phone rang, and it was my friend Joey calling, laughing uncontrollably, seemingly with a lot of other people around him as well.

"CHAD FOX, YOU STUPID ONE-EYED ASSFUCKER!" he yelled.

"Hey, you obese thirtysomething too afraid to admit he's in his thirties," I answered.

"You cockeyed cocksucker," countered Joey.

"You fluffy blubbercunt," I replied.

"Where are you right now?" Joey inquired, still laughing.

"Lying on my couch. Why?"

"Wait, where are you?"

"North Beach."

"You're not at 16th and Market?"

"Um, no. I haven't left North Beach all day."

"So...that wasn't you at 16th and Market just now?"

"Nope. Don't tell me, you yelled something at whoever that was."

Joey turned away from the phone and said, "Guys, that wasn't him."

"I suspect you yelled 'Chad Fox sucks cocks' to some random guy who looks like me in the middle of a crowded intersection." He does that all the time.

"We slowed down and yelled 'CHAD FOX SUCKS COCKS!' No wonder he looked at us like we were crazy, then started laughing at us."

"Joey."

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what that makes you?"

"What, Chad?"

"A FUCKING RETARD! HA!"

"Fuck you, Chad Fox."

See what happens when you try to sass me? Daigle knows better than to sass me in public, because he knows I always get him back even worse than he originally dished it out to me. Ask him about the K-Ingleside incident that resulted in him having a broken ankle, and me making him dance on it at Badlands. My mama never played, and I don't either.

I love Joey, I really do. Bless his heart.

Even if he's a total fucking retard sometimes.

so hard to stay focused...

2005-07-14T18:10:00.000-07:00

The weather has been so nice here lately...it's been hard to get anything done.

Everything is just so bright and colorful here in the city. I am trying to concentrate on work...

...but it's so hard to get anything done when it's so nice outside. Sometimes all I want to do is go to Washington Square Park and just relax on the grass...

...until evening, when it starts to get a bit foggy and chilly.

Of course then, I just want to go get drinkies with my friends...

...which in turn makes me just want to sit and do nothing...

And that's just not very productive, is it?

barbizon, eat your heart out.

2005-07-07T09:20:00.000-07:00

"EXCUSE ME!" yelled the bedraggled, yet glamourous tranny as she ran up to me on Castro Street. "EXCUSE ME!"

Now, I'm no Castro bunny, but I find myself there running errands or doing photo shoots. Plus, I get my hair cut at Louie's Barber Shop and buy all my skin products at Body Time in the space once occupied by Harvey Milk's camera shop. I also have been known to go visit the ever-dreamy Drew (the blond one from Wisconsin) at Badlands during happy hour for a few cocktails...he's a bartender there, and always takes good care of me. I swear to god, that boy is sexier every time I see him. I have a weakness for Midwestern boys...what can I say? Yum.

"Hi," I replied, turning around.

"Can you spare $1.25?" she wheezed.

"Hmmm...you must want to get on MUNI." That may sound like a strange amount of money for someone to solicit, but actually it's the exact one-way fare for the MUNI metro, trolly, streetcar, or bus.

"Oh god yes, get me OUT of this neighborhood already!" The irony was killing me.

"Where are you headed?" I asked, suspecting the Tenderloin.

"The Tenderloin."

I laughed, but only on the inside. I can call 'em when I see 'em. Besides, I didn't want to seem rude to a lady, especially one from a neighborhood as exotic as hers.

"Tell you what," I said, "I'll give you MUNI fare, but only if you make love to my camera first."

"Honey, I'll fuck your camera. Just help me get the hell out of here."

"Deal." Grinning with anticipation, I pulled my camera out of my bag and started snapping away. She struck dramatic, animated poses, and we attracted a small crowd; everyone was quite spellbound at the sheer magic, albeit tragic magic, unfolding in front of my lens.

Behold...the next supermodel hailing from San Francisco's Tenderloin:

After a few minutes, I put my camera back in the bag, and fished $1.25 out of my pocket.

"Here," I said. "You've earned it."

"Oh, THANK YOU!" she replied, beaming. "You're a doll!"

"Now, don't go spending this on anything other than MUNI fare," I sternly told her. "Crack is wack. Just ask Whitney."

"Oh honey," she replied, laughing, "Crack is so 1986."

I doubled over, laughing. You can't write stuff like this. That's totally what I would have said.

I leaned over and gently air-kissed her hand.

"MWAH!" She blew me a huge air kiss (I ducked in the nick of time...it hit an unsuspecting passerby instead), and flounced up the street, eventually disappearing down the staircase into the MUNI station at the corner of Castro and Market.

It was the best $1.25 I've ever spent.

hilly!!!

2005-07-03T09:29:00.000-07:00

That's my sister Hillary, who has just assisted moving a friend from Cleveland to San Diego by driving a Range Rover across the country. From Day-go, she then drove up to Stockton, where she bid her friend adieu (who continued to Lake Tahoe), and I picked Hilly up in a nice rented Mitsubishi Galant.

I like those cars. I've rented them before.

So today, we went out to lunch at Lefty O'Doul's, where she showed me her best Donatella Versace impression:

Now, Adam is only staying in San Francisco until tomorrow morning, so we went out to get something to eat...I told them to strike the best Serious Muni Metro Pose they could possibly muster:

Of course, they couldn't hold it:

and Hillary started channeling Donatella again:

What a fun evening. :-)

support our troops

2005-07-02T00:34:00.000-07:00

Do you remember back in May when I had that awesome weekend at the softball game with Daigle, and we ran into that hot Marine? You know, the 6'4" tall 200-pound block of solid muscle with the tree trunk legs? Well, that's him in the picture above. His name is Adam.

He came all the way to San Francisco from Camp Lejune, North Carolina to come visit me, which was really, really sweet of him. So, like any friendly San Franciscan, I took him down to Fisherman's Wharf (a mere 10-minute walk from my apartment), where we soaked up the warm San Francisco sunshine.

Now, today is my friend Julie's birthday. Julie is probably one of the most brilliant people I've ever met...brilliant in a Christopher Walken sort of way. She's a quirky little creature...just read her testimonial on my Friendster profile. Adam and I went shopping in Chinatown for her gifts, and we ended up buying a pack of 500 brightly colored plastic drinking straws (the flexible kind...you know, Big Girl Straws), a bright red doormat with WELCOME written on it in gold leaf Chinese characters, plastic freezer pop makers, and two ceramic bobble head dolls. The total came to less than $10.

And people wonder why I love Chinatown. Hey, it's not just for tourists, you know.

So we met Julie, along with my friends David and Aaron at Bocce in North Beach for her birthday, then to a new tapas bar on Grant Avenue. Julie loved her gifts...she was absolutely giddy.

I love her pork chop barette. Only Julie could wear something like that and make it look fabulous. You can see more of Julie's personality where she works...she's the webmaster of sanrio.com.

I tried to snap a picture of Adam, but as usual, he was being bashful.

He eventually relaxed and drank his wine like a good Marine.

One of Julie's friends had a new temporary tattoo:

Daigle stopped by (he lives on the same block) and showed all of us his new underwear.

And of course, he showed us his supple ass globes, like any self-respecting bottom.

So there you have it. Adam the Marine. Fisherman's Wharf. Straws and bobblehead dolls. Tapas. Boobs. Temporary tattos and Daigle's ass globes.

All in all, a pretty good day.

introducing...yummy b-rad

2005-06-29T22:52:00.000-07:00

I'd like to add someone else to my ever-expanding cast of characters...Brad. Brad is Daigle's roommate for another few weeks, and is also in the Coast Guard, stationed in Alameda. He's quite an interesting guy, actually. Originally from Spokane, Washington, he actually reaches into rivers and streams and yanks out fish with his bare hands...a classic Pacific Northwesterner.

However, under his butch exterior hides an extremely talented photographer and gifted chef. The evening I took these photos, B-Rad was roasting lamb chops in my oven and chilling crisp salads in my refrigerator. He's kinda quiet at first, but once he starts talking to you, you find he's startlingly intelligent and engaging.

Oh, and he's straight, even though Daigle will try to tell you otherwise. Making out with a non-gender specific person at Badlands during Pride doesn't count as being gay. And the only reason why he was at Badlands was because his roommates are complete homogays.

So don't be 'judgin.

Daigle started calling him B-Rad, which eventually morphed into Yummy B-Rad, and now (in true Daigle fashion) he's Yummy B-Rad with the phat Seven Decimal Five.

Use your imagination. Daigle insists it's true...morning woodies can be revealing, apparently.

I actually feel pretty lucky to know him...he's one of the cooler cats I've run across in a while. As soon as this stupid looming BART strike is over, he's also going to come over a few nights a week for yoga in front of the fireplace (he already bought his mat and clothes), followed by a gourmet meal cooked either by me or Yummy-B himself.

Anyway, I just wanted to introduce him to the world. I feel lucky to know him.

not a bad pride at all.

2005-06-27T21:00:00.000-07:00

You know, sometimes the world works in very strange ways. At first, I was annoyed I missed the parade, and spent most of Sunday with a whanging headache, but I'm kind of glad I did. That just meant my day unfolded much differently than it would have had I gone to the parade. Oh, and I got some news tonight...turns out a certain internet stalker I have cast a hex upon my weekend and said a spell, hoping I'd miss the parade and ruin my weekend.

No, really...I'm not kidding. But I'm not going to go into any details beyond that. It's just too...wierd.

Not to mention...Just A Bit Creepy.

So here is a photo essay of how I spent Pride Sunday. You can click on any picture if you want to enlarge it. :-)

I sent my friend Ryan a text message earlier in the day telling him happy Pride (it's a holiday here) and to give me a call later in the day. He called, and so I went over to his Tenderloin apartment to visit him.

That self-concious, sunburned cutie you see there is Ryan. It's hard to get a picture of him because he usually hides his face whenever someone points a camera at him. Let's just say I think he's adorable and I want to take lots and lots of photos of him. I did manage to get a few good ones...this is one of them:

Anyway, Ryan and his friend Patrick had just come from the Civic Center Pride party. Patrick was wearing a kilt.

No, really. It looked hot on him:

He's a cool guy...I want to get to know him better.

After Patrick left, I went over to the bay window:

I started snapping pictures of Tenderloin street life...these two were returning from the Pride celebration at Civic Center Plaza...they look like they were having a good time. I hope they were...everyone should have fun at Pride:

There was the obligatory Bus Stop Tweaker...this poor guy was twitching and shaking...I hope he gets help someday:

I sat down and watched TV with Ryan:

It was a Josh Hartnett picture:

A commercial came on, and Ryan got up and looked out the window. I followed him:

I asked him if he still wanted to go to the party at the Bambuddah Lounge with me. I had been planning to go, and Ryan said he would go with me. However, as the day lazily dragged on, I started rethinking my eveing activities. I was still feeling a bit off from the previous night's fiasco, and I was still having trouble keeping my balance at times. The warm afternoon breeze was blowing through the window, carrying up the streetscape ambience with it, and somehow, going to a crowded, noisy pool party in the middle of the Tenderloin seemed less and less desirable.

"Hey Ryan?" I asked.

"Yeah?"

"You still wanna go to that party?"

Ryan looked at me and smiled, walked over to the couch, and flopped down...looking at me wordlessly:

It was the only answer I needed.

We decided to go get some Thai food from Osha Noodle at Leavenworth and Geary. It's one of my favorite places to eat in town, not to mention it's my parents' favorite restaurant in San Francisco. It's the first place we go to eat when they come visit.

After procuring Thai food and chocolate ice cream, we returned to his Tenderloin palace, where we watched more TV...this preacher was cracking us up:

It was rapidly getting dark outside, so Ryan got up and turned on his arch lights:

They're cute. I like them.

We ate our food, and afterward we kind of spooned together on the sofa and got comfortable. We watched The Simpsons, Family Guy and American Dad...the Sunday night Fox lineup is always fun:

After American Dad, I decided it was getting late, and poor Ryan was absolutely exhausted from the day's activities. I bade him a good night, and walked home.

This face greeted me forebodingly at the gates of Chinatown at Bush and Grant:

I love walking through Chinatown at night. It's like I've been suddenly planted in some old film noir movie set:

Some of these are blurry...the light was low, and I didn't have my tripod with me:

I ran across one of my favorite graffiti tags in the entire world, Ribity...this one was beautiful:

I've been snapping lots of pictures of Ribity...he's everywhere. I know him personally, actually...if you're in New York look out for him. I don't approve of graffiti, but to be honest, I kind of like this one. I just wish he wouldn't tag murals and storefronts.

I got home and went up to the roof to just look at the skyline for a bit:

It was beautiful.

And that, my friends, is how I spent my Pride. It was actually much more fun than last year's Pride, and to be honest, I can't think of any other way I would have rather spent it. Sometimes, just the simple things are all one needs. Besides...it was nice waking up this morning not being hung over. So a personal message to my stalker who hexed my weekend to ruin my Pride...thank you. It wouldn't have turned out the way it did, and I learned something very important about myself this weekend. It was actually the best Pride I've ever had.