Damn you, Darin.

So I'm reading Darin's latest post, and this particular passage caused me to laugh just as I was taking a sip of tea:

And now there's these two queens sitting next to me, quackin' on and on about how they shall be tuned into Bravo tonight, watching themselves on the Kathy Griffin show. Quack Quack, ya ol' hens. Go lay some eggs someplace else. I've got a Coke in my hand and I'm not afraid to throw a disapproving look your way.

I, of course, inhaled some tea with my initial guffaw, which caused my diaphragm to spasm, thus forcing the tea/air mixture from my lungs with explosive force, creating quite an aerosol cloud. The tea sprayed everywhere, including all over my computer, and was accompanied by a huge freak hurricane force gust of wind that snapped my flag outside and came tearing in through the open windows. Everything on my dining table and and coffee table was instantly blown all over the room and onto the floor.

EVERYTHING.

Newspapers, a candle, bills, a paperback book, even a baseball cap was swept away. As the cap went flying off the table, it hit and upended my coffee cup, spilling all over what had been a stack of mail before three quarters of it ended up strewn about the room. The cup then fell off the table and broke on the floor in the middle of a puddle of tea (which was, naturally, being soaked up by the paperback book and my PG&E bill that oh so conveniently landed face-down directly in the middle of the mess). The contents of an ashtray (which I was planning to empty in the next 30 seconds before it was emptied for me) were also blown all over my tea-soaked laptop, which created a muddy, ashy mess on the screen and keys. All of this occurred in less than five seconds. I'm not kidding.

So I'm sitting here, looking at the carnage, and thinking, WTF? Did we just have a windquake? Where the hell did that come from? Since when does North Beach have micro hurricanes that last 3 seconds and cause utter chaos?

I know Darin was somehow involved.

That clucking old hen. Yeah, I hope you laugh so hard you lay a big brown egg. Pttttpppthh.

Happy Pride. :-)

The photo above was taken by Kelly Stern, who posted his coming out story and asked his fellow bloggers to post his photo and share their coming out stories.

I actually have more than one "coming out" story, as I initially came out of the closet to a select group of close friends (well, it was more like timidly poking my head out) when I was 19 years old, then re-entered it when I joined the Air Force the following year. I eventually came out for good when I was 23, but that was a different time, place, and circumstance. So for 2008 Pride, I'll share the story of my initial gay debut.

Picture it...Cleveland, Ohio. The time, July, 1990. Not exactly the most gay-friendly time in our nation's history, and Cleveland wasn't exactly the kind of place where you could just burst out of the closet and put on an outrageous display of faggotry. It wasn't the gay dark ages, but it wasn't the most enlightened time either. Keep in mind HIV was ravaging the gay community, and AZT had only been on the market for three years.

Yes, it was a different time, for sure.

I had moved out of my parents house and into an apartment on a tiny brick alley off of Euclid Avenue in University Circle, just down the street from the Euclid Tavern punk rock palace. My roommates were Cleveland Institute of Art students, and most of my friends lived within a few blocks of my place.

This particular evening started out at a neighbor's apartment across the street from mine. They had transformed their brick porch into a "hot tub" with plywood, carpet liner, garden hoses, and railroad tarps (don't ask...they were all engineering students and made their own alcohol). I heard my phone ring from across the street (one of those old landlines with a rotary phone with a loud bell), so I leapt over the side of the porch onto the sidewalk, shook myself like a dog, and scurried across East 116th Place, carefully dodging the broken glass in the gutters and actually answering the phone on the 7th ring. It was my [straight] friend Ron, calling to inform me he was having a "get together" at his apartment, which was only a few blocks away. Since I was living on my own for the first time and didn't have much money for food or haircuts after rent and utilities, I was quite the slim and trim and suntanned young kouros with a shaggy mop of thick blond hair that hung down in front of my eyes. Hell, I was 19 and free. Who needed food? Besides, pitchers of beer were $1 each at the Hungry "I" club across the street from the Euclid Tavern, and they didn't bother carding me, so many nights that was all the sustenance I needed.

Google Street View of 1961 Ford Dr., Cleveland, OH.

I walked over to Ron's place, which was located at the corner of Ford Drive and Hessler Court, quite a notorious old apartment building in University Circle. I think he had something like 15 roommates. It was where I saw my first John Waters movie besides Hairspray, and where I learned to just embrace my inner freak and not be embarrassed about my inherent dorkiness. One time, I brought over a bottle of prune juice, and Ron and I kept filling our mouths with it and leaning over the balcony of his first floor apartment, pretending to barf up vile brown liquid in front of every person walking by the place. It was cheap summer entertainment, and we got to gross out unsuspecting passerby. Sweet.

Like I said, embrace the freak, no matter how classless or sophomoric.

Ron had a large assortment of friends; they were gay, straight, and bi, students at Case Western or the Art Institute, or the occasional townie such as myself. On this particular torrid July evening, it was 95 degrees with 100% humidity, and air conditioning was nonexistent. So, to cool down, someone came up with the brilliant idea of running over to a liquor store and picking up ten pints of Häagen-Dazs, where we would each pick out our favorite so we'd have ten different flavors. At the time, for me, that was cookies & cream. Still one of my fave-a flavas, yet it's unfortunately taken a backseat to Crème brûlée and Honeybee (not to mention Ben & Jerry's Cake Batter and Oatmeal Cookie Chunk, which is like hitting a crack pipe). Anyway, I digress. Upon our return, we all sat in a circle on the floor of that first floor porch you see in that photo above, each with our own spoon. We then passed the ice cream around so we all got to eat a pint, yet sample the cornucopia of delightful Dazs offerings. An ice cream Lazy Susan, if you may. It was a brilliant, low-tech way to cool off on that hot summer evening.


Someone jumped up to put on some music, and soon the familiar guitar riff at the beginning of "How Soon Is Now" by the Smiths floated across the brick pavement of Hessler Court. Not everyone at the party knew each other, so as we sat there, we had an informal meet & greet. State your name, where you're from, and briefly describe yourself. When it was my turn, one of the Case students, a very out-loud-n-proud gay young man sitting directly across from me, spoke to me directly.

"So, Mr. Chad Fox," he said, carefully choosing his words, "what's...your story?"

"My story?" I asked.

"Yes, your story," he replied. "Tell us your story." He stared directly at me, which made me nervous.

"Well, I was born in Euclid, raised in Cleveland Heights, and now I live in Cleveland. I like ice cream, moonlit walks down Prospect Avenue, puppies, maple trees, and aluminum siding on other people's houses."

"Smartass." He lit a cigarette. "I think you know what I'm getting at." He exhaled, and sat back, waiting.

I looked around. Everyone had stopped talking amongst themselves and turned to look at me.

"What are you getting at?" My heart was pounding.

"So are you gay or straight?" He took a long, long drag off his fag, and blew the smoke directly at me.

"Yeah, Chad...I've been wondering that myself. You're hard to read sometimes," said the young woman sitting next to me.

My throat tightened. My heart raced. Beads of sweat broke out on my forehead, making my hair stick to my face. The song droned on.

There's a club if you'd like to go
you could meet somebody who really loves you
so you go, and you stand on your own
and you leave on your own
and you go home, and you cry
and you want to die

"Um," I stammered. "Um...well, I guess...I think I just don't know."

"Do you like boys?" someone challenged.

"Boys are nice, yes," I managed to croak, staring down into the pint of pistachio I had in my hands. Boys are nice? Are you serious, Fox? Nice adjective you just unpacked there, kid.

"Oh, you're going to make him tinkle, stop," said one cute guy I had been furtively cruising for several weeks, and had also been at the hot tub party across the street from my apartment earlier in the evening. "Chad, it's okay. You're amongst friends."

When you say it's gonna happen "now"
well, when exactly do you mean?
see I've already waited too long
and all my hope is gone

At this point in the conversation, I looked up. Instead of the scornful faces I was expecting to see, everyone was wearing a friendly grin and looking at me. I glanced at Ron, and said, "I...I guess...well, I'm...you know."

"Gay?" he finally offered.

"Yeah."

Ron chuckled. "Like I give a shit," he said.

"Yay! Chad's gay!" someone yelled, and everyone laughed.

Everyone, that is, except me. I was fighting back tears and a lump that was rising in my throat. For the first time in my life, this awful, heavy burden was lifted from my shoulders, and I felt like I could truly be myself. I quickly collected myself, passed off the pistachio, and was handed a pint of cookies-n-cream. I took a deep breath, and dug into it, smiling. I had just taken a huge step, and it was good.

You shut your mouth
how can you say
I go about things the wrong way
I am human and I need to be loved
just like everybody else does...

Later on, we all drunkenly walked down to the Cleveland Museum of Art, where we frolicked in the fountain at 2:30 in the morning before the police chased us out of there. It was a great "coming out" even if I had to go back in my familiar old closet for Air Force basic training 13 months later. But that night, I was finally free of the shame and self-loathing that had defined my adolescence and teenage years. I could stop lying to myself and finally be...me.

And that, my friends, is sweeter than any ice cream I've ever had.

Good job, DPT!

I just want to give much-deserved kudos to the San Francisco Department of Parking and Traffic. Seriously, you guys are "real smart" if you ask me. I cannot thank you enough for your professionalism, and your competence. Really, you guys are just first rate. Tops! All of ya!

Let's review your work, as seen here in Russian Hill, shall we?

Take a gander at this [obviously] illegally parked car:


Hmmm...does it have a valid parking pass? Let's check.


Huh. Interesting. It's a current, valid pass, and the registration is also current. Obviously, someone owns this car, and has driven it recently. I'd even venture to say it's possibly insured (liability only, I suspect).

Never mind the fact the rear bumper appears to be resting on the ground. Maybe it's one of those wacky "low riders" or something.

But hold on just a gosh darn minute! Area "C" (as indicated on the SF DPT neighborhood parking pass on the bumper) is Nob Hill, and these photos were taken at the corner of Broadway and Hyde in Russian Hill, literally twenty feet from the end of the "C" parking area. Doh! The boob who owns this specimen of automotive excrement has to move it in two hours! Chalk time! BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAA!!!!

You know you love chalking. It's what you do. Better chalk the tires real, real good so the owner will know he or she's done a Very Bad Thing! Get those tires! Get 'em! Chalk 'em! Make 'em chalky. In addition to your regular scribbling be sure to get some nice squiggles on there too.


Now that's what I call a "well chalked tire" if you ask me. Ooo I need me a cigarette! If there's any doubt to the owner that the car needs to be moved in two hours, then obviously the owner is a complete idiot who should not be driving anywhere anyway. If anything, you DPT people are thorough! What a chalk job!

Let me take the time to tell you that so far, the DPT is doing a super job. Really. You DPT guys never cease to amaze me with your efficiency and ability to think critically, and on your feet, especially in unique situations such as this one. Apparently, this automobile's owner was nowhere to be found, as it appeared the car had been there for much longer than two hours. Do you know what that means, DPT?

Oh yes. YES. YES! YES!!!

Tickets! Tons of 'em! All stuffed under this notice informing the obviously clueless scofflaw owner his or her car is parked illegally. Two things, though...take note the front wheels are curbed correctly, and try not to lick your chops and make "yummy noises" so much as you write the tickets. It's disturbing.


Just in case you can't see what that slip of paper on the windshield (covering a pile of tickets, I might add), I'll zoom in on it a bit:


Somewhere, there is a ball, and you guys are ALL on it like flies on dog poop. That (in case that last sentence confused you) means you are on the ball. So far, so good. You've identified a potential "problem vehicle" and are punishing the owner with citations, warnings, and copious amounts of blue chalk on the left front tire. For your effort, I give you a nice big gold star, because you guys, on the whole "effort" front, are truly, truly #1.



See how nice that gold star is? You like shiny things? Me too! Shiny things are the main reason it's so difficult for me to get my chores (or blog entries) done.

Shall we continue?

Let's.

Now, I am not a Department of Parking and Traffic traffic enforcement officer, and of course I'll never have parking and traffic-related skill sets they possess, nor will I be as eloquent and refined as your average San Francisco Department of Parking and Traffic enforcement officer. In fact, Big Dummy was one of my nicknames given to me by a coworker at Chandler's Shoes 20 years ago. Hell, I'm so dumb, instead of taking the 44 O'Shaughnessy, I take the 22 Fillmore...twice.

That's what I call thinking.

I did, in a rare moment of lucidity, find one glaring fault in the otherwise seamless SF DPT protocols & procedures exhibited here.

Can you find their error? Take a look at this photo:


I'm no student of DPT culture. But, there's one thing that I do know. Cars that are missing the entire rear axle, including the wheels, are not easily moved in a two-hour time window.

Do you see where the rear wheels are supposed to be, DPT officers? Do you? What do you see there instead? A tire? No? What do you see? Daylight, huh? Well, cars can't roll on daylight, can they? What exactly makes you think this car is capable of being moved under its own power?

So, DPT...maybe, just maybe, do you think this car is possibly stolen? Do you think maybe someone is really upset that their vintage Mustang convertible is missing? Do you think maybe this car was dumped here after someone ripped out the entire rear differential, axle, and wheels?

Or, do you not...think?

My heart goes out to the owner of this poor Mustang. Look at it...it's obviously been unceremoniously dumped along the cable car line, someone stole it for a pair of its shoes (and feet, for that matter) in addition to the Department of Punk-ass Tards chalking up another one, and it's literally choking on parking tickets...all in plain view of the tourist-packed cable car line.

Real bang-up job there, guys. That's quite the geyser of competence I'm seeing here. Instead of calling in the plate number to the SFPD to see if it was stolen, so the owner can be notified their Mustang has been found, it's much better to ticket it until you're crosseyed and then have it impounded, thus subjecting the hapless owner to further sadistic, bureaucratic abuse.

Heh. Supposedly, you don't have to pay parking tickets that accumulate on abandoned, stolen cars, but the DPT is quite adept at not clearing tickets that have been paid or voided. Oh, and good luck re-registering this poor thing next year. Nothing like finding out your registration is on "hold" because of unpaid San Francisco parking tickets after standing in line at the DMV for hours. No wonder they have bulletproof glass.

I have had the displeasure of having to recover a stolen vehicle in the long-term impound lot at Pier 70. When I asked them where the car was, they gestured to the sea of cars and said, "Out there somewhere." Good thing they told me, because I probably would have looked everywhere but where all the impounded vehicles were stored. Silly me would have been hundreds of miles away in Reno, running around some random supermarket like a retarded baboon on crack, utterly baffled as to why I couldn't find a 1987 Toyota Camry in the middle of the goddamn produce section.

Out "there" somewhere. Geez-oh-man where do they find these Einsteins?

Feh.

I've got one thing to say to the Department of the Path of Least Resistance:


So here's an idea. Why don't you print these out and stick 'em up in the break room down there on South Van Ness:



And yes, I agree the city would be chaotic without the DPT but do they have to be so lazy and incompetent? And if this is "proper procedure" then I think a major revision of policy is in order.

Just my two cents, whatever it's worth.

PS... After some reflection I decided to remove something I said about someone earlier because I realized it just wasn't very nice.

Tee hee hee.

So I'm in the Peet's Coffee on Polk Street, perusing their delicious assortment of somewhat overpriced, quasi-delicious baked snacks, when I suddenly started el-oh-elling at the selection between the Carmelita Bars and the Almond Tea Cakes.


Giggling to myself, I took a closer look to make sure I was really seeing what I thought I was seeing.


Any day I get to laugh at something because it sounds naughty, especially if it wasn't intended to sound naughty, is a good day.

A very good day indeed.

Eyesore.

Am I the only one in San Francisco who absolutely detests the new Bank of America signage at the Castro branch? Did someone take it to the prom, only to have some dumb jock throw pig blood on it? Is it a bank I'm looking at, or a snuff flick? Yes, B of A, we realize the dignified old Hibernia Bank building has been part of your evil empire for a while now, like a castle you've conquered. But do you have to shove your banking lifestyle in our faces with that horrid red unibrow?

Now don't get me wrong, unibrows are fine on people, or even Muppets. I've seen some pretty amazing unibrows in my existence. But on a building?

Please, Bank of America...rethink your horrible red signage, as it's not necessary to visually assault the Castro on a daily basis. Lose the unibrow and try a white or silver background instead of red. Just give the building its dignity back.

Like the North Beach branch:


North Beach B of A photo credit: sfnorthbeach.org

Therapy.

That's my friend Shane pictured above; I took that photo at the corner of 18th and Castro streets a few weeks ago. As you can see, Shane was not in the best of moods. In fact, he was rather grumpy now that I think about it. So, what does one do when they're grumpy?

They sit and pout.


Normally, when Shane is feeling frumpy, dumpy, and slumpy, he grabs his hot glue gun and makes creations such as...this:


and...this:


However, Shane didn't want to crack out the glue gun. He wanted to grumble and grouse. And what do grumbly, grousy people do?

Well, they grouse and grouse, basically having a huge pity party for themselves, until the friend to whom they're grousing gets tired of said grousiness and says, "Hey, do you have any wigs?"


Wig Therapy is quite simple and elegant...all you need to do is grab a wig, assume a demented personality, and just run with it.

Shane, never one to pass up an opportunity to don a wig, immediately assumed the personality of...well, imagine if Charo had been from Orange County, California, and was actually a 6'6" tall man:


Pretty!

So I grabbed one, and pretended I was on Dynasty or something:



Shane's incessant grousing began to subside, and of course, the giggling started.

Shane: "I'm so beautiful!"


Chad: "Hair tastes good."


Shane: "WHERE IS MOMMY'S HAIRBRUSH?"


Chad: "IT'S MY GODDAMN HAIRBRUSH!"


Sigh. The things I do to humiliate myself just to make that bitch crack a smile.

Okay, now that I think about it...

...how are you supposed to see how much weight Hilly has lost if I don't put a "before" pic?

A bit of background info first, this is essentially a post I should have made the first week of January but never got around to it. My family decided not to meet at the old Casa di Choxie in C-Town, and instead gathered at Hazzy's place where it was warm and sunny (85 degrees on Christmas Day, if I recall correctly). Don't get me wrong, Christmas in Ohio can be absolutely magical, with freshly fallen snow and every room in the house decorated for the holidays:


But then the lake-effect snow kicks in, and it doesn't stop.


That's when we collectively decide that hanging at Hazzy's place in Florida would be a much better place to celebrate the holiday:


So they ran south of the [Ohio, West Virginia, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, and Georgia] border, I headed east, and we and hung out there instead, where you don't have to shovel sunshine.

One of our family traditions when holidaying in the Sunshine State is to take a trip to Winter Park for shopping, dining, and, of course, wine.

These holiday photos have been sitting here languishing on my laptop for a few months, so I'll just dust 'em off for ya. Now, the rest of the year, we don't drink that much. No more than the average native midwestern family, I suppose. But get all of us together at the holidays, and we drink and celebrate and goof around and holla and Be All Loud like the good Catholics we we raised to be.

First of all, here's Hilly and me after about 450 beers watching the Browns game at JB's Sports Restaurant, which happens to be the home of every Browns backer club in the entire Orlando area:


Seriously, it was full of drunk Clevelanders. This guy was outside hanging out on the patio, having a smoke with other hammered northeast Ohioans:


It was a great time to just tard out:


As the Browns are often wont to do, they lost.



Now, Hilly is the master of the self-portrait. She knows how to hold a digital camera at arms' length and frame herself perfectly. She'll take shot after shot until she's satisfied. She's not vain, she simply knows how to take a flattering photo of herself, and prefers to take her own photo as opposed to having someone else take it. Besides, every bad one is instantly deleted, never to be seen by anyone but her. Honestly, it's not a bad idea.


Random passerby agree.


While Hazzy and Mamacita were shopping for new glasses, Hilly and I got ready for some serious photosnapping:


So we got right to it:



At this point I grabbed the camera and said to Hilly, "Give me Ali MacGraw, circa 1970." She undid her hair, shagged it out a bit, and gave me her best '70 Ali:


Hazzy wandered out of the shop, and walked over to see what we were doing. Hilly then posed Hazzy with a piece of street art (actually grabbing her head and placing it exactly where she wanted it), framed nicely by a light-wrapped tree. This is Hazzy's "Freshly Clubbed In The Head Supermodel" look:


Hilly's good at composition. Hazzy, however, started making a strange guttural sound, and began rolling her head:


Soon afterward, Hazzy...being, well, Hazzy...began making this awful gurgling noise in addition to the other odd noise, so I jumped in with my "Two Children With Sweaty Hands Fighting Over A Balloon Animal Noise" which results in this particular facial distortion:


I almost lost my left eye.

At this point, Mamacita wrapped up her shopping and sat next to me. All right for the Prada, dammit.


After this photo was taken, she grabbed the camera, turned it off, and suggested we get something to eat. The next time the camera was brought out, we were seated at a sidewalk cafe waiting for our wine and appetizers:


I will say the three of them watched me like a hawk and would call me out every time I furtively cruised a cutie walking by.


It's all good.

Just some quick kudos...

...to my sistah Hilly, who has successfully slimmed down for summer and entered a new chapter in her life. She snapped a self-portrait for me:


Would you mess with this woman? Yes? Would you like to get cut?

Do not cross a Cleveland chick and expect to live.

Okay, I have my answer.

Wow, that's all I have to say.

When I made my previous post, I honestly didn't think anyone still read this blog, and was a mere mouse click away from deleting this whole goddamn mess. Imagine my surprise when the next time I opened this page and saw over 20 comments were left for me.

And I haven't posted anything in months.


That made me feel good, but 2 nights ago, something somewhat extraordinary happened to me right outside my apartment door. I was on my way down to the garbage bins, bags of trash in hand, when I ran into one of my upstairs neighbors, a cute bohemian 20-something guy, in the hallway with his Welsh Corgi puppy. I am fond of Corgis ever since I bonded with a particularly uppity Corgi belonging to a good friend of mine.

We chatted a bit, but then my neighbor asked me something that I absolutely loathe.

"Do you have a blog?" he asked.

"Maybe," I replied, not quite sure where this line of questioning was going to take me.

"So, you are Chad Fox, right?"

"Yeah," I replied. Here we go again, I thought.

However, I wasn't prepared for what he said next.


Apparently, he had been out playing with his puppy somewhere in North Beach, and randomly struck up a conversation with someone. That person then invited him to go hang out in Dolores Park for a while, so he did. While talking, the person he was hanging out with revealed the only reason why he moved to San Francisco was because of this guy Chad Fox's blog. My neighbor, suddenly realizing he had seen that name on mail and packages left on the stairs and outside my apartment door, put two and two together and came up with...me.


I was as floored as the accelerator in a stolen car driven by a crackhead, to be perfectly honest. For a second, I was speechless.

And right then and there I decided I wasn't going to delete this blog. The Universe provided the answer for me, and I didn't even have to leave my building. I then went up to my roof and took this photo:


And there you go.

So, for those of you just wandering in here for the first time, and for those of you who have not abandoned me in the past 9 months, thanks for reading, and I'm sorry I was gone so long. I just needed to take a break. I'm not going to promise a post every day, as I try to avoid blogging while grumpy, high, drunk, and/or insane (the end result is generally not pretty). But I do have several thousand photos I've taken over the past year, and what's the use of taking a cool photo if you're not gonna show them to anyone?


Also, the podcasts will return, but just not in their current form. I'll explain why later...a lot has happened in my absence. Several friends of mine have died recently; their lives were abruptly cut short by disease, heartbreak, and tragedy. That's another reason why I decided to take a break for a bit. However, the collective wisdom of my departed friends lives on in my advice to those who seek it from me, their guidance continues to influence me in my daily actions, and their love will forever remain in my heart.


So stay tuned. You'll never know what might appear here next. I certainly don't. :-)

Anyone miss me?

I said this blog isn't abandoned, and it's not.

I just don't have anything to say right now! Nor do I feel like finishing the story about my roommate; as I wrote that story, I had to relive that whole awful experience...and it depressed me. Then I thought to myself, "Do you REALLY want to post all your innermost feelings on the internet?"

My answer to myself was, "No."


This blog served its purpose for a while, but when strangers started coming up to me on the street telling me how much they enjoyed what I wrote, it started to freak me out. Then when my other friends started having blog stalker problems (along with me...I have a particularly disgusting and horrid little stalker myself) I decided to take a break. The internet is a scary place, with lots of scary people who have completely lost their sanity and connection with the real world. It's nothing I can't handle, of course, but I certainly have other things on my mind these days than what I'm going to post on my blog. Oh, I also can't stand the way it looks anymore. It's like an ugly-ass sofa in your living room you despise - but haven't quite gotten around to replacing because you have more pressing issues that need to be dealt with.

So is anyone still interested in hearing what happened? Is anyone actually still checking this disaster?