Friday, October 29, 2010

Haiku. Which I Keep Typing as Haiky, Dammit.

Our dear Diane sent us this charming haiku as a comment of her recent visit:

Orange kitty hair
on my grey flannel bathrobe:
Saki's legacy.


Isn't that sweet? It also serves to remind me that I have meant to revive my Auto Haiku Challenge as a way of raising the tone of this joint. I created the challenge awhile ago, here it is, along with my examples:

In five syllables, no more, no less, describe the worst movie you can think of. Bonus points if you have to show off your Google skills because you can’t remember the name of it and all you can come up with is that it features Roz Russell and Sandra Dee. Turns out it was some tripe called Rosie! Exclamation point the producers’ idea, not mine.

“Auntie Mame leavings.”

In seven syllables, no more, no less, describe your worst date. Bonus points if it was sordid. Subtract points if it sounds too much like an overweight fifteen year old Goth girl.

“He pushed my head down. I puked.”

In five syllables, no more, no less, describe the worst job you ever had. Extra bonus points if it consists of Grim. Taxi dancer. Miss Janey, I’m talking to you. I had a miserable spell where I sat all alone in an empty office, handing out the keys to various hell holes for rent around New Orleans. One Lady came back and complained there was no window in the kitchen, I pretended to sympathize and said something like “Yes it would be nasty to have no light and air in there.” She replied “No, hon, you don unnerstan. Dere’s a hole for de winna but ain’t no winna in it.”

“Slum lord in training.”

Put it all together and you have a haiku of life’s low points.

“Auntie Mame leavings.
He pushed my head down. I puked.
Slum lord in training.”

Now get to it, slacker bitches, report back and pass this along as a meme. Winners of the best response will be allowed to touch houseboy Valdemar Gunderus's Special Place.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Hellzapoppin


Such excitement around here lately, mein little schnitzels. Recently, our very dear friend Superagent Fred (aka UrbanStreetPirate) was awakened at 5:30 in the A.M. by firefighters pounding on his door and yelling "Fire! Everybody out! Fire!" Not what you want to hear in your tasteful fifth floor studio, even if it is a semi-bad part of the groovy downtown scene. Superagent said he ran around trying to find his pants, his glasses, his cat, his cat carrier, his important documents, and his brain while smelling smoke. Apparently he passed up a perfectly good opportunity to scream like a girl, but that's just how he is.

Turns out the fire was next door, but it gutted that building and damaged Superagent Fred's. The firemen (I prefer to think they were muscley and had large penises because I always look on the bright side) busted down his unlocked door AFTER he had left and dragged the hoses through his place to get to the fire escape so they could try to get to next door.

He wound up at his boyfriend's, with his cat and was very flipped out. Who can blame him? So we took him out to lunch in the Castro to try and cheer him up. After we finished eating and were waiting for the check, I decided to nip up the street to run an errand. Half a block down, at the intersection of 18th and Castro, I saw a fire truck turned sideways blocking traffic and realized the unearthly racket was from some stupid heavy equipment drilling in the middle of the street.

As I walked by, I could see it had punctured some line and I could smell the gas escaping and I just kept walking up the street past it. Pollyanna, that's what they call me. Or maybe it's "Stupid," I forget.

I sauntered up Castro as cops were evacuating businesses all around me thinking "I'll just go to Rossi's Deli and buy a meter card and then they can close down." I am always prepared to be delusional.

Of course Rossi's was closed and then the cops wouldn't let me go back the way I had come, I don't know, something about imminent peril so I had to take a tour of the neighborhood to get back to where my dearest friends were having lunch. And there they were, 300 feet from the excitement, totally unaware of what was going on. Cops frantically forcing people out of all the businesses on one side of the intersection and ignoring the ones on the other. Go figure. Maybe their large penises interfered with rational thinking. Again, I don't know. We paid up and split.

And then I busted my shin in the same spot on the dishwasher door twice that evening. It's just one thing after another around here, I tell ya. I have to go lie down.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

Good Times, Shining on Me

My two favorite people in the world

This has been a fantabulous week. R Man had been suffering for a while from dementia, with all his conversation consisting of bizarre bulletins from his hallucinations. It was disturbing and heartbreaking and frustrating all rolled up together; no matter how long it lasted I couldn't get used to it. I kept thinking there was some code I was missing, if I could just break it, I could make sense of what he was saying and I would have him back again. Turns out pronouncements about us being late for the party schedule in Berlin are not code, they're just crazy.

And then Wednesday morning, he woke up perfectly sane and lucid. No transition, just boom, back to the uncrazy. I felt like a rock that had been grinding me down had fallen off.

But wait! There's more! That same day our beloved Diane from Austin blew in town for a visit. Last winter, before the cancer and the chemo and the craziness, we had planned a trip up to Oregon to go to a Shakespeare festival. Oops. But Diane didn't bat an eye about skipping the whole thing and swears hanging around us to share in the thrill of four hours in the chemotherapy unit is just what she was looking forward to.

Thursday morning, I woke to the terrifying sound of the garbage truck rumbling down the street and the knowledge that I hadn't taken the trash out the night before. As I came crashing down the stairs shrieking, cursing, and trying to put my pants on all at the same time, Diane calmly assured me she had already taken it out. Could there be a greater friend, a more heroic hero?

Usually her visits include long trips to the thrift stores, but this time, we just haven't had the time and I haven't had the energy. Still, we did squeeze in one, while R Man was getting his chemo. It has to be the lamest junk stores in captivity, but the thrill of sneering at their lackluster goods never pales.
Fashion prediction: Cheap gingham will be really big this fall. Watch for it.

The world's most insincere valentine. Would you put out for someone who this was the best they could come up with? I think not.

Ooh, ooh, also, we were killing time during R Man's acupuncture treatment and stumbled on the Grand Opening of a brand new Goodwill store in the Castro, staffed entirely by trannies. Extremely personable tranies. That is the genius of Diane, not only can she always find the good stuff , she can actually summon a fabulous thrift store into existence. I would ask her about being a good witch or a bad witch, but I'm sort of scared and besides I can't get Glinda's creaky little voice down.

Sunday, October 17, 2010

It Gets Better. Really.

I know I've been slack on posting lately. Sorry. R Man is really sick and taking care of him wears me down. But now I am revived by listening to Dusty Springfield over and over, like some teenage angster.


Also, porn helps.


Besides, I stumbled on Joel Burns, the gay Fort Worth city council member's immensely moving video dedicated to gay teenagers who are thinking of offing themselves begging them to understand that things get better. I'm sure you've seen it, everyone has. So sweet and heartfelt and right on.

I should have stopped at getting all teary eyed and just though happy warm thoughts about how outstanding Burns is, but oh no, I had to go read the Fort Worth newspaper's story about it and its online comments, many of which were supportive and many of which were the sort of moronic asshattery I knew to expect. Why don't I ever learn?

I have mentioned that I was originally from Texas. I am, in fact, the fourth generation in my father's family born there. I am proud of my heritage (or "mah hairtudge" as I would have called it in my youth.) All it takes, though, for me to realize that, yes, getting the fuck out was way the right idea is to read some ass wipe's assertion that Burns' list of children who have recently killed themselves to escape homophobic bullying is nothing to be so worked up over, that they should have "sucked it up" and, I don't know, gone on to lead a life as equally miserable as that of the commentor.

That's why I think the "It Gets Better" campaign is admirable. If I could have just had someone say that to me when I was trapped in Baytown Texas with no idea that anything like an escape actually was waiting for me, I would still be grateful to them.

Does this post make any sense? I don't think I care. I have a valium and my bed waiting for me. See ya.

Monday, October 4, 2010

When Bloggers Collide


Jason, the charming author of
Night is Half Gone blew into town this weekend and I bludgeoned him into having lunch with me and allowing me to show him the sights. He is totally cute, and sweet, and affable, and, again, charming as all get out. I say that based on the fact he was willing to laugh at my jokes and to put up with my tour guiding, which largely consists of aimlessly wandering around, announcing stuff like "A really cool restaurant used to be there until they tore it down and built that Walgreen's."

He was very impressed with the handmade Pop Tarts at Foreign Cinema.


He was also thrilled with the hills here, a good thing since there are so many of them. Coming from the swamps myself, I understand what a thrill geography that goes up and then comes back down is, so I pointed the car at the biggest damn up-and-downs there are around here and took off. Whee.

We took in the tail end of the Castro Street Fair, an enormous celebration for the neighborhood as well as homosexuality. We were walking up the street past the Castro Theatre and a blind guy, complete with white cane, hit on me. There we were, surrounded by the gay world of San Francisco and the only action I can score is some guy who can't see me. Life is so cruel.

I had a wonderful time just noodling around with the old darling. I understand he and his friends are off in the wilds of wine country, I hope they enjoy themselves.

In Which We Are Becatted

  Everybody say hello to our new cat, Octavia. I know this is not a very good picture, but it's the only one I have because immediately ...