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.

Adventures in the Kitchen

It's been a whirlwind of cooking around the ol' Chez today. A lovely, rare warm day that we didn't want to waste by being productive, so we just laid around, sluglike. Wandering through the kitchen, though, I noticed some pears our friend John had brought over were at the very peak and demanding to be dealt with. What else can you do with insolent pears except poach them?

Scouring the bar only turned up the dreg ends of a bottle of white wine and one of brandy.

Further, more determined digging turned up an odd bottle of Kirschwasser (cherry brandy) and a tall skinny one of pear liqueur. How do these wind up in one's cupboards? I promise you, I never went out shopping for a bottle of pear liqueur in my life. And yet, this afternoon it certainly turned out to be handy.

I'm pretty sure there are no recipes that include the directions "Root around in your liquor cabinet until you find enough of anything to cover the pears and then go to town." Ha. A little cinnamon, a little nutmeg and voila, deliciousness.

Sloppy, but yummy plates.

We're having friends for lunch on Sunday, which is also supposed to be hot, so I've made vichyssoise, a dish I can cook, but never spell. It's just potatoes and leeks with cream, and I went a tad bit long on the leeks, but it seems to be terribly tasty.

What is it with leeks anyway? I often cook with them, but every time, I act like we have just met. "Perhaps these attractive vegetables will not be filled with grit and dirt and a quick rinse will suffice in cleaning them," I think. Fooled again. So tomorrow we will sit down to a lovely luncheon of potato and leek and cream and dirt soup.

Mmm.

Random houseboy.

Goin' to the Chapel

We went to a wonderful wedding on Saturday. Heterosexually speaking. Just because my queer brothers and sisters cannot join me in same sex wedded bliss does not mean I am boycotting boy-girl unions when good friends are jumping the broom, and that was just the case here.

It was a wonderful affair, you should have been there. The bride was lovely and her dress was the most beautiful one I've ever seen. It was held in a small Marin county town in a really swell little club, a sort of arts and crafts building surrounded by huge redwoods and charming grounds with very unstructured flower beds. Sometimes it really pays to live in northern California.

We got to hang with our good friends, including some from Arizona that we never to get to see enough (hey Brit!) The groom is a rocker drummer dude, so the music was odd, but amusing. When's the last time you heard Rush at a reception? Huh?

All in all, a good time was had by all, hilarity ensued, etc., etc....

Fun weddings. Just another reason to struggle for marriage equality. Although that reminds me, our tax guy told me last April that I had to pay more state taxes because R Man and I are married. Bastards.

Arrgh

Avast ye scurvy dogs, Sunday Sept. 19 is International Talk Like a Pirate Day. Blast me off the poop deck! There's still time to score a sweet little pirate patch and one of them smart tri-corns.

I expect Gulf Coast Buccaneer and International Mr. Nude Infomaniac, Mean Dirty Pirate, will be swinging his cutlass, if you know what I mean. If you don't, go ask him, I'm busy studying up on pirate lingo at the talk like a pirate site

I've already nailed my favorite phrase: "Prepare to be boarded and surrender yer booty."

It seems like it could come in handy.

Yummy

Have you ever had burrata? It's a fabulous Italian cheese, fresh mozzarella filled with more mozzarella mixed with cream. To recap: cheese stuffed with cheese. And cream. It is utterly creamy and delicious, as are so many Italian things (see below.)

We had it as a salad tonight with juicy little tomatoes bursting with tomato-ness. There were a number of those moaning type noises one hears when the food of the gods is passed around. Mmmm. Burrata.

Roll 'em

Our DVD player is dead, or meditating, or sulking, or something. Whatever, it's not working right, occasionally denying a DVD is wedged in its little slot despite demonstrable evidence to the contrary. My theory is it's offended by my using this photo in the header here a few days ago.

Bitch.

Sometimes it plays, sometimes it won't, so now besides trying to find a movie R Man and I both are interested in (a difficult enough proposition,) I have to include the DVD player's sensibilities in the decision making process. "Animated? What, are you six years old? Do you want a pony for Christmas, too?"

Maybe it's feelings are hurt that I only watch porn on the computer. The petty jealousy of household appliances. I don't think I can stand it.

Sparkle Neely

Working our way through yet another sad little thrift store and disparaging their so-called goods, Diane and I ran across a rack of bridesmaid dresses. one of which defied our attempts to figure out which side was the front and which was the back. I mentioned once again to D that if I were a Lady, that is, a Person with a Vagina Lady, I would always dress in second hand bridesmaid dresses, and not ironically either. They fascinate me as a kind of art piece. When Diane explained one purchases these gems at shops, legitimate businesses, I was floored. I had always assumed one had to have some little elf run them up for you.

Aside from a wardrobe consisting solely of shiny magenta, coral, peach, fuscia and the occasional teal, I would also have boxes of glittery, glitzy bijoux.

My lips would always be lacquered a brilliant red.

I would totter round town in Barbie doll heels, the sluttier the better.

My hair would be a model of restrained good taste.

I am undecided on the subject of bags.

I would, in short, rig myself out just like a style-deprived drag queen. I see Ladies tarted up pretty much like this every day on my to work, so I would fit right in, and besides, if I had to put up with Lady plumbing and its inherent wacky hi jinx (did you know Midol is just Tylenol, and caffeine? Imagine my disappointment, I had assumed it was some magic, secret elixir. Thanks a fat lot Wikipedia) I would have to demand some polyester based glamour.