Friday, June 30, 2006

Beautiful Stella

I love this mutt. She's so pretty. She has the face mask we aspire to.

This is her weird brother Happy Dingo. We like him too.

shhhh... we love Stella more.

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

I am guilty!

I want to buy this shirt. I wish it weren't sold out. Doh!

Sunday, June 25, 2006

Happy Pride

This is the only good picture I got at the full day of Pride SF 2006. That is me, my neice & my sister. I wish I was a better photographer - I just can't capture the mood with the little digital we have. Oh well. It was good to go and share their first pride. Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, June 21, 2006


Dinner 2006/07 is on the left. He's known as "white face" Posted by Picasa

Farm Dog

Granite seemed to be enjoying the Oregon sunshine at Uncle Jack's farm. Stay tuned for more adventures of Granite's first road trip. Posted by Picasa

Road Trippers

  Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, June 14, 2006



I was thinking about my travel around the British Isles over 10 years ago and wondered if I could google and find one of my fond memories.

Lo and behold Brains Beer can be found online. What a trip. Amy & I sat in a Cardiff pub - impressing the locals. I guess Welsh ladies don't pound beers all afternoon.

Good times.

If you can find it in the States buy a pint or two.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006


BBC America - Hex About The Show

I saw the promo for this new show on BBC and it reminded me of Buffy The Vampire Slayer. I didn't get hooked on Buffy until the 5th season and I regret that. I have set the DVR to record the 2 hour premier and all following episodes.

I hope the show is worth it. Does anyone have insider info? If you watch it too let me know what you think...

Friday, June 09, 2006

Joe. My. God.: Watching The Defectives

Sometimes I wonder if I'm a bad gay. Last week I was stuck in between two "christians" on the flight home and I didn't correct them when they assumed my wedding ring meant a husband. Chicken. I'm not active in the gay community and I have only attended one Pride Parade. Today I came across the following post and think that maybe this year I'll go to the parade. Maybe I should go to the parade. Wanna come with me?

Joe. My. God.: Watching The Defectives:
Gentle readers, this post first ran last year, a couple of days after New York City's Pride Parade. I got so many wonderful emails wishing that I'd made this post before Pride, rather than after it, that I'm reposting it today. The original post is here, if you'd like to read last year's responses to it. This weekend Pride events take place in Boston, DC, Brooklyn, Austin, Albuquerque and many other places. For a list of events and dates around the nation, go here.

Watching The Defectives

Last Sunday, at 12:30pm, I was in position on Christopher Street with Terrence, his glamour boys, and touring UK bloggers Dave and Darren. The Pride parade was due to round the corner any minute, but I tore off in search of a bodega, crossing my fingers that my desperate need for a soda wouldn't cause me to miss Dykes On Bikes. Half a block away, I found a little place and ducked in, weaving thru the customers clogging the aisles on rushed missions like mine. I was third in line, two bottles of Sprite under my arm, when the man in front of me spotted a friend entering the store.

"David! Sweetie! Where are you watching from? Come hang out with us on Allen's balcony!"

David, a bookish looking middle-aged man, destroyed the festive mood in the little store in an instant. "Absolutely not. Those defectives and freaks?" he spat, indicating the colorful crowd outside the store, "They have nothing to do with MY life, thank you very much. This parade has as much dignity as a carnival freak show. It's no wonder the whole country hates us."

Luckily for David, the Asshole Killer mind ray I've been working on is not yet operational. I settled for pushing him a little, just a tiny bit, just to get by him in that narrow aisle, of course. I returned to my sweaty little group and tried to put what I'd heard out of my mind for the remainder of the day, because I knew that by the next morning, the thousands of Davids of the world, the ones who have media access anyway, would all issue their now familiar day-after-Pride rant. The one where they decry the drag queens on all those newspaper front pages. The one where they beat their chests and lament, "Why don't the papers ever show the NORMAL gay people? Where are the bankers and lawyers? Why must all the coverage be drag queens and leather freaks in ass-less chaps?"

And every year, the logical answer is that bankers and lawyers are boring to look at, and that pictures of marching Gap employees don't sell newspapers. There's no sinister media agenda intent on making gay people look ridiculous, no fag-hating cabal behind the annual front page explosion of sequins and feathers. It's just good copy. Drag queens are interesting. Even the bad ones. Especially the bad ones.

But sure enough, the day after Pride, the Davids of the blogosphere dished out their heavy-handed dissections of parades around the country. Only this year, there was a palpably nastier tone to an already traditionally nasty annual debate. Blame the election, blame the recent avalanche of anti-gay legislation, but this year, the usual assimilationist arguments went beyond the hypothetical speculations that maybe our Pride parades were too outlandish, that maybe we weren't doing the movement any favors by showing the country a face that happened to be wearing 6-inch long false eyelashes. This year, there was some actual discussion about HOW we were going to "fix" Pride parades. How we might go about "discouraging" certain "elements" from taking part in the parades.

This is the part of the story where I have my annual post-Pride apoplectic attack. This is the part of the story where the swelling volume of Nazi analogies overwhelm my ability to speak, and all I can do is twitch and bark out little nonsensical bits. This is where I always forget the name given to the Jews who went to work for the Nazis, helping load the trains. "Because that's what you are asking us to do, you assholes!" Then I always ask, "Who are we going to sacrifice to "save" ourselves? Which child will it be, Sophie?" And this is the part of the story where my friends accuse me of being a hyperbole-laden drama queen, wasting spiritual energy on a non-crisis, and of coopting the Holocaust as well. More on that later.

These people that want to "fix" Pride don't understand the role that Pride parades have come to play. Initially, the gay parade was about visibility. It was about safety in numbers, and more importantly, "normalcy" in numbers. It was about the idea that if only straight America could see us, could just SEE US, that they'd love us. And accept us. That if we'd mass and march by the righteous millions, the sheer unstoppable force of our collective image would topple bigotry. Would right wrongs. Would stop hate.

Of course, that doesn't happen, not anymore.

What DOES happen, is that Pride parades, at least in the big cities, have become nothing more significant to straight America than an annual traffic nightmare. As a tool of the gay movement, the Pride parade is now merely a walking photo op for politicians, and not much more. A couple of years ago, the ultimate arbiter of America's cultural zeitgeist, The Simpsons, made note of this:

(The gay pride parade is going past the Simpson house.)

Chanting marchers: "We're here! We're queer! Get used to it!"

Lisa Simpson: "You're here every year. We ARE used to it."

What does all of this mean to the Davids of the world? The gay assimilationists that want to, wish they could, somebody do something, there's gotta be a way we can, Dignify This Parade? The ones begging, "Can't we get our people to at least DRESS respectfully for one lousy day? Is that too much to ask of our people? " Yes, yes it is. Because you are wasting your breath if you think Pride parades, in any form, will EVER change the minds of homophobes. The straight people who show up to see Pride parades are already largely convinced. We're parading to the choir, Jesse. Those straight people love our freaks, bless them.

Oh, you could test run a "defective" free parade. You could form urban anti-tranny squads and go around to all the gayborhoods on the morning of the parade and give all the drag queens 50% off coupons for Loehmann's, offer good during the parade only. And they'd GO, of course, cuz hey, those girls love a bargain. But the resultant bland, humorless, "normal" gay parade wouldn't change the course of the gay movement one bit. The part of straight America that is repulsed by drag queens is quite possibly even more terrified by the so-called "normal" gays, because "those clever calculating creatures look JUST LIKE US, and can infiltrate and get access to our precious children, and that's been their disgusting plan all along, of course".

So where does that leave us? Are we post-Pride? Is the parade just a colossally long waste of a miserably hot summer day? Is the Pride parade just an event that does a better job of moving chicken-on-a-stick, than it does of moving hearts? I'd say that, yes, as an effective tool of the gay movement, Pride's usefullness has largely waned, in many U.S. cities. So do we even need to keep having these parades, since they no longer seem to have much of an impact on the state of the movement? No, we don't.

But...YES, WE DO.

Because even if Pride doesn't change many minds in the outside world, it's our PARTY, darlings. It's our Christmas, our New Year's, our Carnival. It's the one day of the year that all the crazy contingents of the gay world actually come face to face on the street. And blow each other air kisses. And wish each other "Happy Pride!". Saying "Happy Pride!" is really just a shorter, easier way of saying "Congratulations on not being driven completely batshit insane! Way to go for not taking a rifle into a tower and taking out half the town! Well done, being YOURSELF!"

I'm not worried what the outside world thinks about the drag queens, the topless bulldaggers or the nearly naked leatherfolk. It's OUR party, bitches. If you think that straight America would finally pull its homokinder to its star-spangled busom, once we put down that glitter gun, then you are seriously deluding yourself. Next year, if one of the Christian camera crews that show up to film our debauched celebrations happen to train their cameras on you, stop dancing. And start PRANCING.

All you suburban, lawn mowing, corpo-droid homos out there, hiding behind your picket fences, the ones wringing your hands and worrying that Pride ruins YOUR personal rep, listen up. Do you think that straight Americans worry that Mardi Gras damages international perception of American culture? America, land of the free, home of "Show Us Your Tits!"? They don't, and neither should we. Our Pride celebrations are just our own unique version of Mardi Gras, only instead of throwing beads, we throw shade. No one has to ask US to show our tits. We've already got 'em out there, baby. And some of them are real.

A co-worker of mine heard me discussing my Pride plans last weekend and said, "I really don't understand what it is you are proud about. I mean, you all say that you are born that way, so it's not like you accomplished anything." She wasn't being mean, just genuinely curious, and I think that a lot of gay people probably feel the same way, quite frankly. On this subject, I can only speak for myself.

I'm proud because I'm a middle-aged gay man who has more dead friends than living ones, and yet I'm not completely insane. I've lived through a personal Holocaust (here we go again) in which my friends and lovers have been mowed down as thoroughly and randomly as the S.S guards moved down the line of Jews. You, dead. You, to the factory. And you, you, you, and you, dead. I am inexplicably alive and I am proud that I keep the memories of my friends alive. I am proud of my people, the ACT-UPers, the Quilt makers, the Larry Kramers, the Harvey Fiersteins. I'm proud that I'm not constantly curled up into a ball on my bed, clutching photo albums and sobbing. And that happens sometimes, believe it.

And outside of my personal experiences, I am proud of my tribe, as a group. Sometimes I think that gay people are more creative, more empathic, more intuitive, more generous, and more selfless than anybody else on the planet. Sometimes I think that if an alien culture were surveying our planet from light years away, they might classify gay people as an entirely separate species of humans. It's easy to spot us because of our better haircuts.

But sometimes I think we are the worst people in the entire world when it comes to standing up for each other. The gay people who'd like to soothe their personal image problems by selectively culling some of our children from Pride events? They disgust me. They appall me. They embarrass me. To them I say: the very road that YOU now have the priviledge of swaggering upon was paved by those very queens and leather freaks that you complain about, as you practice your "masculine" and give us butch face. If you want to live in the house that THEY BUILT, you better act like you damn well know it! United we stand, you snide bitches. America's kulturkampf ain't gonna be solved by making flamboyant people go away.

I'll end this by making one final Jewish reference. Possibly you've heard the Jewish in-joke that sums up the meaning of all Jewish holidays? "They tried to kill us. We won. Let's eat." My Pride version?

They wish we were invisible.

We're not.

Let's dance.

The Monkey Chow Diaries

The Monkey Chow Diaries

The diary of a man who attempts to survive a week by eating only Monkey Chow. Wow.

"Imagine going to the grocery store only once every 6 months. Imagine paying less than a dollar per meal. Imagine never washing dishes, chopping vegetables or setting the table ever again. It sounds pretty good, doesn't it?

But can a human subsist on a constant diet of pelletized, nutritionally complete food like puppies and monkeys do? For the good of human kind, I'm about to find out. On June 3, 2006, I began my week of eating nothing but monkey chow: "a complete and balanced diet for the nutrition of primates, including the great apes."

Maybe I'll lose weight. Maybe I'll gain superhuman monkey strength. Maybe I'll go crazy. Maybe it's too late. Check back here every day to follow along with the Monkey Chow Diaries. Comments, criticisms, questions and advice can be left on the blog.

I'm tired of cooking. I hate scrubbing pots and pans. I've wasted too much time in the checkout line. It's time to eat chow."

The video of day one:

Thursday, June 08, 2006

So Sad...


I miss my other mommy. Posted by Picasa

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Hall of Fame

Check out the poison oak/ivy rash hall of fame photo gallery!

Some of them are really gross. Like this one:


Tuesday, June 06, 2006

The Thinking Fan's Guide to the World Cup

The Thinking Fan's Guide to the World Cup

As a returnee to the sport of soccer in a co-ed over-30 league I am again exposed to the joys & crazy fans of the world's most popular sport. On the commute home yesterday I heard an interview with the editor of this book:

I wonder if I should get it. Sounds like it could be interesting reading while watching The World Cup 2006: June 9 – July 9 in Germany

about the book...

An almanac, a literary anthology and a program rolled into one, The Thinking Fan’s Guide to the World Cup is a unique companion to the biggest event on the planet – indispensable to the reader with a passion for soccer and a thought and a care for everything else.

The Thinking Fan’s Guide features original pieces of reportage, travelogue, personal memoir and essay on the 32 participating nations by 32 leading novelists and journalists, including Robert Coover, Geoff Dyer, Dave Eggers, William Finnegan, Nick Hornby, John Lanchester, Henning Mankell, Eric Schlosser and many more. Plus all the information that any fan needs to follow the World Cup from opening match to the final: the complete match schedule, results from past tournaments, and facts and figures about the players, teams, referees, host cities and stadia and the nations themselves.


ANGOLA – crime writer Henning Mankell recounts Angola’s suspenseful qualification campaign

ARGENTINA – London Review of Books editor Thomas Jones defends Maradona’s ‘Hand of God’ goal against England

AUSTRALIA – Somerset Maugham Award-winner Ben Rice on Australia’s magical realist soccer

BRAZIL – novelist John Lanchester describes the indescribable: the beauty of Brazilian soccer

COSTA RICA – Welsh journalist Matthew Yeomans reveals how foreign investment in Costa Rican soccer is bringing violence to a peaceful country

CÔTE D’IVOIRE – London Review of Books editor Paul Laity explores the ‘new ivory trade’: the transfer market in African soccer players

CROATIA – writer Courtney Angela Brkic sings ‘Croatia is World Champion’ in Zagreb

CZECH REPUBLIC – Observer columnist Tim Adams explains what unites Milan Kundera and Pavel Nedved

ECUADOR – Harper’s contributing editor Jake Silverstein remembers the summer of The Speedwalker and the Madman.

ENGLAND – Fever Pitch author Nick Hornby on the conflicting call of club and country

FRANCE – novelist Aleksandar Hemon proves, once and for all, that sex and soccer do not mix

GERMANY – German journalist Alexander Osang meets the great World Cup hero Gerd Müller

GHANA – novelist Caryl Phillips loans the Ghanaian national team his iPod

IRAN – playwright Saïd Sayrafiezadeh delves deep into his Iranian heritage — and is surprised at what he learns

ITALY – novelist Tim Parks on the pleasures and pains of watching the World Cup in Italy

JAPAN – Time magazine Tokyo bureau chief Jim Frederick shows how soccer is displacing baseball

MEXICO – former Foreign Minister of Mexico Jorge Castañeda invites George W. Bush to a game

NETHERLANDS – journalist Tom Vanderbilt wonders whether the Dutch are too exceptional to win the World Cup

PARAGUAY – Guardian reporter Isabel Hilton hunts for contraband crocodile skins with the Guarani Indians, namesake tribe of the Paraguayan national team

POLAND – New Yorker columnist James Surowiecki explains how frequent changes in Polish national team managers reflect its political system

PORTUGAL – New Yorker staff writer William Finnegan surfs with the Portuguese national team, just down the coast from Cristiano Ronaldo’s boyhood home

SAUDI ARABIA – NYU professor Sukhdev Sandhu on the anti-soccer fatwa in Saudi Arabia

SERBIA & MONTENEGRO – writer Geoff Dyer explores the Serbian soul on the soccer pitch and in Belgrade traffic

SOUTH KOREA – novelist Peter Ho Davies recalls his boyhood in Coventry, when he was the only Asian on the soccer team

SPAIN – American novelist Robert Coover recalls the destape—the ‘popping of the cork’ that came after the death of General Franco—and the glorious 1982 World Cup in Spain

SWEDEN – muckraking reporter Eric Schlosser visits a Swedish prison

SWITZERLAND – Swiss novelist Peter Stamm sings the Swiss national anthem &emdash; at least the verse he can remember

TOGO – Caine Prize-winner Binyavanga Wainaina visits a Togolese market full of soccer jerseys and the most spectacular bras he’s ever seen

TRINIDAD & TOBAGO – New Yorker deputy fiction editor Cressida Leyshon discovers the link between Bristol, Trinidad & Tobago, and VS Naipaul

TUNISIA – reporter Wendell Steavenson meets the medicine men and witchdoctors of Tunisian soccer

UKRAINE – journalist Benjamin Pauker discovers the other great Ukrainian Shevchenko, on New York’s Lower East Side

UNITED STATES – McSweeney’s editor Dave Eggers on the gym teachers who keep America safe from communism

PLUS an Afterword by Franklin Foer: ‘How to Win the World Cup’.

Matt Weiland is deputy editor of Granta. Originally from Minneapolis, he lives in London.

Sean Wilsey is editor-at-large of McSweeney’s. He lives in New York.
—Posted 8 May 2006 by Matt Weiland

Monday, June 05, 2006

Guess the Punchline?

No it wasn't "pull my finger" but it was something equally inappropriate for a wedding toast to his youngest daughter. Posted by Picasa

Holy Man

To all the reader's of Jane's blog: this is Personal Jesus. He's now officially a man of the cloth. Go Boy! Posted by Picasa