Category: Pop Culture

At the Track

Sure, the news today had stories about the fact that we now seem to be at war. There was also mention of the fact the Fred Phelps made his semi-annual visit to San Francisco on Friday (he’s done wonders for queers ever since we put him on the payroll as official spokesidiot for bigotry).

But today’s completely unnewsworthy story on horse racing at Golden Gate Fields was the one which caught my eye. You see, I grew up going to the horse races and I know what a wondrous thing it is.

About twice a year, my mom and dad and I (sometimes with my grandmother) would pack up the car bound for a little town called Charles Town, West Virginia and go to the races.

The trip was pretty similar each time. The first day, we’d drive up, check into our motel, hit that night’s races, and have a late snack at the diner downtown. On the second day, we’d drive to wherever there were races in the suburbs of Washington or Baltimore. My dad would watch the horses and my mom and I often hit a mall or whatever. Back to Charles Town that night for a repeat. On the third and final day, we’d either go to Washington (for culture) or one of the big theme parks in Virginia (for fun) and then home.

These were great trips. They weren’t really about gambling (although I did learn how to pick a winner). For me, and I suspect somewhat for my mom and dad as well, they were largely about people-watching. Some of the strangest characters in the world lurk about eastern race tracks: big fat drunk guys in plaid sportcoats, scary kids who looked like modern adaptations of Dickensian orphans, bored and damaged-looking mothers…

The food was great too: no frills pizza and hot dogs and hamburgers. There was lots of beer, too, but my mom and dad didn’t drink. The whole atmosphere was so incredibly seedy. I loved it. It prepared me for the pockmarked urban landscapes I love to this day. It was all about the working class (or maybe not even as well-to-do as that…)

Somehow, I can’t imagine that any track in the increasingly trendy and sanitized Bay Area could match up to Charles Town or Laurel or Timonium. No doubt, the uptight soccer moms of Marin County would be horrified at the idea of a child visiting such a place. It’s just too real for our sophisticated palates. I envision lattes and biscotti and sandwiches on focaccia.

But maybe I’m wrong. Anybody wanna check it out with me? Casino gambling bores me. Dog racing horrifies me. But I could be in the mood to hang out with the horses this week.

Randomly Saturday

Random thoughts generated by a short attention span on a Saturday morning:

  • Eggo frozen waffles really ARE better than store brands.
  • Obsessively cleaning one’s apartment for the first time in over six years can result in the discovery of a surprising amount of money.
  • Supposing I wrote stories about what a hot college jock I am. Think I could make any money selling my dozen recently-unearthed pairs of old shoes at one of those foot fetish sites?
  • Some idiot just called me (on the phone) trying to “get the website for San Francisco city guides”. I have no idea what he was talking about. I have even less idea how he got my number.
  • Does anyone remember the mystical and magical show called “Night Flight” which used to run on the USA Network before said cable channel became flat out useless?
  • Speaking of the old videotape I’m watching from 1988: does anyone else find it a huge injustice that Dusty Springfield will never sing again but that the Pet Shop Boys probably will?
  • I am convinced that the lead singer of the New Radicals does not really sing. He’s merely an adorable boy who’s lip synching to previously unreleased World Party songs.
  • Will I ever have a boyfriend who has a washer and dryer in his home?
  • One more time: why does it cost 25-50 cents more to sell a gallon of gas in northern California than anywhere else in the country (or even the state)? And why is milk twice as expensive here in the largest dairy-producing state? And why is it impossible to buy a decent tomato here?

Housekeeping and Dream Whip

Dang. It sure is quiet in here…

OK, so everyone’s really sick of reading about my new adventures setting up housekeeping alone. No one cares that I now own my own vacuum cleaner for the first time since 1989. Everyone’s lost interest in my trendy new cookware and my new shower curtain and matching bath towels from Target. And everyone’s really pissed that I seem to have stopped answering email.

Too damned bad. That, and a disturbing amount of work, is about all that’s going on for me right now.

The highlight of my weekend was a shopping excursion with Sarah to the thrift stores and strange closeout warehouses of Redwood City. I bought Drano and forks and bowls. I deviated from the domestic theme by picking up this really great beat-up army jacket. I also found a cool mug which says “no smoking”. I fully intend to use it as an ashtray.

But the real find was the Arabic box of Dream Whip you see above. It’s comforting to know that if I ever find myself in the heat of the Middle East longing for instant non-dairy whipped topping, I’ll probably be able to find it.

Coming tomorrow: my hastily-composed Planet SOMA Third Anniversary Address. Coming the next day: more exciting stories of domestication, including a euphoric essay on my new chair.

Why yes, my life IS a bit tedious this week, thank you…

At Age 34 1/2

Seven realizations upon hitting the ripe old age of 34 1/2:

  1. The minimal lighting in most bars has additional benefits beyond the obvious factor of making all patrons “look better”. The darkness also allows you to pretend you don’t see people you’re avoiding for one reason or another. In addition, it allows you to pretend not to recognize people whose names you may have forgotten. Design feature or happy coincidence? Who knows?
  2. There are no bargains in malls. Ever.
  3. It is much easier to keep the kitchen clean if you wash three or four dishes a day rather than letting them “soak” for three weeks until everything you own is completetly disgusting.
  4. IQ testing might be a great idea for San Francisco drivers.
  5. I will most likely never eat at any of the SF Chronicle’s “Top 100 Restaurants”, and I don’t really feel that I’m missing anything. I’m not inclined to believe that a $25 pork chop is really five times better than a $5 pork chop.
  6. Sunshine and warm weather are tremedously overrated.
  7. I am now resigned to the fact that I will never be featured on an episode of A&E’s Biography. Note to friends and relatives: those compromising photos, videos, and anecdotes will probably never be particularly valuable.

AOL Sucks

AOL sucks, reason #591: I’ve been working for weeks now on a client site which features a searchable database. Everything works beautifully.

Except on America Online…

Apparently, AOL’s system of proxy servers makes lots of sites unusable. In addition, their system does all sorts of really strange things to sites which do work. All the same, lots of people still use AOL, although the reasons for this continue to elude me.

So I find myself coming up with a half-assed fix to accommodate the ineptitude of a large corporation with unlimited resources. It’s the same disgust I feel when I use Microsoft products…

Things I really love this week: NewsRadio, Minute Maid Lemonade in the gallon jug, this pre-Falwell Teletubbies site, Better Telnet, and this week’s SF Weekly feedback.

Things I really hate this week: AOL (see above), idiots who put me on “press release” email lists I never asked to be on, parking tickets, and Nash Bridges location shoots.

4 February 1999

Crazy week. Busy week. Absolutely friggin’ insane week. And no, that’s not just another “why I’m answering my email so slowly” excuse. OK…maybe it’s sort of an excuse…

Today’s song I’d forgotten I liked: “Bedbugs and Ballyhoo” by Echo and the Bunnymen. There’s something quite wonderful about listening to Australian radio while you work…

Latest from the fascist republic of California : Bay Insider reports that the SFPD is actually helping to enforce the ban on smoking in San Francisco bars. Thank God the crime rate is going down so we can afford cops to handle such important matters. I feel so much more secure already…

Amusing Usenet post du jour: in ba.motss, someone actually referred to Palo Alto as a “funky college town”. For those outside the area, Palo Alto is one ofthe most sterile communities in the Bay Area. I can’t remember ever seeing anyone under 30 (or under $75,000 a year) walking the streets there, except on the actual Stanford campus. I’d hate to think how this poor slob would describe Berkeley…

Why yes, I AM avoiding anything remotely introspective this week (month? year?), thank you…

Super What?

I heard a rumor that today was Super Bowl Sunday. Never having been much of a baseball fan, I wouldn’t know for sure.

I just never “got” professional sports. I can tolerate a little college basketball (which is, of course, a bit of a religion in North Carolina). I can sit through a soccer match if forced. Pro skateboarding has an entertaining aesthetic side. But the excitement of spending three-plus hours watching a good 15-20 minutes of actual activity just eludes me.

I shan’t even start on the politics of team owners who blackmail cities in search of new stadiums while making it damned near impossibe for most citizens to actually attend games. And don’t get me started on the annual salaries which are larger than the economies of some third world countries.

But some people might find some of my obsessions a little odd too. Who knows…

Anyway, I’m off to cook another pot of collards now.

The Streets of San Francisco

Yer humble host has now managed to collect a grand total of 93 episodes of “The Streets of San Francisco” on tape. Should make for a strange weekend-long marathon party. Ot at least for an interesting page of video captures soon.

Thanks to Mark for lunch yesterday, and to Jay for the amazing Chick-fil-A calendar (with coupons yet). More thanks to Grant for the 1972-era urban planning textbook aimed at third graders (look for copyright infringements soon on this page).

While I’m at it, post-Christmas thanks to Mom and Dad for the care package which included two boxes of Count Chocula. Thanks to Sarah for the cool Sid and Marty Kroft book and to Dan for the Quisp T-shirt. Am I forgetting anyone?

By the way, you too could be mentioned here. Just give me cool stuff. I have no ethics.

Here’s today’s link du jour. They didn’t give me anything.

Random Stuff

Between all the leftover work I avoided over Christmas and all and the fact that I’ve been sleeping off a really nasty bug all day, I am neither caught up on the website nor the email. I have, at least, managed to upload the first part of the North Carolina trip.

Other things I could be writing about but I’m not (just yet) might include whining about whatever this bug is that I’ve managed to pick up. I could discuss how pissed I am that I can’t get ADSL, even here in San Francisco’s most “wired” neighborhood.

I could include the fact that I got email from Strange de Jim (of Herb Caen fame). I could write about how I’m really starting to get serious about leaving San Francisco. I could tell the story of the disturbing graffiti which appeared on my front door this weekend.

I could even talk about that Leif Garrett documentary from Sunday night.

But I’m not going to get into any of this right now. I’m going back to bed.

Faux Butch

When I splintered those closet doors at the tender age of 17, people often said to me “I never would have guessed you were gay” (a pretty back-handed compliment if ever there was one). Nowadays, I’m more likely to be told that I’m “masculine”. Hmmm…

I never really thought of myself as “masculine”. It’s certainly nothing I’ve ever aspired to. To be honest, “masculinity” is not something I really give a shit about, whether it’s my own or that of a friend or sex partner. I just don’t really care that much one way or the other.

Granted, it’s annoying to be in a bar full of affected idiots snapping their fingers and squealing “Oh Mary” this and “Miss Thing” that. But that’s not really about “masculinity” or “effeminacy”. It’s all about stupid learned behaviors. It’s no less annoying to be in a bar full of faux butch poseurs. Again, it’s got nothing to do with their “masculinity”, but with their inability to act like anything but cliches.

I’m not really talking about leatherfags here, although I do find the leather scene more comical than erotic most of the time. Leatherfags at least ADMIT that it’s all about costumes and fetishism. Once outside the drag, leatherfags usally have some balance.

No, I’m talking about the poor souls who go through life (both in and out of the bedroom) absolutely obsessed with being “masculine”.

Picture the wannabe frat boy who’s always off to the racquetball court in his monster truck, as if driving a Geo Metro might make his hair turn lavender. Off he flies in search of the latest “outdoorsy” drag from Abercrombie & Fitch, and then off to the gym to work on those grotesque pecs and lats and abs, all the time dreaming of a similarly “masculine” boyfriend. No fats. No fems…

He’s fiercely proud of being gay, and he’s perpetually annoyed by all the drag queens and anyone else who doesn’t meet his standard of “masculinity”. He thinks “fringe groups” present the “wrong image”, although he fancies himself politically progressive. He regularly reminds his straight friends that being gay does not mean being “effeminate”. No fats. No fems…

In bed, he may play “bottom” on occasion, but only with someone even more “masculine” than he is. No fats. No fems…

Think about it for a minute. Is he any less affected than the Southern belle in the pegleg jeans and the Chanel T-shirt? Is he any less contrived than the fey antique shop owner who refers to everyone — male and female — as”she”?

I don’t understand this whole faux butch dynamic. I don’t understand viewing life in terms of “masculine” or “feminine” any more than I understand anyone who describes himself as a “top” or a “bottom”. Maybe I’m missing something.

I’ll take a cute sissy with a personality over a tight-assed drag king with a macho complex any day of the week. As a friend or as a boyfriend…