This Boy Elroy

Folsom Weekend 2008

This weekend was our first Folsom Street fair. Loved it! This is definitely our favorite event of all the events we've been to in the city so far. Alas, we took no photos to document our good times.

We went to a calendar party on Friday night to support our friend who was Mr. October 2009. As usual he looked amazing and his fellow monthly men were also nice to look at.

Saturday we went to the BigMuscle.com party. Wow. I've never been to party or bar with so many hot men, seriously it was like 95% hotness. Moby and Frank (who never updates his blog, ahem!) attended with us, along with this nice guy. Brad and I were feeling a bit wiped after the party and headed home for the night. Moby and Frank continued on to the Powerhouse which they said was letdown after being at the BigMuscle party. Totally understandable, being surrounded by 95% grade A hotness will make everything afterwards a total let-down.

Sunday we headed to the fair the Moby and Frank and had a great time walking laps of all there was to see. Everyone was warning us about being scandalized by all the sights but it wasn't anything we haven't seen before at other events in the city. After living here for 4 months naked people on the street are commonplace. The most scandalous thing that happened to me was that two people recognized me from this here blog. I love it when people say hi to me from the blog but at the same time it's a bit jarring because I'm thinking to myself, "whoa people read it!?" So, yeah, hello!

Next weekend is the Castro Street fair which will be happening right outside my window. I promise to take photos of that one and next year I'll try and take photos at Folsom.

In case you missed it.

Staten Island Mania

Staten Island, the land of stench. Staten Island, the land of eternal disco. Staten Island, the republican part of New York City. Staten Island, the bastard borough of the city so nice they named it twice. Staten Island, my birth place.

Yes this mortal coil was pushed into existence on a piece of land that was once famous for having the world's largest landfill and being the home of Willowbrook State School, a place who's scandalous treatment of the mentally retarded made Geraldo Rivera into a "journalist." Yes, from the start of my life till age 11 this was my home until my family was relocated to Scottsdale, Arizona, by far a classier joint.

Being that Staten Island is so small and that few people are willing to admit that they are actually from there, it is rare that you meet people who originated from that corner of New York. However, during my four months in San Francisco I have met three people from Staten Island, two of which are connected to me in wild ways.

The first was a man I saw at the gym wearing a Staten Island Advance tee shirt. I had to stop him and say something. My grandmother used to do the word searches from the Advance and send them into the paper and got me a myriad of free rulers.

Here I am with Grandma, the Staten Island Advance word search grand master! c. 1984

The next two are really weird.

On Twitter I found a fellow San Franciscan who went to high school with one of my cousins at Monsignor Farrell High School.

Then, through another social networking site, who's name will be conspicuously omitted, I met a man who was best friends with the son of the people who were the previous owners of the house we lived in at 362 Oakland Avenue, and who, several years earlier than me, went to PS 45.

What are the chances? Perhaps we should start a Staten Island meet up?

And for a last bit of Staten Island pride, here is the Madonna video, Papa Don't Preach, filmed at various locations on the island.

The Street Where I Live

Overheard last night while shutting my bedroom windows before bed:

"Fuck him! Fuck that bastard! I hope he gets clamidia!!"

I know. I totally agree. But let's make sure McCain doesn't get elected president, then we can give him clamidia as his consolation prize.

Found

photo
Originally uploaded by adpal3180.

After a nice breakfast Brad and I decided to park on a bench at our favorite corner of Dolores Park.  Once we'd had our fill we headed down the sidewalk towards Dolores street and there on the ground was a wad of cash.

Nobody was nearby the cash, it was just sitting there in the middle of the sidewalk.  Finders keepers. 

We proceeded to walk down Dolores with our newfound treasure pondering what to do with it when we walked passed The Mission Dolores.  We had never been inside, admission is $5 each.  That took care of $10 of what we had found. 

My favorite part was the diorama of the Mission back before there was any city and the cemetery.  I had my eye out for the headstone of Carlotta Valdes, alas it has been removed. 

I wasn't allowed to throw myself into the bay at Fort Point because there's a fence and Carlotta Valdes' headstone isn't in the cemetery at Mission Dolores.  Suck. 

Maybe I can buy a nice Kim Novak costume with the rest of the money.

Visitation

My parents visited this past weekend. It was fun albeit exhausting. Now that I've lived away from them for so long I have a new perspective on them. They are beyond a shadow of a doubt real-life Costanzas.

It was really strange how much they blended into the city. They really added to the pool of crazies, especially when they were screaming at one another about the value of impressionistic art in Washington Square park. I just stood back and watched.

After seeing a gathering of the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence my mom wants to join. She thinks they're great.

While driving down 18th street this conversation ensued.

Dad: Watch out, don't hit the transvestite.

Me: Thats a drag queen.

Dad: Oh, what's the difference?

After I explained my dad was grateful for his new found knowledge.

There were more hilarious moments, too complicated to explain. I'll just say the Japanese Tea Gardens were infused with a bit of Brooklyn for an hour and went from zen to chaos. My friends from high school who read this blog can appreciate that explanation.

Fiscal Policy

Sarah Palin saw the Lehman Brothers offices from the top of a double-decker tour bus in New York.

She knows finance.

Olbermann Save Us!!!

Spread this far and wide everyone because every word of it is unadulterated TRUTH. 

Paging Dr. Irresponsible

During my five years in Dallas I went for four of those years without establishing a relationship with a physician. It was only in my last year there when I got sick that it occurred to me that I ought to find a regular doctor and get one yearly checkups and physicals. Aside from the health reasons there were fiduciary reasons, I was paying insurance premiums but never drawing any benefit from that.

I've already gotten sick once since we moved here (turned out to be just a cold) and trying to see a doctor if you're a new patient when you are sick is impossible. Luckily, the urgent care physician I saw was great but getting sick was a reminder to establish a relationship with a regular doctor. So I set up and appointment with a physician nearby our apartment in the Castro.

I walk in. Meet and greet. Paperwork. Weight, height, temp, pulse, blood pressure, etc. Very standard visit so far.

The doctor comes in. He's an older man, looks like a cross between the best parts of John Waters and worst parts of Tom Sellick. From the get-go the questioning was a bit accusational. It didn't quite seem to click when I told him that I was fine and that I just wanted to get a check up and some blood work done, it had been since December that I did so.

We continued with the questioning.

"Are you straight, gay, or bisexual?"

First thought that came into my head was, "Why does any of that matter?" I'm not ashamed of answering the question but my immediate thought process was you treat the patient, not the sexual orientation. I thought that places like San Francisco had moved beyond the concepts of "gay diseases" and the like. The soapbox was quickly dismantled and put aside to maintain civility.

"Gay."

"Are you in a relationship?"

Okay, I don't see the need for this question either but he's probably trying to profile me so don't get so defensive.

"Yes."

"Are you monogamous?"

I see the point of this question from a clinical profile view point but combined with the first question I'm starting to get a little bit uneasy here. Normally these kinds of things come up in a more suave conversational method, this guy's bedside manner sucks!

"Yes."

Now, I answered yes because I'm not going to count the number of times when Brad and I jointly, and I emphasize jointly, aren't 100% monogamous. There are times, but not enough that I would say that we're not monogamous.

Nothing prepared me for what came out of the doctor's mouth next.

(With sarcasm, dryness, and irony) "So if you're in a monogamous relationship, why do you need to get tested for HIV?"

Jaw. Dropped. To. The. Floor. Are you kidding me!? A doctor, who's office is at the corner of 18th St. and Castro questioning the value of an HIV test for one of his patients!?

First of all, not more than three minutes ago we discussed that I had a brother who died from HIV. Furthermore, it's always good to get tested even if you're in a "monogamous" relationship because even if you're monogamous you can never be 100% certain that your partner is too. If he was trying to determine if I was lying about my monogamousness (spell check accepts that word by the way - use it today in a sentence) there are better ways of figuring that out and I don't seem to remember making an appointment with a psychiatrist. Lastly, when did it become a frivolity to get an HIV test?!

I answered him.

(Cooly, calmly, but with indignation) "Because it's always good to know."

He cast me a patronizing smirk and a nod. I felt at that moment what I imagine it must have been like for little black girls in the south when rich white women would approach them and tell them how "precious" they were in an attempt to assuage any thoughts of them being racists.

I won't be going to this doctor again. His attitude is severely lacking and I find his clinical style and demeanor to be antiquated. Not to mention he thinks HIV testing is some kind of luxury, reserved only for the truly debauched.

I took my sheet of paper and stormed down to Noe St. to get my blood drawn at the local Lab Corp office. Never before have I felt so righteous while being bled.

Fuck you Dr. Irresponsible.

Simple Pleasures & Songs

Friday afternoon I decided to take the J home and stop at Dolores Park. I was riding on the train through Noe Valley, and maybe this is because I'm still new here, or maybe it's because I'm a goober, but I was feeling incredibly moved by the buildings, the people on the train, the quality of light from the clear day. Everything was just connecting and touching me in a wonderful way.

At the same time I'm listening to "Heroes," by David Bowie. If you haven't heard it, you must, it should be included in everyone's musical education. It's one of my all time favorite songs, the lyrics and Bowie's vocals are incredibly haunting.

So here I am, soaking in all this stuff and it become apparent that "Heroes" is my song for San Francisco. I thought how the relationship between me and the city is similar to the one in the song. A relationship plagued with pitfalls and imperfection but at the same time intense and wonderful that it's worth it for one day. I thought about how at any minute San Francisco could be leveled in a catastrophic earthquake, but the thought didn't scare me because here I was surrounded by beautiful architecture, people, and beaming sunlight. If it were all to end right then, it was worth it, just for one day.

It was ironic that later that night there was an earthquake in the east bay. I didn't feel a thing at my apartment when it happened.

Later I was sitting on a patch of grass at the southwest corner of Dolores Park, looking out at the city. Again, maybe it's because I'm new here or maybe it's because I'm a goober but that vista just refuses to get old. "And Then So Clear, "by Brian Eno came onto my iPod. I sat there, looking out at the city, looking at the wonderful people around me enjoying the park and for five minutes and fifty seconds, the world was perfect.