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May. 9th, 2009


Fruit Salad

If you travel through the Castro with any frequency, you know Dane.

He is homeless. While l have seen him throughout the “gayborhood,” his lanky frame zipping past and slaloming through the pedestrians often at a breakneck pace, he can generally be found loitering around his “space,” the public parking lot beside and behind the Castro Theater.

I never ignore Dane. It’s best not to ignore Dane. You may pay dearly for it at the end of his trenchant wit and pointed sarcasm.

He has never asked me for money. He almost always gives me a nod and occasionally speaks directly to me. I always respond. What he says on those rare occasions has always been quite surprisingly insightful, brilliant and downright hilarious. I have long seen a spark of genius behind his eyes and between the lines of his seemingly meaningless rants.

In fact, I know he is much more than just another mental, down-on-his-luck, never-make-eye-contact homeless panhandler. Dane is a hero. I was right there when he pulled a dying man from a burning car wreck that set Cliff’s Hardware and a string of motorcycles and automobiles aflame. While I was struck motionless and stunned, he sprang into action. It was an amazing act of bravery.

I was recently amazed by Dane in a different way. I was strolling by the parking lot and I caught the beginnings of one of his “rants” and was again struck motionless. However, this time it was with amazed fascination by the brilliant humor of what he was saying.

Dane was engaged in an elaborate discourse on the wonderful world of “fruit salad.”

“My friends, there are so many types of fruit salad,” Dane said. “There are just so many to choose from. Perhaps too many.” His eyes scanned the passersby. “All kinds of fruity fruit salad.”

The pedestrians did their best to hurry-by. While most glanced furtively towards the ranting homeless man, their eyes uniformly shot back to the ground or off into the distance as their steps hastened.

In an exaggerated dawdle, I lingered in front of the gelato shop and hearkened. I would not be disappointed. Like his rapid footfalls while keening through the Castro, words darted from Dane’s lips with deliberate speed and purpose.

I very soon realized that Dane was not merely espousing the delicious joys of fruit salad. To my delight, he was directly, satirically commenting on the “fruit salad” walking past.

A thin, obviously well-heeled, aging queen—dressed in penny loafers and a Ralph Lauren ensemble flourished with a lemon yellow sweater tied about the neck like a ridiculous mini-cape and tortoise shell sunglasses perched upon his pate above thinning, colored hair—flitted-by.

“You’ve got your Waldorf fruit salad!” Dane speared him directly. “Rich, pasty white and definitely fruity...and it has those little, broken nuts. While the celery makes it crunchy it’s also really stringy. Overly sweet and slimy it leaves a bad taste in my mouth.”

A few seconds later a chubby, camp and slightly trans-looking black man—dressed in a very bright, multi-colored pastel kaftan with a fluffy white Kangol cap on his head—strolled-by. Bangle jewelry chimed about his wrists and forearms and rhinestoned eyeglasses swayed on a pearled chain about his neck. He never stopped smiling, carrying a pink shopping bag in one hand and a silver-tipped cane in the other.

“Then you have your lumpy Ambrosia fruit salad,” Dane smirked, the bright eyes in his dirty face opening in genuine surprise at the perfectness of his next dish. “Extremely fruity with bananas, pineapple chunks, cherries and grapes—its so thick it has to be whipped-up with a big wooden stick! And it has all those squishy marshmallows in it and fuzzy coconut on top.”

Four giggling Asian boys—decked-out matching Prada sunglasses on their button noses, tight designer jeans and form-fitting, print t-shirts below nearly uniform jet-black, spiked coifs—bounced along.

“Then there’s carrot-raisin fruit salad.” Dane scattershot the warren hopping-by. “With spiky shredded carrots and little shriveled raisins and slivered almonds staring back at you. I don’t like it because it makes my mouth orange but on-the-other hand you can eat a lot and it won’t fill-you-up.”

Two leather-Levi men sauntered into view—their shaved heads gleaming and the creak and slap of their leather jackets and chaps drowned-out by the clapping of their jackboots on the sidewalk.

“Of course you have your ever-popular melon ball fruit salad,” rolled-out the next assessment like a truckload of cantaloupe over-turned on the interstate. “Thick, clustering orbs of fruitiness ready to be stabbed and gobbled-up. A lot of people like it when all those round, juicy melon balls are served in a big shiny watermelon husk.”

Almost on queue, a big, husky cub ambled through in Vans slip-ons and gave me a big nod and smile in greeting. His belly protruding over belted cargo shorts and sticking out of the bottom of a lime green t-shirt he had obviously out-grown, a bright trucker hat perched atop his crew cut.

“And we can’t forget the Jell-O mold fruit salad,” Dane snorted. “It quivers and jiggles! Its so much fun to poke but its hard to keep on your spoon because its so bouncy. You can see all the fruit floating inside but its actually hard to reach.”

A group of Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence in their bright Easter habits wandered by while Dane sang the praises of a “supreme mixed fruit salad,” which is “like a fruit cocktail on steroids.”

As some lesbians went past he explained the intricacies of "kiwi, strawberry and spinach salad with tangy goat cheese.”

Finally, his voice quieted, his rendition of “pineapple cole slaw” trailing-off as he closely regarded a Latino meter maid cruising into the parking lot.

Of course Waldorf, Ambrosia, the Carrot-Raisin Boys, Melon Balls, Jell-O Mold and the others had absolutely no idea what the crazy homeless man was really talking about.

After a rare still, solitary moment of probable brilliant introspection, Dane turned and sped-away into the big, colorful “fruit salad” that is the Castro.

Jan. 7th, 2009


UGLY HOUSE—The Book™ UGLY HOUSE #8 Orange Crush House


The only effervescence associated with this artificially orange-flavored eyesore is likely to be found on the beer besotted breath of the tasteless drunkard who chose this hideous shade. I never liked the sugary sweetness of that industrial strength, tongue-dyeing crap. And I really tried to like it.

Okay, I didn't really try to like Orange Crush or this Ugly House™ either.

Nevertheless, I would like to dedicate this Ugly House™ to howbearca, who loves the color orange.

Dec. 23rd, 2008


Awl I Wan For Qwisamas Is Ewe

"I jus' wanna see my baby sanding wight outside my dough...make my wiss come tue. Baby awl I wan for Qwisama is ewe."

Nothing says Mary "Qwisamas" like a gay Korean boy singing falsetto.

All I really do want for Christmas is you, baby.

Happy Christmas everyone.

May it be brilliant!

Dec. 20th, 2008



As is apt to happen with a bear known to be into non-bear men—chasers and admirers—I received a message from a comely, very young Swedish lad thanking me for being into his type. As if I needed thanks for that. In an all to familiar story, he has been given quite a lot of crap over the last year trying to "admire" the bears.

Apparently, bear culture is still huge in Europe. Go figure. Despite his broken English—hey I was impressed as I certainly cannot speak a bit of Swedish—he mentioned a derisive term he and his chaser friends use to refer to bears who are only into other bears: lesbian bears.

How very endearing.

I thought it was very funny and somewhat accurate. I have seen everything from open hostility to catty bitchiness from some bears toward non-bears—even after all these years. Very often without cause or catalyst. While it does seem to have gotten better, one bear recently just took it upon himself to just volunteer that someone I love very much "needs to eat something."

Thanks but no thanks for your unsolicited opinion. He is perfect the way he is and I accept him fully just as he is. I wouldn't change him one bit.

Even after all these years, I am still annoyed by the disapproving and consoling looks I often get when another bear finds out I am only into chasers and admirers. I don't have cancer guys, I just happen like regular guys.

So, if bears can derisively dismiss a chaser as a "skinny, hairless twink," I think it's only fair play for that chaser to retort with a robust "bearsbian!"

Dec. 16th, 2008


Dirty Bird

I am watching Dirty Jobs on The Discovery Channel, since it's the only cable channel that comes with the $15 a month basic Comcast.

Mike Rowe just said "...while I have seen some dirty tops, I have gone down from time-to-time...and I have known some really dirty bottoms."

I bet you have Mike...I bet you have.

Dec. 15th, 2008


Tranny Menswear

I don't know who told Weight Watchers (WW) my secret!

Every Monday, I get an encouraging message from WW with a link to some mildly interesting or somewhat helpful online article.

Today, it was one titled "Transitional Menswear Made Simple."

"As you trim the bulge from your waistline, you’re probably noticing something else that’s slimming down simultaneously: your closet. Your once-comfortable options currently dwarf you. All of those tried-and-true wardrobe staples that used to fit you like a glove now bag and sag in places that don’t look decent on a grown man.

But you don’t like to shop. Or, you don’t mind the occasional mall trip, but your wallet has been dwindling in size due to the current economic slump. ’Tis true—your triumph over your weight turns into a defeat to your wallet, and replenishing a whole wardrobe costs a pretty penny—especially if you’re still on the way to losing additional dress sizes.

Luckily, you can help keep your wallet sizeable as you downsize your frame by buying smart, tailoring and focusing on those wardrobe staples that rarely go out of style.

I will certainly put this great advice into practice until I have lost a couple more "dress sizes."

I was waiting for those great after-Christmas deals down at Lane Bryant anyway!

Dec. 14th, 2008


Duck, Duck, Bush...

This is so brilliant.

In the long history of shoe crime, attempted assassination with a shoe—throwing a stinking, worn loafer at Bush's head during an Iraqi new conference—came no closer to achieving it's desired effect.

But it did something much more prosaic and symbolic in making him duck and thus throughly humiliating him. A better and more athletic man would have simply batted it away. What was that a size 7 or something? I could see ducking for my size 16s.


This has given me a great idea.

To show our collective contempt for the last 8-years, we should all mail our old, stinking LEFT shoes to W at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue by January 19th.

I suppose they will be requiring the press corp to remove their shoes before new conferences now. I can't imagine how stinky that will be in Washington much less than Iraq. At least the foul odor in the room will match the stinking lies coming out of his mouth.

Dec. 6th, 2008



In a way, I am actually flattered that some very sad person has misappropriated my image to get laid on a gay chub/admirer website.


Just my luck.

Why can't someone post my pic on TwinkSpot?!

Initially it gave me a chuckle. And I probably shouldn't mind really, as he is using it to try and get with "superchubs" and "daddies." Not my niche market at all.

But then I thought about the fact that I might eventually bump (or squish) into a angry superchub who thinks I am an online tease. It could get ugly. Even if I could probably outrun one, I just don't need the bad press.

Maybe Mister Rosario—let's call him Rosie—thinks that superchubs are just so desperate that they will forgive him for not looking like me and have pity sex with him. Just so you know Rosie, I rarely get hit on by chubby guys so it's not likely to work. Additionally, in my experience superchubs are extremely discerning and uniformly command the attention of some of the prettiest, sexiest men. I have definitely been jealous of chubby guys who get all the hot chasers.

So, Rosie, take down my photo please. In the immortal words of your namesake, Rosario of "Will & Grace," you are "riding a llama in Neverland" if you think that anyone is going to believe you are a 6'8", 325-pound daddy bear. Or that most chubby guys would go for my type anyway. You might want to pick someone you could possibly pass for or that is the type usually attractive to chubs.

Also, Texas has a Mumbai in it?

Nov. 16th, 2008


Let Justice Roll Down Like Waters

While attending the Prop. 8 Protest in San Jose yesterday, I was genuinely surprised and touched by all the families and straight supporters who came-out on a brilliant, sunny November day to join in endorsing equality and civil rights for all.

Watching the children happily playing in the fountain at City Hall, I could not help but think of that most memorable quote of Amos 5:24 by Martin Luther King, Jr.:

Let justice roll down as waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream.

It seemed so appropriate.

It was one of the most affirming days I have had in a long time.

Nov. 2nd, 2008


I Plunge For Palin!

Since there is nothing more frightening than the idea of a McCain-Palin win on Tuesday, I went as "Joe the Plumber" for Halloween.

That's some really scary shit.

Someone has to make sure those turds get flushed...I plunge for Palin!

And, keeping with my theme, YES on MEASURE R and NO on 8!!

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