becky haycox

Month: August 2011

  • fashist

    I like clothes and style and all that. I’m not a magazine-reading, credit card-maxing label ho, don’t get me wrong. I try to use my sister Ann as my style beacon and role model — a girl who never spends anything but deep bargain/thrift prices, but always, always dresses well.

    Now look at this excellent video, 100 years of fashion:

    [direct link]

    Now read this excellent blog, Fashioni.st. I love that Mai lady! We used to be colleagues without knowing it, way back when. Thanks to this blog, I feel like I’m keeping sneaky surveillance on what the cuties are wearing in SF.

    Now read this other excellent blog, nerdboyfriend. It’s genius — they post a picture of a Hot Boy then offer up suggestions, fashion-wise, of how to recreate the look. I fall in love several times a week. Go through their archives and find that picture of Paul Newman on a boat. Holy mama.

    That’s Lucian Freud. Hot Boy, RIP.

     

  • little guy

    Dad's baby shoes

    My dad’s baby shoes. I would like to go back in time and give him a little squeeze.

  • night visitor

    I purposely didn’t write about the fifth anniversary of my father’s passing yesterday. I couldn’t really think of what to say or how to say it. I think I am still getting over the various horrors that dropped in 2006, and sometimes can’t muster up the muster.

    But suddenly last night I’m inside a madcap dream in which I am in an a capella trio — Dan Savage (the sex columnist), Molly Ringwald, and myself. Showtime’s at 8pm and (in tiresomely typical dream fashion) we had not rehearsed and it’s about 7:45.

    I am in a big open-air motorized gondola thing heading to the recital with Dan, Molly, my dad and stepmom. I do not have direct contact with my father, but I’m surprised and pleased that he is coming to my recital (this was not always the case in real life).

    I was pleased, of course, until I realized that it was going to be a complete disaster, since we were completely unprepared.

    Oh, dream hijinx and dream-ghost visits. Will it never end.

     

  • 3 word-related thingies

    1. The Spanish word for carrot is zanahoria. Zanahoria! Makes me chuckle every time I see it. Such an elaborate, exotic word for our humble little carrot. Zanahoria!
    2. Bedclothes! So much better than the word linens. The bed is wearing bedclothes. So fancy. I wonder if the bed pretends the flat sheet is a cape.
    3. I like how other languages call seafood fruits of the sea. Sea fruit! Cute, and a little weird.

  • prideful

    It’s Ventura Pride weekend and I say hooray to that. I’ve been extra connected to the LGBT community this past year, both socially and through work, and that has enhanced my life in every single way. I have found a missing component for happiness here in the burg in which I live; my friends who share this circle with me are progressive, tolerant, full of activist spirit and a lot of goddam fun.

    This is the first year there’s been so much support from local government for Pride, and that makes me extra extra proud! Many of us can remember when this county’s mind was small and unenlightened; not that we’re free of bigotry (oh yes, still the hate crimes and the killing), but so much has been accomplished.

    Perhaps as a result of spending a majority of my adult life in San Francisco, the whole gay thing is simply a non-issue for me; I am completely unable to care about, let alone judge, anybody’s orientation. Of course, there was a whole lot of other things going on with the gay community in SF in the 80s and 90s, which activated my fighting spirit and my commitment to support and help and be there every way I could.

    So, friends. I command thee as an officially designated honorary gay male. Go out there and have fun and be proud and take the long view of all the good you’ve done by being you!

     

  • and i’ve been chasing it ever since

    It’s the Fourth Friday Challenge for August. My friend Paul and I, both posting daily in 2011, decided to give each other a job once a month to keep things spicy. In his words, “we want to push ourselves to do something more interesting than we might otherwise.” I will put his challenge to me at the bottom of this post — it’s your choice to read the challenge or my response first.

    – – – – –

    When I was struggling to transition from a hard-living art-school degenerate to a socialized grownup, I gussied up and went with my friend David to La Folie, a fancy French restaurant in San Francisco. We saved up for weeks for this event. We dressed in our best, somewhat classy clothes. Somehow, when David and I got to the restaurant (via the 21 Polk bus), the maitre d’ thought that we were newlyweds. This made us chuckle, but we played along.

    The meal absolutely sang. I had nothing like it before — or since, really. In the middle of this feast, the sommelier approached us and asked us if we’d like to try a very special wine. Apparently, someone else had ordered less than a bottle, so there were two glasses worth of wine for us, gratis. I believe he offered it up to us as congratulations to the happy couple.

    I remember that it was a cabernet sauvignon, but I remember nothing else. Except that there was an explosion of pure flavor as soon as the wine touched my lips — I actually saw stars as I experienced the full taste of the grape. I looked at David and there were tears in his eyes.

    In that moment, I saw the full potential of food, of wine, of love, and of adulthood.

    – – – – –

    This post was in response to Paul’s Fourth Friday Challenge to me, August 2011:

    Tell me about your favoritist drink.

    Read Paul’s response to my challenge here.

  • another internet friendship made “real”

    Polly y yo!

    I had the utter delight of meeting Polly of the inimitable Pollyanna Cowgirl in July, then basking in her presence a second time in San Francisco. Lucky me! We’ve been internet buddies for ages, so the face-to-face was ABOUT TIME.

    I first cornered her at her booth at last month’s Renegade Craft Fair, where I sweated all over her and stole a ring. She covers that meeting (and maybe some other stuff) in her recap. You might want to peruse her delights on her Etsy shop. I know, cute, right?

    Then I won a book on a giveaway on her blog (which was not fixed, how dare you) which was a good excuse to meet up with her in San Francisco.

    She also blogs about that experience, which was a lovely, delicious and drinky time. I love that she brings up the phenomena of vacation vibe transference — absorbing and experiencing the fun and relaxation of someone else’s vacation. I also subscribe to this notion; in fact, my friend Tamar and I fully believe that our friendship is so strong because whenever we see each other (we live on opposite coasts), one or the other of us is in full, fun-having relaxation mode. We call each other our honeymoon friend.

    So there you go. Another reason to give the internet a squeeze of its chubby little cheeks. Beef cheeks!

  • boombox in the courtyard

    me in 1983

    me in 1983

    Amy Rigby nails my middle-aged, angst-ridden soul today. If you’re anywhere near her age or mine, something might resonate to you (buy her album here). Everything she says pretty much is me, except I did not pursue playing music in any way. Also, I fell in love the first time a little later in the decade. But yep. Photo booths. No job. Thrift clothes. Even pushing large fake animals down the street.

    Summertime in ’83
    The year that we made history
    But didn’t have the energy
    To tell a soul ‘cept you and you and me

    Selling off Fiesta plates
    Ate loaves of bread but gained no weight
    From pecan waffles on the roof
    The summer of my wasted youth

    Summertime in ’83
    The last time I took LSD
    But listening to Patsy Cline
    And Skeeter David really blew my mind

    Played the boombox in the courtyard
    Never used a credit card
    Still took a trip by Greyhound bus
    The summer I believed in us

    Pushed plaster cows down city streets
    Wore thrift store skirts with little pleats
    Smoked pot and sat around all day
    Bought a guitar but didn’t try to play

    Summertime in ’83
    I didn’t need a j-o-b
    Cause unemployment kept me free
    To study country harmony

    And find somebody with a car
    Drink cheap beer in the Polish bar
    Take photos in the photo booth
    The summer of my wasted youth

  • can’t put it off any longer

    I’m off to the Department of Motor Vehicles! Hooray! There’s a whole lot of paperwork for the two us to get done!

    After I try to sort out two separate snarled tangles of bureaucracy for two cars, then I get to take the new (to me) car to see how much I can pay the mechanic to make it stop making a low-hooting/squeaking noise. Oh, and what it will take to make it start, since last time I checked, it didn’t start.

    This is on the heels of an agonizing day of car repair (ruptured brake line!) yesterday.

    I am liberally peppering this post with exclamation points! Because otherwise I’m gonna start using bullets! Bullet points!

    What!? Did I just make an awesome or horrible joke? I don’t care!

  • road. tripping.

    Since this summer is incapable of serving up good (nice long weekend in San Francisco) without immediately serving up bad (breaking down on the way home from the airport) I guess I should not be surprised that I’m drinking coffee, reading my airport magazines and waiting for the automotive prognosis of the Boyf’s car.

    I’m trying (semi-successfully) to be helpful, cheerful, and (mostly) to stay out of everyone’s way. Also am trying to enjoy the quickly waning afterglow of a wonderful trip, a trip that de-tensed my shoulders and filled me full of expensively delicious nourishment.

    Anyone want to come down to Santa Monica and meet up for coffee? Oh, and while you’re down here…

    20110822-015747.jpg