Friday Faves (November 30, 2012)

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To commemorate the end to yet another week in my life, I took a few moments to gather together a handful of the grand-tastic things that helped me get through it.

In addition to vodka.

Have joy.

SONG: "Babel" by Mumford & Sons 

The week brought rain to San Francisco and with it an urge for new music. Babel, the second studio album from indie folk quartet Mumford & Sons, is rainy-day-wonderful and I've had its title track ("Babel") on repeat since Tuesday.

TWEET: Haircut by Keply Pentland 

Ugh, I'm really gonna do this. 

ARTICLE: "The Rhythm in Everything"

A sprawling profile in the November 12th issue of The New Yorker, "The Rhythm in Everything" delves into the captivating journey of Questlove, the drummer and joint frontman of The Roots, who survived a rough-and-tumble neighborhood in West Philly to become a Grammy-winning artist on top of the music world. 

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IMAGE: "Sky Lanterns" by Krit Suranukkharin

There's no denying that I've had a thing for floating lanterns ever since the movie "Tangled" hit theaters. In fact, I imagine that my big gay wedding will look pretty similar to the Instagram shot below.

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WEBSITE: FILMography

Featured on vanityfair.com, FILMography compares stills from movies filmed in New York City to their real-life, modern day counterparts. I'm especially fond of the shots from "Home Alone 2: Lost in New York."

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Industrious Me

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I made things with my hands today.

Like tangible things.

With my hands.

Myself and the folks with whom I share an employer ventured to Oakland to spend the day at an industrial arts facility in the name of team building.

Where I made things.

With my hands.

In Glass Fusing class I designed a beverage coaster with a sunflower on it. To make it I had to employ the use of one of those glass cutters that cat burglars use to sneak through windows in action movies. I don't have a picture of my sunflower beverage coaster because it's currently firing in a kiln. But as far as beverage coasters go, it's pretty friggin' rad.

After Glass Fusing I attended a Leather Working course where I cut, scored and dyed strips of animal skin to make bracelets. Leather ones. Which, like the sunflower beverage coaster, are pretty friggin' rad.

And finally I partook in Woodworking where I used half-a-dozen different power tools to turn a flat, square slab of wood into a dish for my keys.

Just look at those edges!

As it turns out, I'm kinda handy. Handsy? Whatever.

I made stuff today.

With my hands.

Thought: #1

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I cannot, for the life of me, figure out what's more disturbing, the fact that I've heard my roommate and her boyfriend bone or that I've heard them heatedly debate the lyrics to Weird Al's "Amish Paradise."

Either way, I'm wearing headphones to bed tonight.

L.A. Road Trip

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We're one hundred miles from Los Angeles.

Bevan and I decided to drive down and spend the long weekend at his friend Tim's place in WeHo. It's our first lengthy car trip together and I find it encouraging that we've been on the road for almost four hours and haven't maimed one other yet. Although if I request one more pee stop, that might change.

Thus far, notable topics of conversation have included Cory Booker's sexuality, my grandparents and McDonald's breakfast food.

More later.

Close Friends

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I wasn't necessarily in the mood to drink tonight, but Adam and Kyle were across the street and invited me to assist them in utilizing a bottle of wine before their dinner reservation, so I thought it would be rude not to oblige.

Also, they would've called bullshit on my "I'm not home" excuse.

Obligations

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The thing about living across the street from a bar that your friends frequent is that you can hear them call your name and yell things like "Your lights are on! We know you're in there!" from the bar's outdoor patio while you're trying to watch "The Twilight Saga: Eclipse" on the area rug you just bought from IKEA.

And then you have to go drink with them.

(Sigh.)

More later.

Sassy Pants

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I dug up a picture of Haley Joel Osment from "Sassy Pants," the movie Bevan and I saw last night.

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If you're having trouble placing the face, it's probably because the last time you saw it it looked like this.

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Anygay, I've got chicken wings on the way from Pizza Zone N Grill, the only restaurant that will drive food to my house on this day, so I'm gonna go be extra-special-awesome and wait by the door.

More later.

Thanksgiving Eve

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I am thankful for Thanksgiving Eve.

Last night started with burritos and champagne and a movie called "Sassy Pants" starring that kid who saw dead people in "The Sixth Sense" and ended at Q Bar where Bevan and I went to meet up with Korey and Tyler but wound up seeing all of the people ever.

Does nobody go home for Thanksgiving anymore?

I'm already late for my 9:45 sweatpants showing of "Wreck-It Ralph" downtown, so I'm gonna go.

More later.

Vacation

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I'm sixty minutes into my four-day vacation and I've already reorganized my closet, shredded three months worth of old receipts and vacuumed my new area rug.

Just try and match my fun level.

I dare you.

Smug Rug

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I bought a rug from IKEA last night.

Although, in the end, it came out looking Insta-grand, selecting an area rug to match the black couch, purple chairs and yellow walls of my bedroom was not an easy task. As a matter of fact, it wasn't until Bevan chose a rug that he thought would go great with my stuff that I knew my choice had to be the exact opposite.

It's funny how things work out like that.

Well, funny to me, anyway.

There Aren't Words

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Seldom have I felt more nauseatingly devalued than this morning when I overheard someone who holds a position much higher than mine in the world's pecking order utter the words "that's unappropriate."

I wish there were actual grammar police.

And maybe a grammar firing squad.

Okay, scratch that last part.

It's disproper.

Feel the Love

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There's nothing quite like a Sunday morning telephone conversation with your eight-year-old nephew to make you feel loved.

Eight-Year-Old Nephew Peyton: "How's San Diego?" 

Me: "Do you mean San Francisco?" 

Eight-Year-Old Nephew Peyton: "That's what I said, Uncle Bryan." 

Me: "Peyton, this is Uncle Corey." 

Eight-Year-Old Nephew Peyton: "Oh yeah." 

A pause. 

Eight-Year-Old Nephew Peyton: "Can I talk to Uncle Bryan?"

Vanity Pains

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I fell asleep wearing Crest Whitestrips last night.

Recommended Wear Time: 30 minutes
Time Elapsed Before I Woke Up: 3.5 hours

I'm not really a person of math, but by any logical standard the additional time should have made the strips like seven times more effective, right?

Well, according to Crest's website, that's not the case.

On the bright side, I'll probably lose weight from not being able to consume anything through my mouth today.

On the bleak side, five out of five dentists think I'm a dipshit.

Crappy Confession

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I need to get something off my chest this morning.

(Deep breath.)

Okay.

I'm ready.

I woke up on Tuesday morning having to go. Like really having to go. And I don't mean the easy kind of go either, you know, the kind that boys can do standing up. I mean Number Two. As in poop. Cursing the Indian burrito I'd so happily eaten the night before, I vaulted out of bed, tore open my bedroom door and sprinted down the hallway to find the bathroom locked and the shower running.

"Oh god," I whispered to myself.

I quickly turned around and headed for Sarah's room, home to the only other commode in our apartment, but her door, too, was closed.

"Oh god."

I raced back to my bedroom, wildly scanning its contents for a vessel in which to do my business.

"Garbage can!" I said aloud. "Ew. Gross."

"Empty Safeway bag!" I suggested. "Get a grip, Corey."

"Old shoebox full of birthday cards! No! They might still have money in them."

Panicked, I bolted back through my bedroom door and ran down the hallway into the kitchen where I immediately spotted the compost pale, glistening like treasure next to the sink.

"So this is how it's gonna go down," I panted.

Without hesitation, I snatched up the compost pale and a roll of paper towel and rushed down the stairs to the back patio where the laundry shed lives. I muscled the shed door open with my shoulder and flipped on the light switch. Nothing happened. The lights were burned out.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

I thrust the pale down on the concrete floor, opened the lid and squatted. In the laundry shed. In the dark.

"So this is my life," I confided to the garden rake on my left.

As I tiptoed out of the laundry shed a few minutes later, hoping none of my roommates would catch me hosing out the compost bin, I couldn't help but congratulate myself on such quick thinking.

"It could have been worse," I told myself.

When I entered the house shortly after, the bathroom door swung open and Diogo walked out, whistling.

"Doing laundry?" he asked cheerfully.

"Something like that," I replied.

Denim Defect

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Why do all my jeans wear out crotch-first?

I ask because I was hopping into a fairly new pair this morning when I noticed the denim looking a bit thin below the zipper.

"It's probably just your thighs rubbing together when you walk," a co-worker suggested when I brought it up at the office.

"Or maybe I just really like to dry hump," I spat back.

But yeah.

It's probably the thigh thing.

Mara Louise

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By the time Mike called from Overland Park Regional in Kansas City I had already heard the news.

"Shit just got real," he said when I answered the phone. "Linds is in labor."

It wasn't very long ago that the three of us were new grads living one floor apart in an old brick building on Kenmore Avenue in Chicago. I can still remember the night Mike ran upstairs to show Matt and I the ring he had bought for Lindsay. And his face after he had given it to her a few days later. I had asked them when they got married that following summer when they had planned to start a family.

"We're going to wait a few years," they told me.

Well this morning, some five hundred miles from that brick building on Kenmore Avenue, their wait ended.

Happy birthday, Mara Louise.

And congratulations, Mike and Linds.

Er, Mom and Dad.

Castro Sunrise

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This is the view from my bed, which I'd really rather not leave on account of the fact that it's super comfortable and has access to free Wi-Fi.

Just five more minutes.

Please?

Musical Mondays

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Is there anything more sacred than a bar full of inebriated gay men singing along to Broadway's greatest hits?

The answer is "no."

There is not.

Ben introduced me to Musical Mondays at The Edge tonight and I'm ashamed for never having gone before. Every screen in the bar was showing Broadway theater numbers that everyone knew the words to. It was like a live action episode of "Glee," but with a little more booze and a lot more groping.

It's my Mecca.

Blackmail Fodder

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Welp, nobody burned the pictures from Jessie's party. I know because they're all up on the Web. In a tidy little slideshow. Set to music.

Thankfully, I appear to have conducted myself in a manner of utmost propriety. Unless you hit the pause button.

Don't worry, Mom. I'll ground myself.

Mourning Run

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I saw Chris from work on my run this morning.

It's always extra-special-awesome to martyr through the first mile of your Monday morning jog just in time to watch the guy who sits next to you at work (and who also happens to win marathons on the weekends) cruise by in the final stretch of his usual morning fifteen-miler.

Thank God for my Inner Poise.

In other news, the homeless woman who spends most of her time in front of the building to the left of mine just tried to arrest one of my neighbors before a rather large audience of diners at the café across the street.

I love this city.

Skyfall

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So, James Bond is bi.

As in bisexual.

Seriously.

There's a scene in the latest Bond flick in which Javier Bardem's character seductively strokes the chest of Daniel Craig's character and instead of doing fighting things to him, Daniel Craig's character just sits there before calmly asking Javier Bardem's character, "What makes you think this is my first time?"

See?

Totes bisexual.

Also, let's add that scene to more movies. And while we're at it, let's cast a Bond boy in the next film. I vote Clooney.

Oh, and I know I was supposed to leave the theater thinking about guns and Miss Moneypenny's moneybags, but I could not stop musing over the cut of Bond's suits.

They're like, painted on. By God.

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Oh, and I didn't order the soft pretzel bites after all.

Or the cheese dipping sauce.

I got chicken tenders.

With ranch.

YOLO?

Jessie's Party

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Jessie's party was a mess in all the good ways.

Brad and Clarko set up a photo booth in Brad's room, which means that for the second weekend in a row I essentially handed out future blackmail opportunities to everyone in attendance.

Why am I such a photo booth whore?

And why isn't that on a t-shirt?

I'm meeting Blazer downtown to see the new James Bond movie at eleven. I'll probably get soft pretzel bites. And cheese dipping sauce.

Deduct another mile.

And a half.

Fuck.

More Party

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I just got home from Cat's 'Friendsgiving' in North Beach where I did, in fact, consume more edible materials.

Subtract one more mile.

I'm supposed to be dressing for Jessie's birthday party, which I'm already late for, but I can't figure out what to wear as the theme is Autumn Formal.

Is 'Bartender Chic' in this season?

For Naught

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I did go running this morning.

Three miles.

Ish.

But shortly afterward José and Mark picked me up and we went to the food park in SoMa where I put into my mouth (and swallowed) chicken nuggets shaped like dinosaurs and French fries shaped like waffles.

Subtract a mile.

Dammit.

It crossed my mind to re-run once I got home but Julie texted and now we're headed to Cat's 'Friendsgiving' party in North Beach where I'll undoubtedly consume more edible materials.

Subtract another mile.

Shit balls.

I don't remember considering calories before I started reading Bridget Jones's damn diary last week.

No wonder she's single.

Nag.

Weekend Conundrum

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I'm not usually one to exercise on a Saturday, but I went to Safeway late last night for a bottle of cough syrup and left with a box of fried chicken.

So I should probably go running.

If I'm being honest, all I really wanna do right now is sit on the floor in my bedroom in my stolen hotel slippers and the yoga pants that I've never used for yoga and read "Bridget Jones's Diary" with a stack of McDonald's hash browns by my side.

But yeah.

Running it is.

Flight

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I have a thing about flying.

And that thing is I hate it. Like hate hate it. Like extra large, maximum strength, ten million horsepower hate it.

Some people fuss about the air quality or the food or the seat sizes, but I'm cool with all that. No, my beef with flying is a little bit different. My beef with flying is that I don't trust the wings to not break off while I'm sitting in a chair six miles above the earth.

Because that shit happens.

Probably.

Anyway, facts are not the point. The point is, flying is the worst and I should have never been allowed to see Denzel Washington's new plane crash movie "Flight" last night.

I am never flying again.

Until December.

Flight or Fright

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Bevan and I are walking into Denzel's new movie "Flight" right now.

I should have worn a diaper.

More later.

Barack Obama (Quote)

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"I will listen to you, especially when we disagree." 

Barack Obama

The Gift of Dumb

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I was standing at the kitchen counter of the guy I'm seeing last night, watching a bag of Jiffy Pop spin slow circles in the microwave, when he yelled "Listen to this!" from the living room.

My parents live in the South and are staunch Republicans. I usually don't care about politics but lean Democratic and liberal. I live in New York City and know that Obama will win the state handily with or without my vote. So is it O.K. for me to vote for Romney as a birthday present for my mother in lieu of buying her a gift? 

Kasey Taylor, New York

"Did you just make that up?" I yelled back.

"I wish," he said.

"Ugh," I grumbled. "Two more days."

Rude Awakening

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One of my biggest fears is waking up after an evening of socializing to find the words "You've been tagged in 10 photos on Facebook" in my inbox.

For good reason.

Lit Tats

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I was waiting in the bathroom line during the Hard French dance party at El Rio this afternoon when I spotted a familiar face on the arm of the man in front of me.

"It was my favorite book as a kid," the man explained, referring to this his kid lit-inspired ink. "My parents read Where the Wild Things Are to me every night before I went to sleep. They're still sick of it, but apparently I just couldn't get enough."

Because I'm the type of person who can get enough, orthodontia aside I've never been able to commit to any sort of permanent body alteration. And while a rad tattoo depicting Max, the King of the Wild Things, isn't likely to change that, the tattoo of the man in the bathroom line did raise my curiosity about the existence of other inky expressions of the young-adult lit persuasion.

So I googled "literary tattoos" and compiled a "top-five" list of my findings.

Have joy.

Top Five Tats From The Books of My Youth

5. The Giving Tree 

The words "Once there was a tree and she loved a little boy." begin Shel Silverstein's The Giving Tree, the classic childhood tale about a relationship between a young boy and a tree. They're also the subject of this unique calf-job.

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4. Where the Wild Things Are 

Another tat based on Maurice Sendak's Caldecott Medal winning book, the scene on the back of the woman below depicts Max and the Wild Things swinging from tree limbs during the wild rumpus.

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3. To Kill a Mockingbird 

"Atticus told me to delete the adjectives and I'd have the facts," Scout recalled after her brother Jem had erroneously informed her that the Egyptians were the inventors of toilet paper. Although there are many excellent tattoos inspired by the novel that won Harper Lee the Pulitzer Prize, this simple shin number is my favorite.

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2. The Giver 

Upon receiving his instructions after the Ceremony of Twelve in Lois Lowry's The Giver, Jonas was shocked to find that the eighth and final instruction on his list read "You may lie." Alone the tattoo seems a bit mischievous, but in the context of the book, the words hold a deeper meaning about questioning the world around us.

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1. Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets 

"It is our choices, Harry, that show us what we truly are, far more than our abilities," Professor Dumbledore told Harry Potter in the pages of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets. The quote, altered (there's no "Harry") for the tattoo below, serves as a reminder of the power of choice and is, admittedly, pretty friggin' rad. 

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Note: Although I opted not to include any tattoos inspired by the "Twilight" series in my list above, let me just say that they're out there. In more ways than one.

More Life

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Somebody died on the tracks today.

I'm not sure whether it was an accident or negligence or suicide, but a person was hit by a train in San Francisco this morning and they are no longer alive.

I heard the news from a man on a cell phone as I descended into Castro Street Station on my way to work, and the woman in the booth confirmed it a moment later. The underground trains were temporarily shut down and she suggested that I walk out to the street and wait for the F line, but I decided to walk the two miles to my office instead.

As I made my way down Market Street, passing restaurants and shops and sleeping people, I hoped that the accident wasn't a suicide. Having spent the whole of my twenties in New York City and then Chicago and now San Francisco, I am not a stranger to mornings altered by accidents on train tracks. Trains stop moving and people stand waiting, usually quietly, sharing in the possibility that the accident might not have been an accident at all, but a choice that they must acknowledge, if only for their commute.

I arrived late to work and had a bad way about me. Accidents like this always feel too personal, like hearing a secret that was never meant for me. It doesn't do well to dwell on things of this nature, I realize, but I held onto it anyway. After an hour, I forced myself to read an excerpt from Tony Kushner's "Angels in America." The excerpt, a monologue spoken to an angel by a man dying of AIDS, offers a kind of hope that seems realistic in a situation like this.

"I want more life. I can't help myself. I do. I've lived through such terrible times and there are people who live through much worse. But you see them living anyway. When they're more spirit than body, more sores than skin, when they're burned and in agony, when flies lay eggs in the corners of the eyes of their children—they live. Death usually has to take life away. I don't know if that's just the animal. I don't know if it's not braver to die, but I recognize the habit, the addiction to being alive. So we live past hope. If I can find hope anywhere, that's it, that's the best I can do. It's so much not enough. It's so inadequate. But still bless me anyway. I want more life."

Hope does not change the outcome of today's events, I do know that.

But I hope it was an accident.

Halloweird

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My co-workers made a rather impressive showing in the photo booth at our office Halloween party yesterday.

Well, most of my co-workers.