My parents found this strange little piece of bark in their yard. The work of an inspired rabbit, perhaps? Or some sort of corncob borer? Any guesses?

The paint on my thumb is from a day of slapdash pre-sale touch-up painting at my sister’s place in Omaha. Anyone need a starter house with a killer garden? (And some hastily painted doortrim…quick and dirty, that’s me.)

I usually fly Lincoln through Denver to SFO on United. But this last time, I drove myself up to Omaha and took Southwest through Vegas. And can I just say what a joy Southwest is to fly? The staff was funny, relaxed, reassuringly casual in their dress and demeanor. (None of that uptight dickmeasuring assholishness that United has perfected in the last few years. Friendly skies, my ass.)

On the first flight out last week, the flight attendant had a serious bed bun, where you sleep on your pinned-up hair, and get that tousled, half-loose look that says “napping” or “fucking”—anything but “working with the public.” I know because I rock the very same look much of the time.

She also had a fakey-sounding southern accent: not Georgia peachy, more “yew” than “y’all,” and when she took away my wad of Sunday New York Times at the end of the flight, she did a doubletake and said: “All the way from Neeeeuw Yaaoork Ciddy!?” And I’m pretty sure she was flipping me a little shit, but that was okay, because I had bulkhead seating and legroom makes me purr.

Image via

I just passed my 200th post here, and it seems like an appropriate time to think about what all this typing is about. I can’t be bothered to write an About message (too much pressure!), but I will happily natter here for a bit.

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It’s a day of gazes and gazing, here at The Subtle Rudder. 

I love how the internet throws all its chaotic jumble before you, and sometimes it’s tidal—all wave, no meaning—but other times, you see the hidden threads between this leashed squirrel and that feathered headdress. And suddenly, two disparate images collide in your mind, like a tiny explosion. (Or the start of a new romance between unlikely participants, both wearing elaborate hats.)

She’s by Rainer Elstermann, via wrongdistance. He’s from somewhere that disappeared when Safari crashed yesterday. Sorry, Internet. If you recognize him, lemme know in comments.

If you gaze into this ball from Betsy’s Bernal backyard, you’ll see a shadowed shot of the Subtle Rudder. This is about as close to an actual photograph of myself as I like to get, since I flatten badly (and freeze up when caught in the lens).

I thought about creating a blog of all the bad shots of me out there, called ihatemyselfinpictures.com, but it turns out I have some more personal growth and evolution to do before I look into that mirror. Maybe when I’m 80.

Dreams can come true, people: a new, live miniature dog to add to my collection, and a monkey in a cup, just to keep it innaresting. Sign. Me. Up.

Via

Del Martin was a feminist, lesbian rights pioneer, and the longtime love (and brand new wife!) of Phyllis Lyon. 

She died today at 87, and we’re all a little less with her leaving. San Francisco and the world are better places because of her fight, her courage, and her example. 

Del and Phyllis were the first couple to be officially married (that’s her on the right!) when the California Supreme Court legalized same-sex marriages this summer, but really, their marriage unfolded over 55 years of love and partnership in every sense. For me, their names will always be entwined:

Lyon-Martin, the clinic that serves the health needs of women and transgendered people.

Lyon-Martin, the activist elders I’d always hear about, working for the AIDS Memorial Quilt.

And Lyon-Martin, the love story that even death cannot end.

Friday morning with Doug and the kitty girls, in the flat above my old flat near Dolores Park. I have a slight Nebbiola & insomnia headache, and I just fetched some tea from the Morning Due (aka my office), where the owner asked me for the fiftieth time why I moved away. With that crisp nip in the San Francisco morning air, and the clear California light, I have to wonder sometimes.

Today I’ll work from the old hood, clock a little time at the ‘Due, maybe go up into the hills just to feed my eyes and raise my heart rate. Tomorrow, it’s the open spaces of Marin, with my bunny and her family.

I’ll leave you with some Big Star, live from ‘93. Sing us into the weekend, Alex…

PS: While I was typing this, Doug came in to make himself some espresso. While he does that, he always sings a little song of caffeine encouragement, usually a sort of improvised gregorian showtune. His low voice singing along with the espresso machine is an elemental morning sound for me, since I heard it every day for four years when I lived below.

No one will ever love me as much (in a bad-touch kind of way) as my adorable stalker, Bruno. What can I say? I engage the crazies… 

Don’t let the ear flop and the fancy rufflet fool you, this boy is t-r-o-u-b-l-e.

This video is part of a collaboration between James Elliot (Ateleia) and Sadek Bazaraa. Thanks to Delicious Ghost for the delicious tip-off.

It’s Thursday morning in San Francisco and I’m on Betsy’s guest bed with wet hair, killing a couple of minutes while my jacket releases its wrinkles in the steamwasher. 

Time for make-up, tea stop, and the long drive down 280 to the office.