#8 is a movie star! He played sheister lawyer, Barry Fine, from the firm Howard, Howard, and Fine, the first victim of the hypnotized zombie killer in Tele-Zombie, the 2004 Lory-Michael Ringuette horror (soon-to-be-) classic. He gets killed off in the first 15 minutes or so, but his screen presence is electrifying, briefly lighting up the screen with his smarmy deadpan delivery and convincing convulsive death throes. A star! I’m dating a movie star!
A-coffee-ing with #11 this weekend, in town for the gay parade, from Seattle. He’s a little older than I thought, like by 28 years. He’s a very nice cuddly man, your typical older daddy bear, but interested in art, literature, film, and the decorative arts, so we had much to discuss, and a fun time discussing. He even went to see my show and actually had something interesting to say about it. He restores movie posters and got me all excited when I mentioned that I had a three-sheet Gable/Crawford Strange Cargo from a pile of posters I picked up in an auction a while back, like thousands of dollars excited, but it ended up that I have a pretty worthless Walter Rilla/Kim PeacockDangerous Cargo, originally called Hell’s Cargo, with a piece of paper with the “Dangerous” printed on it and glued over the “Hell’s.” Any of you Kim Peacock fans–make me an offer!
Speaking of my show, Kenneth Baker, the whoop-dee-doo SF Chronicle art critic, came to see the show on Saturday, the last day of the exhibition. An intern had turned all of my speakers down, despite my three simple printed instructions: 1. Press PLAY, 2. Turn volume UP all the way, and 3. Press REPEAT. Three simple instructions. I walked into the gallery and couldn’t hear a thing. Thank heavens it’s too late for a review. I could see the headline now, “Stupid artist makes art only a dog can hear.” Baker must think I’m an idiot. Maybe a mad genius?
The film festival didn’t fail to fail me. “30 Years of Revolutionary Film!” promised the trailer. The revolution is over, girls. And Frameline is a homo-fascist organization, with their “Saving Seats is so last year,” blocking off the only 8 rows that I EVER sit in at the Castro, giving members one measly dollar off the ticket price, limiting that measly discount to two tickets per show…
I have to stop complaining. It’s my new thing–complaining. But I have to stop. L’amour, l’amour–toujours l’amour! I’ll end on that note, tossing my head back and laughing deliriously.