Davide is visiting from NYC. As he might have to move back to Italy next month, he’s boinking all of the guys he lusted after when he lived here, and annoyingly, they’re all totally my type and have made themselves completely accessible to him. And not me. Of course, my pearl-beyond-all-price is collecting dust while my Palestinian paramour is hashing out his visa issues in Arabia, so I shouldn’t be jealous, I mean annoyed, okay I mean jealous, but still, I’m annoyed. I mean jealous.
Last night we had pizza and then a mini experimental homo film-fest at the CocoPlex. We started with Dean Smith’s beguiling thought forms, then Cocteau’s Blood of a Poet, and then finally James Bidgood’s Pink Narcissus. It was a thrilling evening of visually and conceptually stimulating flickers of light, ideas, and flesh. If you haven’t seen Pink Narcisssus, and you’re a baby gay, or a baby art fag, see it today. It was filmed over seven years in Bidgood’s tiny apartment on 8mm, an orgy of color and form and homo-erotic desire and fantasy, with dizzying dissolves and the tightest pants you’ll ever see.
I’m in your studio listening to the last movement of Mahler’s 2nd symphony. It’s blasting in my headphones in all its grave, but consoling immenseness!
You’re an incredibly smart, generous and overall amazing friend.
And there are not enough men in this town for the two of us. Well, actually, there seem to be plenty for you. Just one, that’s all I want… I have to get an accent—quick!
Great to hear you snoring away so contentedly in the next room. And always great to have you around.