Category: Family

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On the Road to St. Pete

Mom and Dad are in the front seat, I’m in the back. We just switched off, my dad and I, in Suwannee, and he’s going to drive the rest of the way to St. Pete. The drive with my mom and dad has so vividly illuminated the background for countless behavioral patterns that I’ve spent thousands of dollars in therapy trying to unlearn. I thought about audio taping their conversations to bring to my next session with a therapist and telling him, “Listen to this, Doc, it’ll save you and me a lot of time and money–respectively.” They’re incredibly happy with each other, my mom and dad, yet they’ve settled into an almost comic routine of control, annoyance and bewilderment. Listening to them I think, “Oh, that’s why Bachelor #8 thinks I’m controlling.” During another exchange, it’s “Oh, poor Bob, how did he put up with me?” and then, “I wasn’t telling BC that I needed him to get it together, I was telling myself!” Now I’m sitting here thinking, “What is Reese going to be complaining about to his therapist in 20 years?”

It’s raining now. Pouring. The windshield wipers are moving as fast as they can and it’s still not fast enough to provide visibility. It’s like we’re under water. In another two seconds the clouds will part and we’ll be back in the sun. These showers come out of nowhere and then go right back to nowhere. See? It’s all clear again.

We’re now crossing the Withlacoochee. I want to name my child that. I love all names “oochee.”

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At Home with the Folks in Birmingham

Here I am in Alabammy, sippin’ sweet tea with my mammy and pappy. It’s hot here. Like as soon as I step outside I’m moist. Which we all know is the essence of beauty, right? Actually, my body has evolved out of its former adaptation to this environment and my moistness is closer to soppy wetness. I’m like a cat that’s overheated, panting and staying as close to the cement (that’s pronounced “SEE-ment”) as I can, always sprinting for the shade.

My parents are doing well. Their life and home are as orderly and neat as ever. We took a walk around the block this morning with their dog, Bootsie–the same walk that I’ve taken with them since they put in the street behind the house making it possible to have a block to walk around. We first bumped into Trudi–Mrs. Simms–who lives next door. She’s married to a railroad man, who used to be this really large grumpy character but who found Jesus a few years ago and was told to take better care of his “temple,” so he lost 100 pounds and prays on the lawn in the morning. The Simms’ house is like where Hansel and Gretel’s parents would live, with a densely planted blackforest-themed front yard populated with little gnomes and mythical figures, big fake geraniums on the porch. Further up Red Hollow Road Dad pointed out where a car recently smashed into–through–Mr. Neighbor’s field stone mailbox and into his beautiful old cherry tree. The driver broke a leg, ribs, and some other bones, saying that he was blinded suddenly by a bright light. If he had been blinded by anything light, it was a 12-pack of Light beer. As we made our way around the block, I noticed that almost every other tree near the road had a big chunk taken out of it. And then we bumped into Mr. Ousely, “Otis,” who’s 80 now. He always shakes my hand and says, “You’re from San Francisco? I was there in the Navy–came in under the bridge and left over it,” just like he always does. I get fidgety whenever we chat with Mr. Ousely because my Dad, who’s this real liberal intellectual character, suddenly reverts into a racist cracker. He assumes that all white older southerners with thick accents are racist, and bonds with them by making gross generalizations about the cultural, religious, or ethnic background of the subjects of their breeze-shooting. Whenever I point out that he’s making a racist comment, he just laughs, like my lack of humor is elitist and to be pitied. The last high point on our walk was the little doggie who lives with the Vietnamese neighbors, of whom my dad, surprisingly, has never made any racist statements. The little pooch, who has this mega huge backyard to play in, is always smushed up against the fence, yearning for the world beyond his 3/4-acre enclosure. His fur is like white velvet, and looking at him elicits an involuntary “awwwwww,” like looking at one of those sappy framed studio dog portraits that every dog-loving great-aunt has in her guest room that you giggle at but really want to cuddle up with.

Tomorrow I’m going Junkin’ with James, my fabulous homosexualist friend, no longer a fugitive from justice, but still living with his mom and dad, who, incidentally, smoke like chimneys and whom I adore but can’t visit for very long because of the air-conditioned Chernobyl-like cloud of smoke in their house, and then it’s off to dinner and the drive-in with Susan!

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D, Shrimp, Cheese, Neel, Davide

Friday night was D’s birthday, and since he wasn’t in the mood to compete with Reese’s attention demands, we celebrated last night. He invited several charming friends of his and their dogs over to a dinner that I made to his precise specifications, “Spaghetti–NOT fettucine, NOT penne–spaghetti, and a Caesar salad, with SHRIMP–BAY shrimp,” etc, etc… He asked to watch Meet Me in Saint Louis after dinner, which gave the atmosphere an even more festive pall. What a strange film. It’s almost like a vaudeville show, with intensely entertaining musical interludes woven into and around several potentially volatile plotlines that fizzle out before anybody gets too upset–except Margaret O’Brien, that is, who flips out at the prospect of moving to New York after big sis Judy serenades her with “Have yourself a mery little Christmas,” and destroys the snow people on the lawn out front with a bat. And the color and costumes are fabulous. Dean told me it was the best birthday he’s ever had. It was the dogs. He’s a real dog person. He’s so hairy that I think they look at him as one of their own. I was very happy to have made him happy. He can be a tough cookie to please.

BC and I did make it to Neel Eargood’s show on Polk yesterday (731 Polk, Tues-Sat 10-6, through 3/31). He’s created gridded works of stained glass and metal that float in space as rolled or delicately undulating sheets. He combines colors, or just patterns in clear glass, so that lights falls on and through the works in very beautiful ways. His titles are often hilarious, if not self-referential, like “Gimme Some of That Hot Cubic Tube.” Cara Barnard and Duane, the artists showing with him, create abstract graphic forms on paper and canvas that render in two dimensions a flatness and organic weirdness that extend Neel’s play with light and form into the Freudian. Get thee down to Polk Street, LJers and support our very own Neel.

Later, I had a lovely complaining session with Davide over coffee at that place next to Superstar on Castro, which used to be a really nice cafe with comfy seats and good panini, but is now a place with okay panini and seats that are not only uncomfortable, but are like 4 feet off the ground, inducing vertigo and dangly feet. I love talking with Davide, and am grateful for his emotional breadth.

I didn’t make it to any other exhibitions this week, but will make it to first Thursday openings this week. Come along.

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Di-Di Turns 5-0

Last night we celebrated my sister Diane’s 50th birthday. Princess DiDi threw herself a Hawaii 5-0 party, and asked everyone to bring Hawaiian attire and food. I went as the Professor from Gilligan’s Island, my logic being that since the Minnow launched from Hawaii, that the Hawaii 5-0 guys would have been looking for me. Okay, I don’t have a Hawaiian shirt or a grass skirt, although I did end up in one somehow at one point, so I had to push into earlier syndication. I met a wonderful couple from New York, a photographer, Bev, and a film editor, Donna, who are friends with the woman who is letting me housesit for her next month. A small world indeed. Among Diane’s many former boyfriends in attendance, my favorite was there (not pictured), a cute balding guy with a pot belly–yes, he should have been mine instead of Diane’s. There must be some genetic predisposition towards pudge that Didi and I share. Reese juggled outside, landscape artist/beargod Cevan beguiled inside, at one point someone yelled, “I get it–it’s the Professor from Gilligan’s Island!,” and much fun was had by all ’til the wee small hours of the morning…
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A Star Named “Kunt”

Reese and I just watched Tarkan Versus the Vikings. I had wanted to watch The Deathless Devils, the other feature from the golden age of Turkish cinema that I presented to Reese as one of tonight’s viewing options. (Mainly I wanted to see it because the star’s given name was “Kunt.” Is that common in Turkey?) It really bugs me that The Earrings of Madame d’ isn’t available on DVD, and Tarkan Versus the Vikings is. Imagine a Ray Harryhausen epic without Ray Harryhausen and a 70’s Hong Kong action flick with lots of nudity and a man-eating giant octopus and you’ll get an idea of our evening’s entertainment. I try to make Fridays with Reese intellectually stimulating, or at least culturally expansive.

BC is at home, away from his little Chrissy. We’re spending a few days apart to contemplate the possibility of a future beyond being “boyfriends,” which we’ve been on and off for millenia now. I really hate sleeping alone, and I really hate sleeping without my Big Chrissy, but the time to myself has been good. Being apart has brought into focus how really connected we have become, if not how inadequately insulated my house is.

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A Merry Little Christmas

Christmas eve was spent with my siblings at my sister June’s place. She and hubby Kebby-Chan made perogies and borscht, which has become a tradition honoring Kevin’s Ukranian roots, along with tearing through countless packages, bad jokes, and good bottles of wine. Dean & Doug, Dean W, Davide and Philip joined me and Big Chrissy for an all-male homosexual Christmas day repast. Philip brought over an incredible minced meat pie and a salad of crispy organic red and green leafy things to accompany my duck gams and tarte tatin. The top of my tarte didn’t caramelize, as I rushed through Julia’s instructions without reading the final paragraph, plus Bob got the blowtorch in the divorce anyway, but the crust was perfect, the apples were a little overdone and lost some character, though, which the sheer joy of butter made almost immaterial. Next time: pre-caramelize and don’t cook as long.

I started my Week with Busby at the Castro yesterday, for Babes of Broadway and For Me and My Gal. Dean W. joined me, cruising every single person sitting within a 5 seat radius, and abandoned me during the second film. Babes would seem like a parody of the “let’s put on a show!” movie if it weren’t what the parodies are based on. There are so many obstacles on the way to Broadway stardom for these kids, and at every point the solution is to put on a show and get the big producer to come see it.

This afternoon it’s lunch with Nick and then the fabulous Golddigger movies. I’ll see you at the Castro Theater at 3:00!

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Moving Out, Live and No Nude Action, and Thanks

After a year of sharing my studio and home with my disabled friend, the time has come to discuss his moving out. I met with him and his doctors and we agreed to try to find a place for him to move into March 1. The thought of this has produced anxiety and panic in my friend, despite my assurances that there’s plenty of time to find the right place, and that he’d never be homeless with me as his friend. A great deal of my time and energy right now are spent addressing his fears. He tends to make statements intent to force me into a challenge or action, rather than addressing the fear looming obviously behind the statement. For instance, he’ll say something like, “I’m moving out this weekend,” when he actually means, “I’m scared to death of being homeless and I want you to take care of me–don’t let me leave.” My goal right now is to help him move towards being more independent. It’s fairly clear that my goals are at odds with his, and that he’s going to kick and scream at every nudge I make in that direction. His idea of independence involves venturing out briefly into the world and scrambling back to Daddy Cub Coco’s Nest. BC told me that we’ve evolved into parent/adolescent roles, with all the acting-out and tension inherent in that dynamic. When he told me that he wanted to spend the holidays alone rather than be with me and my family, “who are all loud,” I told him that sometimes he has to do things that are difficult because others need him to, and that he is a part of the family and that I need him to participate in Christmas. Doesn’t that sound like something a demented mom would say?

There is no holiday entertainment from my kitchen window this year. My exhibitionists across the street are all away: the Asian pole dancer has closed the curtains and turned a light on that’s been on for three days; the hairy naked guy below hasn’t flashed me for two days; and the chicks to the right have a light on over their mantle that’s been on for two nights. Their anti-burglary measures are more like announcements that they’re out of town. Perhaps I should go into burglary.

On evening walks I love noticing the ubiquitous images of people sitting in windows illuminated by their glowing computer monitors.

The Japanese porn magazine wants to feature these bay area muscle dudes over three issues: the first will feature the Asian guy; the second issue the western guy; and the third will be of them “making love.” !!! I’m intensely nervous about this. First of all, I use a bulky camera and it takes me forever to set up a shot. Bring in the stunt pee-pees, please. I’m thinking of having the shoot be about me looking at them, implicitly, although framed as them looking at each other. The Asian guy would be in bed, perhaps viewed from behind, the camera would get closer, you’d see the hairy hand of Mr. Western Muscle Dude pull back the sheet, and Mr. Asian Muscle Dude respond to being looked at. Same with Mr. Western Muscle Dude. Then finally, we’d see them tumbling and intertwined, a mass of different skins tones, hair patterns, projectile appendages, and slobber.

For Thanksgiving dinner yesterday with my siblings, I made a pear pie, served with cream whipped into a frenzy with some fresh ginger. By the time I got to it, though, all of my organs were cowering under the pressure that my expansive stomach was exerting on them to make way for yet more. It’s so hard to not overeat on Thanksgiving. There’s so much sensation, so much flavor…

I am indeed grateful to have so many companions that I’ve never actually met, who fill my days and nights with such interesting tales and thoughts. Thank you, all!

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Little Bunnies and Their Bunnywarmers

I’m a bit high this morning. BC and I had a great talk last night, after seeing the incredible Wallace and Grommit: The Curse of the Wererabbit with Reese and laughing our furry white tails off. It seems that we’ve both been a bit down, he from not working, me from lack of forward momentum and the tedium of having to spread the cost of production of the work for my New York and San Francisco shows next year over months and months to avoid going into debt. We tend to shift responsibility for each other’s happiness on the other, and neglect looking after ourselves and then get resentful when things get frustrating. Is that codependence? Avoidance therapy? Anyway, we reached a new level of communication and have squeezed our way past another barrier to a deeper commitment. Realizing that Chris wasn’t the one who was making me unhappy, it occured to me that I haven’t produced anything new this year, well, of substance, and maybe that had something to do with it. Well, it’s like I fell into the pot and am floating in delicious stew of ideas. I feel a need to work with the single image. I’ve printed four new single-image works for the New York show, and really like them and want to do more. I have a great idea that won’t get me into any man trouble, that addresses the male form directly and abstractly, but with no abstract imagery, or the male form either. Puzzled? Stay tuned.

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Capote and Reese

Peter, BC, and I, since it was such a beautiful day, decided to forego being a part of it and bond in the dark instead, at a matinee of Capote at the Empire. Philip Seymour Hoffman is brilliant in the lead role, effectively capturing Capote’s mannerisms and voice without veering into charicature. He conveys Truman Capote as someone simultaneously charming, sleazy, and manipulative, projecting all for equally emphatic and opposing responses. The film focused on the part of Capote’s life when he researched and wrote In Cold Blood. He never fully recovered from the intensity of the experience, and the book ended up being not only the first of a genre called the Nonfiction Novel, but Capote’s last complete book. By focusing on this period, I think the filmaker has made a powerful statement about artistic process–how one’s expression can be propelled by sheer desire–for fame, wealth, to communicate, break new ground–incredible talent, and manipulating one’s moral life and others to make it happen.

Speaking of manipulating others, Reese has decided that he wants a pony tail and an earring. As I listened to myself saying, “Reese, you need a haircut,” I heard another voice saying, “Chris, you are one of those parents who is saying to his child, ‘You need a haircut.'” The two voices ended up battling it out without Reese’s help at all, and the final harmonious if not completely manipulative duet sounded something like, “Reese, ponytails are so completely uncool, and not even retro. How about a trip to the stylist for a fabulous pre-teen makeover?” He didn’t buy it, shaking his unruly boyfro at this truly unhip soccer dad.