I had to miss Matthew’s opening at SFMoMA last night, and Björk and Matmos, to see Small Town Gay Bar at the Castro with D, my furry ward. I’m going to tell myself, and you, that I made the right choice. It was the perfect gay film festival movie, with everyone hissing at the Right Rev. Phelps and cheering at the drag queens’ acerbic right-on comments. The girls in the row in front of us were the “best friends” of one of the bar owners, and kept wooooo-ing it up and crying. I was afraid their emotion was going to spill over into my row and they’d make me dance with them or something, but they seemed content with the wooooo-ing and arm waving. It made me very homesick, and this morning my southern accent, which I never actually had, staged an imaginary comeback during a phone conversation, “I’m fixin’ breakfast, hun…” I’m planning a trip back to Bamie in August, to spend a few days with my mom and dad and buds, and then driving down to Florida with my mom and dad to visit my siblings on the beach. Not only is this the absolute hottest time in the south, it’s the height of hurricane season in Florida. I totally can’t wait. When I go back home I like to be enveloped by it, from the thunderous skies down to my dripping rarely-used sweat glands.
The Dating Game: #8 Revelations, etc…
So #8 Überbear isn’t a slut after all. The other night, after watching Eros, and just after the Wong Kar-Wai part–fabulous by the way, using sentiment, cliche, and even melodrama to create erotic tension–I called up #8 to say nighty night. Well, somehow we got to talking about our impressions of each other and how those impressions have been feeding certain behavior patterns. He thought that he’s been withholding sexually (remember the log trick?) and I thought I’ve been withholding the responsibility of my pleasure from him–his perceived lack of interest in my pleasure actually a sensitivity to my distance, a distance based on my mistaken belief that he was the slut of all time, but actually his interest in a monogamous relationship goes beyond curiosity, he actually wants it, but I’ve been afraid to fall into his hands, hands that I thought weren’t able to hold on for very long–but get this, we’re like, ON THE SAME PAGE.
What a wacky pair!
There is a complication, in the person of an out-of-towner who will soon be visiting, and whose affections predate mine, so Good Luck #8, call me if and when the coast is clear.
Whew.
Let’s all take a deep breath and move on to Bachelor #9.
Although… back to Bachelor #8, now I’m all kind of excited. There doesn’t seem to be much there there, but I feel a warm tingley-ness when I think of him now. BC is bent on exposing his dark underbelly, but I just want to bury my face in it. Could I love someone who’s just centered and communicative and makes me happy and excited but who has no interest in mid-20th century lighting or non-narrative film?
Last night Dave, BC, and D joined me and Little Reesey for dinner. Reese seemed very amused that my dating life was the subject of so much heated dinner conversation, and even more amused by D’s overt and extended pass at poor Little Dave. Dave behaved admirably, simultaneously deflecting and honoring D’s misguided amorous advances.
The Dating Game: Sunday Morning in Bed with Nuttin’ But My Chrissy
Did anyone else see The Giant Spider Invasion? Since the 4th grade, I’ve been haunted by a scene where the drunken wife, who gets blamed by her no-goodnick farmer husband for all the spiderwebs suddenly appearing around the house, makes a shake in a blender filled with spiders. My nightmare came true this morning. Sipping some OJ in bed, I glanced into my glass to see a GIANT SPIDER squirming in the bottom of the glass! AAAAAAhhhhh! When I poured it out, it seemed like half of its legs were missing. AAAAAAhhhhh! EEEEEEEwwwww! AAAAAAhhhhh! Will I be climbing walls tomorrow? Fighting crime?
Speaking of movies, Caitlin Mitchell-Dayton did Jerome’s paintings in Art School Confindential! Anyone who’s been to my house has seen her portrait of me “Kissin’ Bunny,” and in the old days might remember the portrait that she made of Bob in black and white makeup as my Genet-inspired Prisoner of Love. I haven’t seen the movie yet (going with #4 on Monday), but she says they really got the art school experience right on. Yay Caitlin!
Back to the spider experience. Why is it that these things–spider, snakes, mice–make grown men, well, this grown man, behave like someone about to be knifed 50 times in a horror film? I scream, really, like scream, an involuntary blood curdling hands thrown in the air 5-alarm scream. Spiders are all over my garden and house, but as soon as they get in my orange juice, they become something else, a threat so deeply frightening that some inner alarm goes off and my head pops off like in a Warner Brothers cartoon. Did you see that Spongebob about “Wormy”? The one where Sandy goes on vacation and leaves Spongebob and Patrick to watch her little friend, a caterpillar that she calls “Wormy?” After a day of fun with their new friend, Patrick and Spongebob come back to find the glass bottle that Wormy was in broken, and they see a butterfly flit by. Suddenly cut to an extreme video closeup of the butterfly’s real face–“A monster!! It ate wormy!!!”–something so terrifying to them and the inhabitants of Bikini Bottom that the whole town ends up in flames as the citizens run in terror from the delicate little butterfly.
The sun is shining, the tea is steeping, and lover man, oh where can you be?
The Dating Game: Another Sat’day Night
Today’s Dating Game Update is brought to you by the Number 4, and the Number 8.
#4 came over for dinner on Thursday, and Busby Berkeley Night. I played Ruby Keeler to his Dick Powell–that is, Ruby at the beginning of Footlight Parade, before she got the haircut and took off the goofy glasses and gave in to Dick Powell’s delicate woo-pitching. He gave me a sweet peck as he left, then pulled me in harder for another, which I deflected demurely, channeling Ruby’s you’re-going-to-have-to-work-a-little-harder-to-get-in-these-stockings attitude. I don’t want to lose sight of his brain this early on, which is the part that I’m lusting after most urgently.
Meanwhile, #8 had significantly less in between his pitching and my catching the following night. I picked him up at work, and after a swift, but elegant dinner, took the ferry to Larskpur and eventually to his bubbling cauldron of chlorine. He makes these wonderful sounds that drive me crazy. Wild. Instead of “uh-huh,” he says, “uh-yeah.” Not as two syllables, though, really fast, like a cough, only excited. “Uh-yeah.”
BC and I checked out the Calder show at SFMoMA this afternoon, and the surrealist photography show. One piece in particular of Calder’s stood out, called “Tightrope,” of a wire strung between two abstract conical forms, with little loops and squiggles of wire balancing delicately across the span. It was him at his best–spare, with just a suggestion of form. The wires on the span seemed like they’d blow right off if anyone walked by too quickly, and created a circus-like tension of imminent collapse. The photo show had many fabulous iconic Man Ray photos, but way too many of everybody else. Edit, girl. Please.
Philip and I joined up later for dinner at Dosa, and bumped into Philip Kaufman. The director. “Phil, this is Chris. Chris, Phil,” blah blah blah, “Enjoy your dinner.” “Wait… that was The Right Stuff Henry and June Unbearable Lightness of Being Kaufman Phil?!!” “Yes,” Philip said matter-of-factly. Philip hides his glamour well, but I’m happy to be around when it slips out. After dinner we watched the thoroughly enjoyable Match Point at the Coco Monoplex, interrupted briefly by the fireworks outside. Woody Allen makes me squirm these days. The critics all seem to want to examine his work independent of his personal life, but really, doesn’t it seem like his last few films have been so much about latent Soon Yi guilt?
I work and I play and think I’m enjoying being in the world by myself, engaging with people and ideas, but really, I just want a plump furry man in my bed. Who worships me. And moves. Without me having to flip him over all the time. And has a place in Rome. And reads. And cries. And sends me little notes. And…
Arkadin
I just watched Mr. Arkadin, the supposedly comprehensive one, recently re-edited and restored for the Criterion Collection. It really does make sense–like finally. (I’m a little behind on my dating news, sorry, it’s getting to be a big blur, and nothing substantial to report, although I did get a hottub invitation that I had to take a rain check on, from a guy that was practically sent from Central Casting–“Chris’ Type”–but unfortunately after I had already accepted a date with a gentlemen less impulsive. More on him As the Suds Turn.) So Mr. Arkadin is this just wacky story, filmed all over the planet, with fantastic European actors that you’ve never heard of, and cut in this dizzying fragmented fashion. Orson Welles’s vision, in general, I think, is not so much a vision as a record of the attention deficit disorder of a genius. And all of his films have at their core a mysterious, elusive and self-destructive man that everyone is trying to understand but ultimately can’t. If you’ve sat through the previous almost unwatchable versions of this film and come out shaking your heads and asking, “Now, why did he he…?” “What was he….?” and “Who was…?” then see the new version.
In other news, I’m really enjoying Exile in Guyville, which is pretty entertaining. I’ve made a deal with myself that for every hour I spend on Bear411, I’d spend reading. Tonight Dave White, tomorrow Proust. Internet dating will make a literate poof of me yet.
And the Word of the Day is onychophagia (on-i-ko-FAY-juh, -jee-uh).
“If bad-tasting polish, gloves or fake nails haven’t cured your onychophagia, reading Coco’s Journal may help.”
Movie and a Reading
Emily came over earlier and we watched Cisco Pike, Kris Kristoferson’s film debut. He plays a has-been but still-struggling singer/drug dealer trying to leave the drug biz, drawn back in for one more deal by corrupt, jaded but dreamy police Sargeant Gene Hackman, who offers a light sentence on a previous drug charge if Cisco can raise $10,000 for him by the end of the weekend by selling his confiscated pot. Kristoferson is pre-beard, softer, and with what looks like the promise of a great career–he even wrote and performed several of the songs in the film. I think that Gene Hackman is one of the greatest actors of his generation, able to convey malice and dangerous potential with the twitch of an eyelash. Plus he’s just beautiful. Emily is the perfect person to watch 70’s film with–she understands the radical urgency of the fashions and the aesthetic significance of the pulled-back zoom.
I made some crab cakes and a salad, and then we took off for a reading of New Narrative writers at Artifact, a salon that happens once a month in the Mission. Laura Simms, a poet from Wisconsin read her poetry, and Dodie Bellamy read from an essay that she’s working on about her work. Dodie’s essay was brilliant, so completely entertaining. She read about being a student of Bob’s, who takes responsibility for unleashing the New Narrativers on us, and afterwards she came to me and said she felt strange reading about Bob and our house in front of me, but I told her we were talking now and that I was completey charmed by the piece. Her metaphors are so clever and witty. She spoke of being a Language Poet groupie, and learning to write from gay men, who showed her that pornography and group sex were okay subjects to write about. She was introduced by her husband, writer Kevin Killian, whose introduction could have earned an Academy Award nomination, so filled with sincerity and wit. We split before Rob Halpern could read, but I tend to drift with his writing, so it was for the best.
Tomorrow it’s time to meet Bachelor #5, and a second date with Bachelor #2!
The Dating Game: Bachelors #3 and #4
I met up with Bachelor #3 yesterday afternoon for coffee. He’s a husky bear with a multi-hued beard similar to a lion’s, a big smile, and a bubbly personality. He has an assured masculinity that nicely balanced with a slight gay twang and an elegant stride. We had only an hour to chat, which went by swiftly with very pleasant and jolly bantering. Stay tuned for more of Bachelor #3.
Big Chrissy gave me a lift to Brett Reichman’s opening at Paule Anglim. Brett’s virtuoso crosshatched works on paper defy comprehension. I don’t know how a human was able to make those marks. The content is just as gripping–images of Brett in almost pornographic stances, clothed, but with rolled fabric standing in for gentle-talia, and huge colorful paintings of knotted fabric in colors of the gay flag. Many old buddies were there, as well as new. I bumped into Bachelor #4, with whom I had chatted the evening before, a grad student in the UC painting department. He’s very round and compact, with a black triangular soul patch and glasses, a very gentle man. He talked about his upcoming MFA show and his current work, and I noticed his eyes darting back up to my face as I looked away and back. There’s definitely some chemistry with this one. He’s articulate, talented (I’m assuming), and has a kind face and penetrating eyes.
Later I caught up with Davide for John Woo’s Hard-Boiled, which is still just as fun as when it came out. The violence is like a ballet, in fast and slow motion. In Hong Kong action films, people die by convulsing and flipping through the air and crashing into cannisters that explode. During the grand action sequences, hundreds of expendable cops and gangsters appear out of nowhere and leap in front of bullets and spray blood all over the screen. And there’s always paper flying up in the air. Guys on motorcycles jump over burning cars only so that we can see their bikes explode. Logic takes a back seat to spectacle, and it’s gorgeous.
Another Question: From Goreyboy
If your life was portrayed in a novel/play/film what would the over riding themes be? The moral, if any?
Well, first of all, I’d be played by Ewan MacGregor and it would be a musical called Crazy for Coco-Puff! I love titles with exclamation points. The central theme would be one of optimism in the face of adversity and obesity, with many subplots and tangential entanglements illustrating how love not only conquers all, but how all eventually get conquered by my love, if not destroyed by the assault. The moral of my life can be condensed into Marie Windsor’s dying words in The Killing: “Life’s a big joke, and there’s no punch-line.”
On the Plane: New York Day 1
BC, you know, the one that I’m supposed to be separated from, and I are on the flight to New York City, for a three week stay in the West Village. Our purser’s name is Chad. His voice and entire being radiate calm efficiency and dedication to service. We’re staying at my friend, Lilly’s, who’s going to China for the month. Lilly’s a fascinating film maker, a passionate and intense woman whose films have focused largely on her Jewish heritage, both on very grand and very intimate scales. Very happy to be able to spend the evening with her before she sets sail for the Middle Kingdom.
Having dreamt about having a solo show in New York city since deciding to pursue being an artist, it’s with an unavoidable level of disappointment that I go there now, with the gallery closing and my show being canceled. Start spreading the word. I will not be a part of it. I had a dream that Michael Kimmelman’s review of the Whitney Biennial mentioned my show, telling people to head over to Chelsea to see where the real pulse was. I don’t know if I’ll have another opportunity to show in the center of the art world again, and am trying to be comfortable being a peripheral anomaly relegated to the artistic backwater that is San Francisco. I’ve asked my artist friends to make recommendations for introductions with dealers, and have at least one solid lead to follow. I’m not the aggressive type, you know, when it comes to approaching galleries, that is, so if all else fails, I’m going to love exploring the city for an extended period of time, and will get back to work in San Francisco renewed and invigorated. Or ready to take off for Italy.
Last night I watched Jacques Demy’s delightful Lola, which momentarily blew me out of the doldrums and into new wave paradise. Anouk Aimee plays Cecille, a dancer nicknamed Lola, who clings optimistically to the return of her lover and father of her child, who left 10 years ago after getting her pregnant and with the promise to return rich. Meanwhile, everyone falls in love with her, but this is Jacques Demy, so by the film’s end, the lover returns, sure enough rich, with all of Lola’s floozie dance buddies in tears and her many suitors heartbroken but wiser and off to all ports not Lola. I see Jacques Demy as a new wave anomaly of sorts. His films are almost postmodern in their appropriation (Lola is an ode to Max Ophüls) of style and content, but always with his unique fairy tale stamp.
Okay, three more hours to go. What shall we talk about? Do you have any more questions for me? Want to hear about my vestigial nipple? Well, I don’t have one, but at least two of my past lovers did. And I’m not one to kiss and tell. That’s kiss–make love to every day, devote every second to, spend two years looking for the perfect sofa with, break up in a public and painful confession of indiscretion–and tell. Oh, wait, I won’t be posting this for hours, so I obviously can’t answer your questions while I have all this time on my hands, so let me anticipate some questions for you, Dear Readers…
Chris, just how did you get the nickname ‘Coco’?
That’s a very good question! I was the first relative that my nephew, Nathan, addressed who had not only a single-syllable name, but one that began with all these consonants. There were “Ma-ma,” “Pa-pa,” “Di-di,” Nathan was even “Na-Na,” and then me. If you’ve ever babysat an infant, you suddenly realize how long 8 hours are. Sort of like being on a plane, but having to keep everybody amused. There I was, trying to get Na-Na to say my name, and he’d get the “C” sound okay, but I guess the two-syllable thing was already too heavily ingrained, and out came “Co-co.” “Chr-is,” I’d say. “Co-Co.” “Ch-ris.” “Co-co.” So it stuck.
If you were stuck on a desert island with only one person, who would it be, and why?
I’d love to get shipwrecked with Talullah Bankhead, because I’ve already seen how entertaining and resourceful she can be, fishing with her diamond bracelet in Lifeboat. If she somehow couldn’t make it, then I’d choose Bob Hoskins because in the absence of practical matters, like checking e-mail or having to work for a living, I’d just want to have sex all day, and he’s the only man who could ever please me. Isn’t he the son of a preacher man?
What’s the most memorable break-up you’ve experienced?
Alfonso, my hot Basque potato. He looked like Jean-Luc Picard (+25 pounds), and ran into the Pacific naked. We went to the beach together one afternoon, in Santa Cruz. There was a couple making love on the beach, under a blanket, very tenderly. I thought how wonderful, and looked over to Alfonso with hearts and stars bursting from my eyes, and he said, “The whore.” Later than evening, as we supped on a light but fiery Basque specialty, he suddenly leapt from the table and turned the gas on the stove. “Do you see that?” “Yes, Alfonso, I see that.” “But do you SEE?” “…?” “There is no spark–and without a spark, there is no flame.” I was so turned on by his inventiveness that I tore his clothes off and made love to him one last time before hopping in my car and driving back to the city in tears.
Fale Film and Keith Hale at Paule Anglim
Last night I saw one of the most interesting documentaries. Philip had a few problems with it (“I hated it!” “No wonder he could never finish a film!” etc…) and BC actually left after an hour into it, but I was much bemused and bedazzled. The film, F is for Fake, is about an art forger and his biographer, who’s also a fake, but it’s actually about Orson Welles and his profound storytelling ability and exhaustive cutting technique, and the new lady in his life. The filmmakers consistently bring to our attention that this is a film, itself a representation of reality, a fake, not real, and the story that’s being told wavers between documentary and fiction, reality and illusion. It’s all elusive, and intensely entertaining. Orson presides pompously over his dinner companions at a restaurant, with his black cape and hat, and when the waiter approaches he turns his head from his stream of blather to murmur quickly to the waiter to please take away the salad and bring him the steak au poivre.
BC and I had earlier high-tailed it to Paule Anglim for Keith Hale’s opening. Keith and I went to school together, but I always forget this because I saw the work of the artist “Keith Hale” before I realized that was the name of the little dude that I chatted with at lunch time, and imagined someone so different making the pictures that I never connected the real Keith Hale to the artist. It was nice to see him again, and nice to see his new work. He’s in Paule’s small room, just a dozen or so paintings, mostly of lunar surfaces, very delicately and meticulously rendered, with the addition of images of tiny orchids, pansies, and little singing cowboys in gay rainbow kerchiefs. I thought a lot about how large a part the moon played in my own adolescence, and then split to pick up burritos before connecting any more mental dots. We didn’t have time to make the rounds either, Orson was waiting.