BC and I just had a totally faboo meal at The Last Supper Club on Valencia. I had an arugula fennel salad, Bambi’s mom again but this time with gnocchi, fabulous, and a poached pear for dessert with a rice pudding and currents. My tummy is so happy, and the wine, a Sicilian Primitivo, was just perfect, fruity and light like me. So now we’re off to a party, and I’m clinging to consciousness… Must… Update… Blog… Chris is out of the shower, oh no, time to go… egad, I hope I don’t have to dirve… more later little bunnies…
Crisis Resolved, Bath Buddies
Well, it looks like Stephanie’s financial crisis has been resolved. BC and I began the day addressing our newly separated lives in intimate detail, moving swiftly from boyfriends to girlfriends, awkwardly at first, and then with quite a bit of enjoyment. We know each other so well, and both seem to be moving quickly in the directions that drew us together in the first place, so perhaps that contentment is an acknowledgment of the success that we’ve wanted for each other.
At 3:00 the pizza came. A stuffed pizza, with mushroom and sausage–good lord who dreamed of such a divine combination of sensation and pleasure.
Later we took Steph out to a really nice dinner at Erwin, in Boystown, a new American cuisine restaurant, where they serve martinis that are as big as my head. I had only one–tonight I wasn’t the guy with the lampshade on his head–the crab cakes, and the duck confit/venison dish (is that like mid-western surf and turf?), and the sour cherry pie. Dedicated to my commitment to new experiences, we put Steph in a cab and made our way to the Steamworks.
Now, I’m sure that many of you have experienced this kind of sexual environment before. My relation to my sexuality is quite complex, involving a lot of romance, intense emotional bonding, and eventually sex, which steamrolls into an ever more and more involved and complicated experience. I’ve never been to a sex club. The closest I came to a public sex experience was at the Folsom Street Fair a few years ago when Bob forced me into dropping my pants to compete in the “Hot Cock Contest,” loudly exaggerating, like a proud stage mother, the length and circumference of my faithful friend, which much to his horror, and mine, shriveled like a walnut once on stage. The guy taking the picture even asked–“Does it get bigger?” There is a picture of my loser penis somewhere, not even Miss Congeniality. Okay, back to the Steamworks… Chris was a great guide. I wore my contacts, which I hadn’t worn in perhaps four years, my vision a bit blurry, so it was like walking through a dreamy landscape of naked bodies and artificial attitudes. I can’t get past the attitudes and artifice. I like to talk during sex, to communicate, laugh, say stupid things, promise this and that… I giggled the entire time, not the least bit excited. In the steamroom I fell asleep for a moment to wake up to all these guys gathered around me, suddenly the center of a phallic devotional movement. I giggled again, closed my eyes, and then they were gone. Just like that. Chris led me through the maze, where all these pee-pees jutted out from the walls above like the arm-held candelabras in La Belle et la Bête. Some heads bobbed up and down on the projectiles, while Chris was cruised by this really cute guy, who kept trying to reach for Chris’ special place, only to be cut off by an intercepting mouth or hand, the two only connecting visually. Chris told me that all these guys were cruising me, but I was completely oblivious, even to the two hairy backs in the place. He even guided me toward one of the hairier backs in the hottub, who evidently was interested in me, but I really just wanted to talk about the decorative arts.
It was great to have had this experience and to embrace the mono-sexual me. I’m just not into bodies, that is, bodies free of intellect and humor. A part of me has pined for the sexual freedom of the late 70’s, perhaps because so many of my lovers came of age during that time. I see a great deal of gay identity tied to such freedom and I needed to address my estrangement. I’ve been married since age 18, and always felt a sadness at having missed out on anonymous and voluminous sexual romps. Well, I’m just not not that kind of guy it turns out. I love deeply and madly, and that’s about it. Maybe for only a few hours, but never casually. Ho hum.
Tomorrow it’s museums…
Gratitude
It looks like the holiday season has muscled into my birthday season again. I saw a brilliant production of Shostakovich’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk at the SF Opera last week, with a very humpy Sergei and a minimal constructivist set, striking social realist tableaux, and interesting music. Dean and Emily came over for the first birthday dinner, which Bob made, including his close interpretation of the tomato tarte tatin that we had in Paris this summer and a super rich cheesecake. Big Chrissy treated me to a nice dinner at Watercress, formerly Watergate, which has moved to the Gramercy Towers, where Le Bistrot used to be. Watercress is notable for the consistently mixed-race couples that mirror its East/West fusion cuisine. I had the family over a few days later when sister Sue arrived from Florida, making my Linguine Seafood Bolognese for them. We’re getting together later today at brother Mark’s for the big Thanksgiving dinner. I’m making brussels sprouts with chestnut–in perhaps a maple butter glaze. Not sure yet.
I have been working, on this new video, which I’ve re-edited several times already, but I think I’m on a good track. Still not sure of the sound, though. I’ve been experimenting with breathing sounds, lapping waves, purring, and the orchestrated beginnings of Dean Martin’s Italian Love Songs. Nothing is quite right, but I’ll figure it out. Suggestions welcomed. Remember the plan to borrow from the visual structure of the cropduster scene in Hitchcock’s North by Northwest? Well, things have evolved in a different direction, quite. Although I will come back to that idea for the next video. This time, the camera pans slowly across the surface of super furry D’s super furriness, up and down his neck and arms, the nine-second pans dissolving slowly into each other so that you get only one-second of clarity. I want to maintain a dreamy blurry intoxicating closeness, but frustrate the desire for consummation. I’d love to present this in Smell-O-Rama.
On this day of thanksgiving, I’m very grateful for all the backs out there that have escaped depilation. And dihydrotestosterone and male pattern baldness. Thank you also for Nicephore Niepce and silver bromide. And cheese.
Arbus, My Bad Haircut, Finished My Little Film
I just got back from the Diane Arbus show, Revelations, at SFMoMA. No real revelations–her images are so deeply etched into my psyche–although there were a few early photos that showed clear influences prior to her finding her own voice that were interesting to see. There’s one particular room, of her later images of asylum inmates, that, even though I’ve seen them a gazillion times, moved me to near tears–the dark brooding skies and the inmates dressed in masks, performing for themselves and for the camera. “Kak stranno… how strange,” Norma Shearer got it right in Idiot’s Delight. Last night I had peking duck with Peter and Luis–a total delight to be among queens who were raised on MGM musicals and Von Sternberg films. We lamented the new generation of gay men who missed out on the tutelage of the sweater queens (Peter’s father and my early, well, all of my boyfriends), who nurtured our camp sensibilities and anti-assimilationist tendencies. I’ve always wanted to make some sort of public monument to the sissy, to whom we owe everything, and who was sadly jettisoned from the center stage of gay liberation, upstaged by a safer, more palatable representation of masculinity. We talked of throwing a Mae West film festival soon, and plan to grow old as we imagine she did, wisecracking and surrounded by hunky sexpots. I have a horrible haircut, by the way. Bob accused me of anti-semitism this morning when I cursed my hairdresser for making me look like a concentration camp survivor. I carefully explained that I was commenting on Nazi stylists, not their victims.
I finished my first edited version of Tremor, my entree into avant-garde filmmaking. I don’t know if it’s awful or interesting, but I love watching it. I’m going to be one of those Pierre Molinier artists, I’m sure, discovered by some little art fag 50 years from now and proclaimed grande fetishiste –“How could they not see?” he’ll ask… And hey, if you didn’t see my work in the LAB’s 20th anniversary show, tomorrow’s the last day and I don’t show a lot around here. So get your ass away from that computer monitor and over to 16th Street.
So tonight it’s Kill Bill. Yes.
Sweets
So we celebrated Reese’s 10th birthday this weekend. I don’t want him to get older. I don’t want to get older. Double digits already, he’ll be wanting the car keys in no time. The party that we threw for him in Golden Gate Park could have been thrown by Dario Argento–yellowjackets stung all the screaming kids, a seagull tried to eat the cake, several bees became embedded in it, and Angie and Megan forgot the table. Reese came through with a surprise pop quiz which he passed out to everyone titled “How well do you know Reese?” He even designed his cake this year, which always takes several days for us to execute, based on his own “Uffy Club” comic strip, destined to be a classic, starring Fluffy and Ruffy (a cat and a dog), and Muffy BeautyButt (a poodle). Fluffy and Ruffy are holding hands on the top of the cake, their friendship a source of the fountain, which rains down on poor Muffy, holding the umbrella, and spills down the levels of the cake. Ever the sissy daddy, and an easy target, I quietly slipped out during the water balloon toss.
I sent a little note to Andrew Sullivan after his bear “outing” on Salon.com, inviting him to check out my studies of the bear body, and he wrote back! with a concise “how beautiful.” Wasn’t that sweet?
Boring Fourth of July Weekend Update
I went up to Guerneville for a few days earlier in the week, Monte Rio, actually, with Bob, but got back into town in time to see the fireworks with Big Chris from Twin Peaks last night. The Russian River’s gorgeous right now, with the fog just off the coast keeping things a little nippy. Some really good restaurants are popping up here and there. I finally got a good meal at the Village Inn, rack of lamb and crab cakes, and a spectacular river view. Next door, at the Highland Dell, a new Italian Restaurant has opened that’s supposed to be really good, and Graton, which has been nothing more than an intersection for years, has burst onto the scene with three new restaurants, one of which, the Willow Wood Market Cafe, we supped at with Stanley and thoroughly enjoyed. The humpy straight daddies outnumbered the gay ones this trip, with every other one acknowledging my visual undressing with an affectionate nod my way. Coming up through Marshall, after barbequed oysters in Tomales, over the pristine Marshall-Petaluma Road, the scent of fennel and dried grass in the hot air, I passed through Petaluma and picked up a great new shelving unit, unmarked, but very much in the style of Gilbert Rohde, probably 30’s or 40’s, with an unusual inwardly canted door in the center. I scoured the Gravenstein Highway for Jalan, but came home empty handed.
Two Reeses over the past few days; stepson Reese’s concert at the Boys’ Chorus camp in Healdsburg, and then tonight Reese Witherspoon in Legally Blonde 2 at the Metreon Center, which was fun. The franchise will surely have her in the White House by Legally Blonde 6, if not sooner. Reese Witherspoon has steamrolled down a career path that has produced progressively less interesting and challenging roles for her, following her brilliant performances in Freeway andElection, although I’m looking forward to her Becky Sharpe in Vanity Fair. I haven’t been a-movie-ing much lately. I did see The Right Stuff with BC last night, and thought the editing was fantastic, and loved all the bureaucratic humor.
This is really a boring post, isn’t it? Fact is, I’m just bored. And I hate my new haircut.
Why oh Why do I Love Paris?
The people that I met and played with…
Sue | Megan | Bob | Me | Peter | Luis |
Chris | Nico | Clemence | Lawrence | Stan | David |
Fred | Davide | Art | Kathleen | Simone | Etel |
I love Paris when it sizzles, and it was sizzling. As in hot. I stayed with Bob in the Marais, in the apartment of his cousins, who live in New York and generously offered us the use of their pied a terre for the month of June. Bob is still there, working on his latest book of short stories which will be released in the fall. My friends Peter and Luis came along. Every morning Luis woke early, and with Bob, the other hunter-gatherer, scoured the streets of the Marais for pastries and fabulous cheeses, while Peter and I made tea and were supposed to plan where we were going to go that day, but mostly gossiped about Louis XVI’s foreskin or the decorative arts.
Here’s the rather bleak view from the apartment:
I lost three pounds on a diet of about 5 pastries/day, endless raw-milk cheeses, and lots of really great wine. (I call wine medicine now, since it’s been discovered that a glass a day is equivalent to exercise.)
On my first day there, I met up with my old photographer friend Chris Nisperos, who used to run Toto Foto on Castro in the mid-80’s before Headlines forced him to sell so that they could move in, and now lives in Paris with his cute boyfriend Nico, for a tour of the Marais, the Place de Vosges, and the area around the Bastille. We ate dinner at a bistro called Cafe de l’Industrie. The food was only so so, but the waitresses all looked like models, very exotic and sexy, with teeny waists and exposed pierced navals. The wine was cheap and good, though.
Food highlights included foie gras sandwiches and Berthillon ice cream (pear sorbet and caramel ice cream) on the Ile de la Cite, a dreamy Blanquette de Veau, greens with eggs and bacon, and a fabulous tarte tatin at Le Petit Tonneau near the Invalides, innovative and exquisitely crafted pastries from Pierre Herme on Rue Bonaparte (we spent about 50 euros) which included a tart of tomato and strawberry (!), and speaking of tomatoes as desserts, a tomato tarte tatin (!) at Les Philosophe in the Marais, and a thrilling new take on the classic bistro in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower at Au Bon Accueil, which had a prix fixe meal of only 25 euros–surely the best bargain in Paris for such an extraordinary meal.
I met up with 2 cute furry Italians, thanks to matchmaker Victor–Davide and Fred. I invited them to accompany me to see an exhibit at the Musee de la Mode et du Textile, in the Louvre, Trop, an exhibition of costume and fashion jewelry from the 20’s to the 60’s, taken from Barbara Berger’s collection, and dresses from throughout the 20th Century culled from the Museum’s collection. It was Davide’s first trip to Paris, and perhaps an exhibit not so suited to meeting someone new, but it was nice to get to know him and Fred, and we took a nice long walk through the Tuilleries, across the Seine and around to the Latin Quarter for lunch, and then back across the Seine to the Marais apartment. That afternoon I discovered the Carnavalet Museum, which I’d never thought of visiting before, but ended up spending the rest of the afternoon there, and a good bit of another day later in the trip. The museum is devoted to the history of Paris, in a 16th century mansion where Madame de Sevigne, whose letters created a rich source of insight into life in 17th century France, once lived. You can see Proust’s cork-walled bedroom, a whole wing devoted to the revolution, including mementos made of Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette’s hair, a gorgeous Art Nouveau jewelry showroom designed for Georges Fouquet by Alphonse Mucha, with bronze peacocks, stained glass, mosaics, and four grand bubbled glass vitrines which display about one piece of jewelry each.
I didn’t visit the grand museums of Paris this time around, except for the Guimet, devoted to Asian art, and to me the most beautifully designed and organized museum that I’ve ever visited, the Pompidou Center, and the Cluny. The Guimet has a wonderful collection of art from an area of what is now Afghanistan and Pakistan. Gandhara art, the first to give iconographic form to the Buddha’s life, shows the influence of Hellenic scultpture and art. In the grid below you can see a sculpture of one of George Bush’s more enlightened ancestors. At the Pompidou, I was thrilled to see myself reflected in Brancusi’s Sleeping Muse, one of my favorite sculptures. The Cluny not only has the amazing Lady and the Unicorn tapestries, but also one of the many sculptures I came across in France devoted to the genital mutilation of Christ–oh, and his umbilical cord. I also saw several smaller exhibitions, most memorably one devoted the the work of 16th century manuscript illuminator, Jean Fouquet (no relation to Georges) at the Bibliotheque National.
David Bigelman, a Cuban architect that I met while in Paris in ’99 before going to Havana, led me and Bob around one day through the Bagatelle garden, in the Bois de Bologne. David is working on several large projects, including the remodel of the Champs Ellyses, but works primarily in urban renewal. The garden surrounds a chateau built by Comte d’Artois for his sister-in-law, Marie Antoinette, and was designed in the English style by a Scottish gardener, Thomas Blaikie. The garden was host to an exhibition about labyrinths, and included documentation as well as actual reconstructions of famous mazes. I love the formality of the French garden, and how little it changes from season to season, but was totally won over by the annual rose competition, which transforms one of the smaller gardens into an hysterical explosion of color and scent.
Peter, who is visually impaired, was allowed to fondle the sculptures in most of the museums. I didn’t accompany him to the Louvre, but he reported being most impressed by the classical endowments. I had always heard that the Greeks found large packages to be vulgar, but who am I to rain on Peter’s parade of classical peters? There are several Herculeses that I’d be happy to guide him around.
I attended several lively dinners, one thrown by Art Bierman and Kathleen Fraser. Art is a writer and philospher, currently writing a play about a contemporary hermaphrodite. Kathleen, his wife, is a poet. They’re renting a place in Montparnasse for the summer, and had us over for paella. Simone Fatale and Etel Adnan were there. They split their time between Sausalito, Lebanon and Paris, and treated us to the story of how they got together, which involved a wild party at Simone’s, too many hash brownies, and three days’ “recouperation” in bed. Simone looks and acts just like what you think someone named Simone Fatale would look and act like–deep husky voice, eyelashes that create little breezes when batted at you. She just exhibited her recent sculptures in Paris, and Etel is having a play produced somewhere this summer, maybe Greece? Since dinner ended well after the last Metro, Art put us on a bus, unfortunately going in the wrong direction, so we ended up getting home rather late. Early, I mean. I had several lovely dinners in the 6th arrondissment with a friend of my sister’s, Lawrence. Sue, my sister, and our niece, Megan, who just graduated from high school, were also in town while I was there and were staying with Lawrence in her 5th floor walkup. Lawrence has lived in her 17th century building for about 20 years. Several years ago, she asked her landlord if she could expand her tiny little apartment by breaking into the attic. She cut a hole in her ceiling and expanded her tiny apartment into the space above her little abode, plus into the neighboring building, more than tripling her rental space. She explosed lovely old wooden beams and created a magical environment for her and her brilliant child, Clemence, who at 8, speaks fluent english, and is a total treat to be around. Lawrence’s husband died in a swimming accident several years ago, but was resucitated after being dead for something like 20 minutes. He has lost all of his long term memory, and lives in a hospital, but maintains ever-changing short-term relationships with them.
The bourgeoisie is dead. And buried at the Pere Lachaise cemetery (see picture below).
I did make it to the Bear’s Den, the Paris bear bar. For an orange juice. Bears are kind of skinny in Paris, or at least the ones who were prowling during my brief visit, and they don’t seem to have much hair. They do have the costumes, though. Could it be fair for me to draw such a conclusion from an hour during a weekday afternoon at the Bear’s Den? The bar is located on the corner of Rue Nicolas Flamel, which should mean something to you Harry Potter fans.
Obligitory shots of Notre Dame. That’s Saint Denis holding his head. When he was martyred, he picked up his chopped off head and carried it across town.
Sue, Megan and I took a day-trip to see the cathedral at Chartres. There really is such a thing as Chartres blue. We hiked up the 300 steps to the top of the high gothic north tower. From that perspective one really understands the monumental task of building such a structure. And way up there, where no one except the almighty Herself can see anything, there are beautifully carved sculptures in just about every nook and cranny. Where did that word “cranny” come from? Oh, there’s a picture in the middle of the last row of photos below of another rendering of the ritual genital mutilation of Christ, from the choir screen. I remember something in Sienna about St. Catherine wearing his foreskin as a ring in some marriage fantasy that she had about him. Would she simply be another urban primitive if she were alive today? The Bride of Christ, St. Catherine was cool, actually, she would pray so fervently that she frequently levitated.
So I really like Paris a lot. Rome has always been my favorite city in the world, and Italians my favorite people, but Paris was so lovely, the people so sweet (really), and the food so wonderful that I’m going to have to spend some more time there.
I Fart in Your General Direction
Last night BC and I went to one of our favorite restraurants, Taiwan, on Clement in the Richmond. Parking was, as usual, difficult, but we found a spot on the second pass. Not bad. We sat down, had a beer, and ordered a nice meal for a group of four to six. We were seated at one of the small, rectangular tables along the wall. In the center of the room there is a row of larger, round tables at which we usually find groups of teenage Sino-Franciscans. The food is good, and the prices are fantastic. So, young people. Which usually isn’t a problem. Another type of group one normally spots in the center are families, usually of three or four generations including exactly one white person. It was that group that sat inches to my right. They all took their places rather quickly, except for the 97 year old granddad, who remained standing while he let an audible, fragrant, fifteen second fart about eighteen inches from my head. All I could do was to stop eating for a while and try to go into a sort of zen state. This too, did pass.
Mysterious Skin, Little Things
Just got in from seeing a dramatic interpretation of Scott Heim’s novel, Mysterious Skin, at The New Conservatory Theater, with Bob and Kevin Killian. It was really good, with excellent acting and lots of gratuitous nudity. The story centers around a young man, Brian, puzzling out vague memories of being abducted by aliens–turns out that he mistook fisting the baseball coach for being probed by extraterrestrials. At one point in the play, Neil, his childhood friend and the one who releases Brian’s suppressed memories, is raped by a john (he’s a hustler), and everyone removes his clothes. The nudity does nothing to heighten the realism of the rape–all the pee-pees on display are Mister Softies–but lordy if the john didn’t have the cutest little button–furry chest and bald head, too!
Earlier I stopped in to see Barry McGee’s opening at the Luggage Store, and bumped into an old fellow LAB Board member, Jen Levy, who is opening a bakery in Berkeley with the former pastry chef from Hawthorn Lane. They’re specializing in savory Czech pastries, kalaches (spelling?). She says they’re the next bagels.
Jesus Break
Okay, we haven’t had dessert yet, but I had to sneak down to my studio and chat a bit. As inevitably happens, the conversation at dinner turned to the supernatural (Bob’s aunt astral-travels, and his brother was visited by.. well, they’re not sure if it was the Virgin of Guadalupe or Loudes. “Well, were there kids with her or was she surrounded by flames?” I asked. Blank expressions). Bob’s mom recently had a dream in which Jesus appeared to her–white light and everything. I asked her if he had any message, and she responded, “It was so REAL. I couldn’t get away from him, I kept trying to wake up!” So much for Our Savior of San Diego.