After photographing D today–blue and belly–I swept Emily away to the movies. Nervous about what was to be her first public reading, she asked if I would see Garden State with her and then have dinner at Alma before, to get her mind off of her nervousness. I seem to be good for that, perhaps because we spend so much time talking about our boyfriends. Emily and I share a kind of depression fetish, so there’s always much to discuss: T’s new SSRI, C’s anger and transsexual dad, D’s shock treatment. BC, my own sweet sad one joined us at Alma, and then we headed over to Adobe Books for the reading. First let me back up and say that Garden State didn’t leave much of an impression. Fine performances, yes, and Peter Saarsgaard is just a sheer tortured pleasure to watch, but the story was only as moving as the central character was captivating, which wasn’t very. I didn’t even want to project onto him. So back to the reading… Emily was last–after R’s mock sound installation for 2 voices and M’s science-fiction stroll through post-something bad San Francisco–and a good thing, because her reading was a knockout. She read from a story about her debt, hilariously chronicling her mother’s encouragement in its accumulation and mismanagement. She’s like David Sedaris, only complex and screwed up.
The Weekend and the Emeco 1006 Chair
The weekend was been quite fun–is it over already? We got an early start on Thursday with the Bruce Conner films at SFMoMA. Bruce was there, introducing 14 shorts from the past 40 or so years. I had seen or slept through most of them in art school, and it was thrilling to see them again, and while awake, and with him there. The first film was the most memorable, editing like fireworks, images flashing quickly by to the sound of Ray Charles singing “What I Say,” live in concert. My other fave was a film set to the tune of Devo’s “Mongoloid,” with all found imagery from strange science and health films, or people engaged in meaningless and unexplained exertion–a very clever wedding of sound and imagery. How wonderful to have an icon of 20th Century postwar art still here in our town. Big Chrissy and I then had dinner at Zuni with our bridge partner, Sarah, and her friend, Ruth, who is a very interesting and engaging filmmaker. I told her about the bear show, and she has an interesting idea for a film that she’d like to include in the show, so I’ll be meeting with her in a few weeks to see if it would work out to include her. I think we’re going to call the show “Hairy Bodies.” How does that grab you?
Friday Reese performed in his drama workshop’s summer show. The kids wrote and performed a piece called “Kid’s News.” One piece of news concerned the disappearance of George Bush, with Condoleeza Rice, “head of security,” reporting in a very deadpan voice, “The president has been missing for three days, and no one seems to know where he is,” and another about the retirement of the Ice Cream Man, with several kids screaming hysterically about the different flavors that they were going to miss, and the news announcer declaring, “Well, folks, you heard it here, they all scream for ice cream.” My favorite commercial was for Old Old Navy, with the kids dressed up like old people, “I got my Hip new Hip at Old Old Navy!” I joined up with the boys later on at Jack and Steve’s for the opening ceremony of the Olympics. I almost cried, I’m such a sucker for pomp. And man, Greece really pulled it off, with the fabulous centaur, the monolithic cycladic sculpture breaking down into other sculptures, and Bjork’s dress smothering all the athletes. I want a dress like that!
Saturday morning I saw Open Water with Dean, and loved it, especially the creepy scene in the pitch black storm, our doomed divers and the sharks swimming around them illuminated only by the lighting! Aaaaaaaah! What’s that bumping against my leg?!!!!! Later that night BC and I saw a hypnotic butoh performance by InkBoat, called “Ame to Ame,” which means “Candy and Rain” in Japanese, two words sounding the same but having different meaning. It was the most romantic butoh I’ve ever seen, “romantic” not being a term I’ve ever thought of in relation to butoh. Two dancers, one male and one female, alternately mirrored and repelled each other’s actions, a meditation on desire and illusion. Among the words that appeared in the music that sound the same in Japanese but have different meanings were “river” & “skin,” “flower” & “nose,” “belly” & “field,” and my favorite, “hair” & “god.” Hey, it’s the same in my language, too!
Today I shot a few more rolls of D, this time with a red backdrop. I’ll be winding up the photography on this project this week, and hope to finish it before the end of September. In addition to my composite Red, Blue, and Green pieces, I’ll be making a central piece consisting of images from all of the pieces, bringing them all together into some wild new 3-colored form. Yeah baby!
It is just an amazingly beautiful day today! I love living here! I love you! And I’ve finally figured out which chairs to buy for my kitchen! Yes, the main obstacle between me and my divorce party–3 aluminum “1006” chairs made by Emeco! Unfortunately they are $330 each, but I’m hoping to find some vintage ones for considerably less, like $30 each, okay, $75 if you insist. They were designed for the Navy just after WWII, and the design hasn’t changed at all in all those years. They were made to withstand torpedo blasts, so I’m sure that there are some out there somewhere in good shape.
Find this chair for me:
Stuffed
I just heard from Wendy, my high school girlfriend. (She had the hairiest forearms.) Our 20th high school reunion is coming up at the end of the month. I haven’t seen most of those people in 20 years, as I moved to San Francisco three days after graduation. There were only 30 or so people in my graduating class, and I received this enthusiastic note from the organizers saying that they had gotten in touch with HALF of our graduating class. It looks like it’s going to be a pretty intimate affair, but that’s what my high school experience was. My school was called RLC, and the organizers, Rita, Liz, and Amy, were known as RLA–still buddies after 20 years and still living in Birmingham. So I’ll be in Alabamie from August 26-Sept 1, Birminghamians, so mark your calendars. I’m totally excited about seeing JL again. He’s living at home again after living as a hustler and drug dealer in LA. He called me a few months ago, laughing, about his recent felony conviction for dealing crystal meth. “James, you can’t vote, you idiot.” He’s one of my favorite people–in high school he wore feathered earrings and eyeliner (this was in the heart of Dixie, mind you), and was so confident and secure and out that everybody respected him. We got our ears pierced together, that is, at the same time, forging notes from our parents saying it was okay. This was way before it was cool–we were trailblazers. He went on to become the wigmaster of a theatrical group in Santa Maria (there’s a song) prior to his LA downfall. More on the rest of the gang later in the month.
Last night Neel came up from downstairs, Dave up the hill, and BC down the hill, for dinner. I cooked while running Norton Utilities on my recently crashed computer (still running–20 hours later), so I just kept making dishes. Poor guys, I really stuffed them. They pleaded for me to drop the salad dish, so I obliged. The menu: melon and prosciutto; a salad of cannellini beans, onions, and tuna; shrimp risotto; green salad with feta and grapefruit (dropped); and for dessert a fresh fruit tart, and limoncello. The theme was supposed to be seafood, so I told them that the prosciutto was seapig. A fine evening with fine fellows.
What a beautiful day–enjoy it folks.
Sarah, Emily, Dean, Two Queens
I met Sarah C today. She and Emily are going to be the next featured artists at the Marjorie Wood Gallery, so they came over for tea and melon and to discuss their project. I had nearly forgotten, as I spent most of the day visiting doctors and phlebotomists with D, who had a spinal tap to determine if there is any neuroligical or organic basis for his depression. Is there any other basis? Anyway, there were Emily and Sarah, on my doorstep. Emily’s writing these days, the layers of her writing not as obscured as her visual work, but fractured and narrative, and raw and melodic, and Sarah’s like Emily and Léonie’s love child, so their collaboration is going to be hot. They’re the third in a series of collaborations between writers and artists in which the writing’s not of a critical nature. Rainey, my favorite girly man, and former lip and butt (see below) model, interrupted our noshing to wisk me away to dinner in the Mission, and we dished and swished our way through all of our recent loves and woes. I love my queeny friends. Like drinking orange juice after brushing my teeth, bitter and sweet.
And I love the complete suspension of reality at that point when one of us eventually says of whom-ev-er, “Oh, girl, she is such a queen.”
Broken Laptop, Tom & Me, Neel
I actually BROKE my beloved G4 laptop last night. Opening it gently, as I always do, and CRACK, the hinge snapped like a potato chip, and the monitor went black. I’m experiencing phantom word processing. Oh the pain… I’ll be posting some fabulous little things on eBay later in the week to raise the funds for my replacement limb, so stay tuned…
So I saw Collateral today, deciding I needed to get out of this horrible sun storm. It was actually quite good, with excellent performances, beautiful photography, and edge-of-your-seat tension. Michael Mann’s getting better, and yes, even Tom Cruise, although in attempting to make him look older, by graying his hair, they ended up just making him look silly. I feel like we grew up together, me and Tom, so he has a special little place in my shrunken heart.
Neel is going to be staying a few days in my studio, so come on over and say howdy. I think I should just forget about art making and open a home for wayward homos. Are you, too, about to be homeless? Look no more, my back door’s always open.
Gnocchi
Victor and Davide were over for gnocchi with pesto and apple pie tonight. It wasn’t as difficult as I thought it was going to be to create a dinner for the specific palates and dispositions of my dear guests. I am so in awe of Victor’s beard. It’s like Antarctica was moved to the center of the globe, hanging from North America’s chin. Victor and Davide are great to watch together, Victor very relaxed and bubbly, Davide all fireworks from the small amount of alcohol in his skinny skateboarder dude body. Davide is moving in a few days, only a few blocks away really, but I’m going to miss him sitting all day in my kitchen with his laptop, or running stupid errands with me. It’s like having an Italian journalism major pet who talks about love and music instead of barking or peeing on my rugs.
Earlier today we went to Berkeley to look at vintage glasses with Emily, and had sandwiches and goodies at Fanny’s Cafe. Emily’s working on some new gouaches on paper that are totally dynamite and totally Emily, each work 2-sided, layers on layers of camouflaging and symbols or architectural allusions obliterating the previously and meticulously applied imagery. Sometimes her process of recording and then transforming is completely inaccessible, at other times you see it peeking through, but never banging you on the head. There’s so much intelligence and experience in her work. Davide wanted to go to IKEA to look at beds, so I tagged along through the awful maze. I really can’t go there again. The store’s the size of a New England state. I get all nervous and sweaty not knowing which way is west or how far away the exit is, or even if there is one.
I’ll be posting some big news on Saturday.
It’s Tuesday Already?
Sunday was such a beautiful day–“Let’s go to the beach!” I impulsively yelled at Davide. So we made our way to the chilly, foggy, almost completely empty Black Sand Beach in the Marin Headlands, the fog occasionally parting to reveal the sun-baked city across the bay. The couple next to us performed their rendition of a Live Male-Female Love Act–start to finish in like, 10 minutes. I could see fascination, horror, and lust register simultaneously on Davide’s shivering face. The tattooed goose flesh and legs waving in the air were the perfect backdrop to our discussion of love, film, and our problem with the supposed disjunction between reality and fantasy.
That night I went to Peter and Luis’ for another of Luis’ extraordinary dinners. Peter and I sat in front of the TV, watching Six Feet Under as Luis fed us 2 plates each of pasta with a buffalo and venison Bolognese, green salad, and then, really, the best bread pudding that I have ever had. I’m starting to cry thinking of it. Using bread from Tartine, he sliced the bread and placed it in the pan in such a way as to retain the loaf shape, and then served it that way, so that the bottom was all custardy and the top crispy. Please help me think of a way to evict Albie downstairs so that I can have Luis live and cook for me me only me. My stomach hasn’t stopped singing since Sunday night, some vaguely familiar Neopolitan love song.
D, Davide, Me and Peter Parker
D, Davide, and I were Down-With-Love bears tonight, eating popcorn and watching Spiderman in our jammies. Peter Parker was the perfect date for these Down-With-Love girls. D needed to get away for the night and hadn’t seen the first Spidey, so I said we could have a pajama party at my place. D’s snoozing away now in Manny’s old PJ’s, as I blog and Davide surfs in the kitchen. Earlier D and I took a trip up to Sonoma County for the best hamburger in the Bay Area, and then a hike along the Bolinas Ridge trail. The fog and breeze made the hike very dramatic, like a Terence Malick film. We then zipped back to town for the very solid The Clearing, with stellar understated performances by Robert Redford, Hellen Mirren and Willem Dafoe, and Mole Poblano at El Toreador. I don’t have much interesting to say about today, it was just fun, no metaphors or profound thoughts, just a nice day with my dear friends. And now, to sleep. Nighty night cats and kittens.
Blood and Roses, San Diego Daddies, Bearbots
Oh my aching everything. Yesterday I attacked Mr. Publishing-Agent-Who-Rejected-Bob-Once’s roses, huge Cecille Brunners that formed a lovely canopy over the stairs, but effectively blotted out the sky, the view of the city, and were now growing into the radiator of the car parked on the street below. Mr. P-A-W-R-B-O and his partner called me in for a garden cleanup in April, but as the buds were already setting, I told them I’d come back after the bloom for a mid-summer pruning. The sky and the view have been restored, at the price of my scratched bloody face, arms, legs, and neck, and a deep cut to my knee from a rusty nail–do I need a tetanus shot, or do I wait for it to fester?
Anyway, since Bob is no longer helping with my house expenses, I need to fill the gap in my passive income with some active cash, so please pass on to anyone that you know that I’m available for gardening work–cleanup, maintenance, installation, and fine pruning. I work fully clothed, though, so gardener fantasies should incorporate a fashionable sense of suitable work attire designed to minimize sun exposure.
Davide and I joined my pal and patron Alex for the Giants/Padres game last night. I prefer to call the Padres “the daddies,” and deeply admired the complex crotch-grabbing, and leg-lifting techniques of the visiting team. One guy, as he stepped up to the plate, grabbed his crotch briefly, wiggled his feet on the plate, and then went for a much more involved grab as he bent over and slung the bat over his shoulder. There was several guys who preferred toe-tapping to crotch-grabbing, and my favorite daddy wiggled his hips from side-to-side in a snake-like dance that ended in a sharp flick of the jock. The hispanic guys were consistently the most inventive in both style and technique–is that a racist comment? Oh, I almost forgot the pre-game stretching! Before the game began, right at first base, #35 and his “stretching assistant” formed all sorts of sexy configurations straight out of the Kama Sutra in a most-assuredly successful attempt to get #35 ready for action. I want that job!
Davide has succeeded in momentarily deflecting attention away from my bearbot drama to his. If only we could arrange a visit to Stepford and trade these guys in for some bearbots who listened to our simple commands of “love me” and “take off those plaid cut-offs now.”
Baskets
Last night Reese asked if we could watch The Bad Seed, the camp classic with Patty McCormack as the perfect child who murders her schoolmate when he wins the penmanship award instead of she, and sets on fire the creepy gardener who knows too much. Reese has been listening to the songs from a musical based on characters from The Bad Seed, Gypsy, and Pippi Longstocking, and was eager to learn about the original characters. We went up to BC’s to watch it on the big screen. I don’t remember it being such an interesting film. Little Rhoda, the bad seed, seemed to represent a transition in feminine identity, or an extension of the anxiety that one saw personified in the femme fatale of the previous generation. After dropping off my little Step Seed at his moms’, BC and I hightailed it to the “Beautiful Losers” opening at Yerba Buena. I bumped into Larry, back in town after his stint at the Whitney to promote more bland art on this coast, Victor, who was a knockout in his cute cap, camel jacket and open-neck shirt, (really Victor, you need to dress like that all the time), Davide, melting in seamlessly with the other 20-somethings, and absolutely none of the art–way too crowded to see anything, but who goes to openings to see anything? And how many times are they going to show Barry and Chris? They are very interesting artists, sure, but there is something other than the Mission School aesthetic happening in this town–take off those curatorial blinders, critics. We then sashayed over to the Lone Star, to bond with all the truly beautiful losers, those few stuck in town while everybody else is engaged in drunken belly-bucking on the shores of the Russian River. I chatted up Misha, who is just about the sweetest thing there is this side of syrup, hugged Drunk Girl, and again the sad Davide and the dashing Victor. I didn’t get to pee in the trough. Chris insists that it’s the only way to get over my paruresis (pee-shyness). Last week at the RR Eagle trough, as things were just about to move forward, a guy walked in and of course my bladder clamped shut, as he sided up next to me, and of course there was a mirror hanging right over everything, amplifying my exposure, and his unabashed google search, so I just blurted out “I’m sorry, I’m pee-shy.” He said, “Oh, I’m sorry,” very gravely, and bowed his head as I gathered up what I could of my pride and shuffled off into the stall.
“What would you give me for a basket of kisses?”