Category: Friends

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Mud Brothers

Big Chris and I have reached a new level of trust, warmth and understanding in our friendship. Yesterday morning we soaked our Chrissies in the volcanic ash of Calistoga, emerging from the mud to watch our toxins and ennui wash down the drain. In our matching “Russian River” t-shirts and Merrell hiking boots, and over a bottle of wine by the River, Chris suddenly blurted out, “You are not Midge, you’re Scotty!” Shocked, I replied, “But I want to be Midge.” “No,” he said, “I am Midge, you are Scotty.” I sat there for a moment, and the light bulb in the thought balloon over my head suddenly lit up. He’s right.

We’re of course talking about the principal characters in Hitchcock’s Vertigo, one of the first films we saw together, and the loose script for our subsequent interaction over the past 4 years–minus the chicks thrown out of the tower and into the bay. Midge is the beloved character played by Barbara bel Geddes, the character after whom our gallery is named, Marjorie Wood, or “Midge” for short, cute and sassy, smart and patient–what I want to be. Scotty, James Stewart, is a former detective who is obsessed with a dead woman. When he stumbles across a woman who reminds him of his presumably dead love, he convinces her to dye her hair and even wear the same clothes. The irony is that she IS the former lover, and it’s one of the best fucking movies ever made, so if you haven’t seen it I’m not going to tell you any more, there’s no excuse not to rent it and watch it tonight.

I am Scotty, trying to impose form on an ever-elusive love. “The gentleman seems to know what he wants.” Chris is Midge, patiently (well, okay, perhaps not so patiently) observing my obsession. “Well now, Johnnie-o, was it a ghost? Was it fun?…”

Thank God we’re not vacationing at the Mission San Juan Bautista, otherwise Midge might throw Scotty from the tower this time.

We went barhopping in Guerneville last night, which wasn’t that difficult as the only 2 bars in town are across the street from each other. We rated the men based on how many beers we’d have to drink before we slept with them. There were only 2 for whom I wouldn’t have to drink anything, otherwise, most guys rated between 4 and 8. Apparently Big Chris rated 3 Sierra Nevadas, 1 mineral water, and half a bottle of wine.

The drive back was soothing, in and out of fog, with stops along the coast and barbequed oysters in Tomales Bay. More tomorrow, gotta run…

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D Crisis

D came over yesterday afternoon, for a beard trim and to chat. He’s been hovering at a 3 on the Depression Scale–10 being the happy end of the scale. For the first time he was able to articulate his feelings beyond “I’m just depressed,” and that was cause for celebration, an indication that real work could commence. Unfortunately, what he told me has put me in an awkward position, and I’m not too sure what to do. I have a call in to his case manager for advice, but am wondering if any of you have some words of wisdom on the subject.

I am his main caregiver, I am also his only friend. I have him over for dinner, make him lunch, we go to movies, I give him the only physical affection that he experiences, I talk to him several times a day, I force him to exercise, talk about what he’d like to do eventually, involve him in situations where he could meet other people and interact socially, give him assignments, take him on day-trips–basically what his team of psychiatrists should be doing but aren’t. I want to help him actively, with the intent of integrating him back into social space.

Okay, so he tells me yesterday that he loves me so much that he doesn’t want to do anything else except be with me. He sleeps all day so that he doesn’t have to experience the reality of being away from me. He asked if he could spend the night with me, something that I had offered to him a while ago if he needed to get away from the halfway house. I told him that I didn’t think it was a good idea, given what he was feeling. Unable to cope with the obstacles between him and life, he’s chosen to take the easy way out, a one-way ride on the Coco Express. He was very articulate about it, the prospect of a return to his life just too distant to address.

I told him that he couldn’t be with anybody until he gets it together. I told him I couldn’t be that person, but that I’d continue to love him, and help with his development. Last week we addressed his housing anxieties successfully, and with the next steps being so overwhelming, I asked if he could start taking care of his body, the one thing really under his control. (He’s gained about 50-75 pounds since last August.) If he could feel that he’s making progress in one area, perhaps the other areas won’t be so overwhelming? But how to do it? I’ve been asking him to take vigorous walks, but he needs to be in a program, and could you believe that this completely subsidized program that provides free electro-convulsive therapy, psychiatric treatment, and around-the clock-care, doesn’t have any type of exercise or nutrition program?

Eeek!

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A Cough, A Vixen, the Valley, and Three Hot Dogs.

*cough* If this were a movie made before 1956, you’d know at this point in the story that I was going to die before the end. You know, that slight little cough that nobody notices, except you in the audience, and then makes perfect sense as I collapse in your arms and whisper “But darling, loving you from afar has been enough…” before dying of pneumonia, consumption, cacexia, or accute melancholia together with a guilt complex. *cough*

Thursday night I saw a magical version of Janáček’s The Cunning Little Vixen at the SF Opera, with Big Chris, Little Dave, and my big sister, Sue–sexy and very cleverly staged, and then woke early to join Mystery Bear for breakfast and my former teacher Larry Sultan’s The Valley series at SFMoMA. I’ve written about the images before, when a few were shown at Stephen Wirtz, but seeing them all together was quite exciting.

I went with Alex last night to the Giant’s game, not so much downing as felating three hot dogs, and Barry hit his 680th! The fireworks afterwards actually made me cry. Phenomenal. (Doo DOOOO do do do.)

Again, I run to Big Chrissy for solace and support. (And his dsl connection, since mine is down for the next few weeks.) I love him.

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Nair For Men

The HORROR! A product that removes hair??? Sample packets of Nair for Men, a product that I couldn’t have imagined, were being passed out at the Gay Parade on Sunday. I tried to tackle one woman passing them out, “Stop her, don’t take any! Save the fur!!” I yelled… Here’s me and Big Chris and Little Dave at the parade, and Dave and me smushing the sinister sample packets…

So my current state of mind these days seems to be characterized by a queazy mix of vulnerability and eagerness. My eagerness is for intimacy, sexual and emotional, to bond with another, to share my love of life and experience. I have so much passion and intensity that’s been dammed up for such a long time that keeping the floodgates even partially closed is almost impossible. I’m the Hoover dam ready to burst on top of you. Kiss me and hold your breath, babe.

Man, has the dating scene changed over the past 11 years! Sex seems to be this exchange akin to a handshake. I can’t even read the expressions of love. I had a very intense sexual encounter the other night, the kind where if I had taken viagra we would have had to take me to the hospital according to the warnings in the commercials about four hour erections… Well, during this exchange, my partner looked at me at one point very intensely, for a long time. It was so intimate, he was so open–I couldn’t even handle it, looking away quickly, almost afraid of falling into him, afraid of his openness, not ready myself to be so vulnerable. The next afternoon, after sleeping only an hour, jumping up and down stairs and singing loudly every Cole Porter song about the delight and deliriousness of love, he informed me that the exchange meant something very different to him, that he’s not ready for anything more than friendship, and while he enjoyed our time together, I need to be aware of his limitations. And so I picked up my little heart which had shot out of my chest like a balloon in those Looney Tunes cartoons, bouncing off of the ceiling and walls, the shriveled bloody little lump landing at me feet, and stuffed it back down my throat and have been gasping for breath ever since.

Sure, I’ll try to be his friend, and I’ll respect his boundaries, and perhaps something will develop. Perhaps it won’t. But how could I have misread him so completely? Now here’s where we get into my scorpio-ness–am I trying to make something happen when he’s told me all-too clearly that he’s not interested? I can’t relate to the head’s domination of the heart, or even understand it, but I’m trying to accept it, and certainly not challenge it.

And I’m not going to play Plato’s “lover” and “beloved.”

So my head tells me…

HEAD: “Chris, he’s created this structure, defining who he is and what he’s ready for–he told you this in every piece of e-mail and conversation that you’ve had, why are you expecting more? Get a grip.”

Then my heart pushes my head off and kicks it down Collingwood Street, and says…

HEART: “No Chris, he’s just not in touch with what he’s really feeling–YOU felt it, you did, he’ll come around. Just play it cool and see what happens…”

At least they’re both telling me to play it cool.

So what do I do? I’m going to try to accept his boundaries, be honest about what I’m ready to pursue, and see what happens. This is the point where Big Chris is going to tell me that I’m deceiving myself, that I should walk away, I already know enough, etc,–but I can’t. “Hey boy, crazy boy, just play it cool, boy, real cool… da da da, da da da, da da da, da da da… snap, snap, snap, pshaw!”

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All the Sailors Said Brandy

Big Chrissy and I just heard an a capella group perform at our bridge partner Pam’s place in Menlo Park tonight. Pam’s son is a member of the octet, and Pam is hosting them for the beginning of their west coast tour. “How many people are in the octet?” someone asked as I arrived. As I surmised, there were eight, all students at Williams College in Massachusetts, and all adorable, especially the dabba dabba guy, Maurizio, with his razor sharp side burns and piercing gaze. Every time he’d “ooh,” I’d get all moist. I’m so getting to be that age when everyone under 25 is just sexual bait. The group started off singing “Brandy”–you know, “…Brandy, you’re a fine, such a FINE gi-irl, what a GOOD wife you would be, such a GOOOOD wife, but my love, my life and my la-dy are the sea…” with lots of finger snapping and dabba dabbas, oohs, and wide open toothy grins. The audience consisted mostly of Pam’s upper middle class over-40 white friends–the type of guys who all move their heads forward to the beat (–imagine, to “Brandy”) with wives in shawls and sipping white wine. The octet’s musical director must have gone to high school with me, mostly REM and such–but “Brandy?” Pam’s husband, Brad, made lasagna for 50, vegetarian, quite yummy. They live in a fabulous sprawling Eichler that they’ve remodeled, which means that the Japanese-style kotatsu is now covered by a wooden floor, and the elegant koi pond that once encircled the fireplace (indoor and out) is now filled with brick. It’s difficult to hold my mid-century tongue when they talk about how impractical those features were–I want to strangle them actually, but I smile and say, “Oh” with a little nod of the head, like those over-40 guys rocking out to “Brandy.”

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We Went to a Garden Party

The weather was perfect, Mamoosh showed up with a handsome new beau, John, architects Eric and Seth bonded on my code-violating deck, Funkybear Martin was just fabulous and as bright as the day, whipped cream hanging from his whiskers like an invitation, Paulie snuggled up to BC and Iain on the couch inside, Paulie couldn’t tell if the music I selected was music or the walls, Dean and Doug are off to Paris in a few weeks, Nathen’s blue eyes were just dazzling against his blue shirt, Chris J may have gotten a new garden design commission from my neighbor Arnie, the former airline pilot and “other woman” to not one but two handsome, considerably-younger men, Arnie and fellow-retiree Ralph still think of me as a twinkie despite the grays, the wrinkles, and the extra 30 pounds, Sarah described some exciting new work for her Marjorie Wood Gallery show opening in May, Reese arrived fashionably late dressed as a silent film star but failed delightfully in staying silent, the ginger/pear/champagne punch was delicious, Jeff has lost 50 pounds in the last 6 months by not eating exactly what I served at the party, Philip reconnected with lost friends, including the Nick Dong-less Jeff, Victor is spinning on Sunday nights now at the Eagle and has Saturdays free for garden parties, my 3-month old niece experienced her first party, my brother and sisters converted Bob’s office into a diaper changing facility, who was that adorable Kris that I didn’t get to bond with, mid-western Don charmed us with his mid-western charms, Cameron won the award for Most Gravity-Challenging facial hair, and who was the cute cub on his arm again, Rainey and Joe soaked up some sun and showed off their oily muscles, Alex and my former heartthrob Garry talked of Jewish mysticism, Garry showed obvious disappointment when he learned that Gershom Scholem’s Major Trends in Jewish Mysticism was on Bob’s nightstand and not mine, Steve and Jack talked of electronic fig leaves, their friend Bela was most cuddly and should cook for me some time, 6 people represented those without facial hair, 50 shortcakes were ingested.

All in all a very fun party. Thank you all for coming and bringing such sweetness and cheer into my home.

Stay tuned for the Mid-Summer Swinging-Bachelor House-Rewarming Divorce Party and Ball. I think that I’ll ask everyone to bring along a single bachelor to try on my glass slippers.

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Iain Rolls In to Town, Ted Rolls Out

So Iain is visiting–finally a real face to match with the little one-inch square version I’ve been communicating with for the past year or so. He’s quite a swell fellow, and a pleasure to hang with. Reese and I introduced him to Spongebob Squarepants Friday night, and we went to SFMoMA today, along with BC, Geoffy, Rootbeer and Qbear.

Yesterday Ted announced that he’s moving at the end of the month, back to Seattle, to finish the work for his doctorate. Next he’ll be applying to post-doc programs, and the roulette wheel has a 1 in 3 chance of stopping at SF. I don’t know how or if I fit into his uncertain future. Last night Funkybear Martin and Brian and English John came over for a faboo lamb dinner that Ted and I made–what a handsome mound of fur those guys add up to–and then this morning Ted and I went for a nice walk with Bruno out to Fort Funston. The lamb, the friends, the dog, the hike… Ted has really softened my transition to bachelorhood by extending much pleasure and sweetness into my life. I’m really going to miss him. I’ve been riding the Ted wave since my (most recent) breakup with Bob (etc), and now I’m about to be tossed back onto dry land, and I’ve gotten quite comfortable floating out here. More than I thought, certainly more than I anticipated. Back to being without–add one more to the list.

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Really, Coco, Get a Grip

The Italian has flown back to the home of balsamico, Elin back to her island, Mom & Dad back to Dixie, and I now get to sit here and enjoy the sound of one hand clapping, my own, at last. Listen… that’s the sound of one minute going by on my mid-century starburst clock. Elin’s visit did wonders for Bob’s spirits, and our cohabitating is going along a little less bumpily. We even went to David Ireland’s Oakland Museum show together, and slipped into old dining habits at La Cote afterward with Dean Smith in Berkeley, sharing our plates and drinks and friends and stories.

I’m not doing much reporting on the wild and fabulous activities filling my every spare moment, but ending my 11 year relationship with Bob is just plain hard, and eclipses any desire to relate my typical fluff. I know it took three years to get to this place, but it actually took three years of constant avoidance. Now I have to deal with it. I adore our life together, our rhythms and interests, and am having a really hard time watching it all disappear. I’m going to be a drag for a while, I warn you, and don’t mind if I moan about Bob-this or Bob-that, but I am the sad Carlotta.

And everybody I know is getting married.

I will have a fabulous divorce party sometime in June or July, after I get my new house together, okay?

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Jack, Les, Mark and the Guy with the Denim Gourd

So at “Potluck” the other night, Jack Radcliffe introduced me to his lover, “Chris, this is my lover Chris, errr… Todd.” I told him that I would carry that Freudian slip to sleep with me later…

So the furry folk have descended upon our fair town for International Bear Rendezvous. Last night I had dinner with Les Wright, looking completely stunning and happy, and several leathermen and artist dudes, at Mark Chester’s place. On to the basket report: this one guy had what looked like a denim gourd below the belt; Following dinner, and for purposes still mysterious to me, his shirt came off, his furry chest beckoned urgently… Following my petting, he said, “It’s okay, you can touch them.” I, of course, thought he was referring to the gourd, so was prepared to continue on down the furry trail, when he said, “The nipples…” which I honestly hadn’t noticed–these mamoth protrusions the size of baby bottles. (The other guests I guess had already had their go at them while I was in the Gents.) Mark took pictures of all of us, as a group, and individually, and with our clothes on. I do not like being on that side of the camera, and was awkward and turned beet red at his attempts to loosen me up.

Happy Valentine’s Day, all you cuties.