Do You Already Know What I’m Going to Post?

I finally saw The Matrix Reloaded tonight. I liked it as much as I thought I would, and I disliked it as much as I thought I would. But did I choose to dislike it, or did I like it because I chose to like it? I saw it on the IMAX screen. Laurence Fishburne’s pores were as big as my head. Carla Harryman is staying with us for the next week. (The LAB is producing one of her operas in September.) She and I agreed that we probably would have liked the movie better if Ray Harryhausen had created the special effects and the writers had ditched the silly narrative.

The Good, the Bad, and Eli Wallach’s Cute Butt!

Victor and Chris and I saw Waiting for the Friedmans yesterday morning at the Empire, recently reborn as a pseudo art- indie- film house, and a good thing, as it’s only a hop skip and a jump away from Big Chrissy’s. The film made a point of showing how pliable and elusive truth is, even to oneself. I left wanting to believe that no crime had been committed, but feeling that the father’s clandestine desire for boys had perhaps produced an inner guilt that led to an acceptance of his fate.

Earlier, on the way to Chris’ I was unable to get out of my garage, because a dozen cop cars had surrounded my hill due to some guy a few doors up who was holding a gun to his old boyfriend’s head, threatening to kill him. How inconsiderate. I called Chris and asked him to pick me up. No one was murdered, and we made it to the show on time. Sadly, things like this happen all too frequently in my little corner of the Castro (Pacific Northwest or bust, anyone?). Since I moved to this house, in 1987, I’ve found a naked guy in my garbage can (they sent an all-female swat team to extract him from his new home), had 4 runaway trucks fly down the hill and smash into cars, 2 of which bounced into my side garden and smashed it to bits, been the victim of a stalker whose actions unwittingly led to an insurance-financed rehabilitation of the front of my house and new terrazzo stairs (!), encountered, but not joined, numerous people having sex in the side entry to my house (before I installed motion detector lights) where I have also found numerous spent condoms and needles over the years (I didn’t mind the public sex, but the needles and spoogy condoms were too inconsiderate), been burgled, robbed, and had my car and bicycle stolen. And this is a good neighborhood.

Anyway, it’s great to live so close to the Castro Theater. Last night I saw The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly, for the first time on a big screen. The credits alone were like a rollercoaster ride, and then those huge faces filling the screen. It was really Eli Wallach’s film–he was great, broadly comic and only half menacing, and certainly not the “ugly” that he’s supposed to be, and the character that you spend the most time with. We were even treated to a flash of his ass as he gets out of the tub. Most spaghetti westerns seem to be sprinkled with those little titillating moments of briefly exposed dripping body parts. If I ever make a movie, I’m going to be thrown off of a horse by some guy, in the distance, run straight up to the camera so that my beautiful face fills it up, and spitting, scream “Youfilthyrat!” really fast. And do that petulant aspiration that actresses like Claudia Cardinale in One Upon a Time in the West do when the camera zooms in on their quivering lips as they’re forcibly but readily about to be kissed.

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.

Bad timing, tired, but lots of fun

Well, yesterday I screwed up my timing, whisking Mr. Dallas to SFMoMA at 10, when it opened at 11, trying to get him in and out and back for his lunch date at noon, and then shifted gears and decided to conduct a little tour of the Embarcadero, the new Oldenburg/Van Bruegen sculpture, and the remodeled ferry building, which also turned out to be not open, the official opening a day away, although a door was open, so in we wandered… only to be escorted out by a very friendly woman who asked us gingerly if we had passes, to which I replied, no, but would you like to escort us out of the building? She did, but we did get to see the entire interior before being booted, and it’s great–In the early 90’s, I frequently had to meet Port Authority officials there to secure permits for various Secession Gallery installations, and remember feeling very disoriented–as if offices had been plopped into some grand architectural space with no relation to it whatsoever. Now you can see what’s been hidden for the past 50 or so years. They’ve uncovered the skylight, which spans the entirety of the vast interior, restored the mosaic floors, and are now opening various commercial spaces to local vendors, and the Saturday Farmer’s Market is now going to happen right in front.

So anyway, continuing with our touristing, we ventured to the wharf to see the sea lions at Pier 39. Dallas and I held hands while making our way through the gawking visitors waiting to board the ferries, intent on guiding them into an awareness of homosexual affection. The only way to change the world is to be visible, and it was empowering, if not my homosexual duty, to hold hands with this big hairy tourist. Two fairies strolling past the ferries. A Japanese tourist even took our picture.

I got Dallas back in time for his lunch with Loren, a successful bear porn artist guy, who was a real sweetie. Loren returned Dallas to me in time to get to Reese’s 4th grade production of Really Rosie (Reese played Pierre). I had to pry Loren and Dallas’ lips apart to get them out of my garage, I never thought of my garage as a particularly romantic spot, and to the play on time. But we made it, and they play was sweet. Reese was, of course, completely fabulous, projecting and gesticulating enthusiastically. I was the embarrassingly proud step-dad laughing and clapping way too loudly. My little star.

We met up with Big Chris for martinis (a virgin Cosmo for Dallas), dinner at Basil Thai, and then an evening with Matmos and Victor at the Stud. I’ve only conversed with Victor electronically, so it was a supreme pleasure to finally touch that incredible beard of his and admire his smartly coiffed poof of neck hair. Alas, our evening of dancing at the Stud with Victor lasted a full 15 minutes before the eyelids of the tired bears started drooping, and to home we split.

Furry visitor from the Lone Star State

Peter from Dallas is coming to town. You better watch out, kids. I’ll be picking him up in a bit at the airport. I’m going to photograph some part of him this weekend, not sure which, for the new series of disjunct portraits that I mentioned a few days ago. He’s so into all things related to bottomness that I feel compelled to explore that territory. I haven’t decided yet on a structural framework for the project, just that I want to work with about six guys, and make one composite portrait of each–then perhaps a Frankenstein portrait made of two images from each of the six portraits.  Tim’s back hair swirl is next, and I’m toying with the idea of refering to Van Gogh’s Starry Night in some way, those whorls tumbling across the night sky, serene and tumultuous.

I’m continuing to study French and train for the major caloric input that my body will suffer through in Paris. I can’t say no to a pastry. Or a crepe or a cheese or a wine or a goose liver… I want to die like the guys in La Grande Bouffe, of gastronomic excess.

My French tapes, alas, are preparing me and my wife, and our two children, one large boy and one small girl, evidently, for renting a car and filling the tank with 30 litres of gas. L’essence, (lay-sawnce) in French. Did you ever hear such a beautiful word for gasoline? I’m getting a little nervous. Thus far I’ve learned nothing of practical use. How do you say “Those are nice furry shoulders, Monsieur–perhaps you’d like to join me for a coffee and a tooth flossing?”

Timmy Timmy Coco Pop

Last night Big Chris and I asked Tim over to watch Six Feet Under with us. What a sweetie pie. Inspired by his recent self-portraits, and one specific swirl of back hair, I’ve asked if I could photograph him in May. I’ve been making disjunct portraits of various furry folk, rather than studies of one specific person. I need to give BC a break. One of our last sessions involved him stradled atop and between two ladders with hot lights nearly frying his muff.

A Great Play, a Sister, and Off to Florida

Thursday night I saw a delightful play at Intersection; Soul of a Whore by Denis Johnson. He’s been a playwright-in-residence there for several years. Watching his development is like witnessing Sam Shepard at the Magic Theater years before. You get the feeling of being in the presence of a major talent and grateful that you’re able to see these little productions with only 50 other people in such an intimate setting. When the Eureka Theater produced Angels in America, there was a similar buzz. Denis has a tremendous grasp of american vernacular speech and creates poetry of dialogue and manner. This particular play takes place in a small town in Texas, following several men who have just been released from prison, including a humpy bald evangelist with a goatee and a hairy back, a woman they meet at the bus station, and a demon who alternately possesses the woman and several other characters before blowing everyone up.

I’m at Big Chris’ now, enjoying a moment of serenity before hopping on the plane to Tampa, to visit my sisters and work on that tan line. Last night an old friend’s sister was in town from Miami, and Bob and I took her and some of her buddies out to the mystery Chinese restaurant for a 20 course ($35) meal. The best kept restaurant secret in town. They now have someone working there who speaks english–kinda. Following our last course, she came to our table and asked with a smile, “Enough?” When we got home, our guest told me and Bob that one of our sweet dinner guests had the biggest endowment that she’d ever seen or played with and that in bed he’s a tiger and very verbal, imploring her to tell him how much she wants it, “Oh you like that big %$&@#,” etc, etc… She said that she was so surprised because, prior to bedding him, and after frequent visual examinations of his package, she and her sister concluded that his endowment was considerably smaller. She couldn’t figure out “where he puts it.”

Okay, off to bob around in the Gulf.

My Lunch With Arnie

I just stumbled up my hill, after a lunch with Arnie at Luna, or whatever they’re calling it now. We still call it the Castro Gardens. Arnie is about 70 now, still very active and as curmudgeony as when I met him. The thing I love about my lunches with Arnie is that he still treats me like a twinkie. I was 18 when I met him, and he still thinks of me as being that age. His lover and mine died around the same time, and we’re the last of our original group. I sometimes don’t even have cash in my wallet as I pull it out saying, “Let me get it this time,” and he throws a fit–“No, no… you’re an artist.” Fine with me, let him get the bill. He’s off to Israel where he’s endowing a fund for a Lesbian and Gay Studies scholarship at Hebrew University. He used to be a pilot for United. I think he flew me out here when I moved from Birmingham in ’84. Anyway, he’s having a private jet built for him that’ll be ready next year. I told him if he flew me to Paris I’d treat him to a chocolat at Francine’s. Arnie came to the Marjorie Wood Gallery opening Saturday night, thinking that Big Chris was married to Marjorie, and that the event was at their house. I told him Chris was my friend and that Marjorie Wood was a fictitious character based on the Barbara Bel Geddes role in Vertigo. He couldn’t comprehend it. “I am Midge,” I told him. “How are you going to make money?” he kept asking. “There’s no real space?” “What about Yoko Ono?” On leaving, he gulped down a viagra with the last of our wine, and hopped away with his hands in his pocket, meeting his 30-something playmate for an afternoon romp. He has two boyfriends, both of whom have lovers that don’t know about Arnie. The Other Woman Arnie, my buddy and neighbor.

Woo hoo!

Stanley and Giuliano came over for dinner on Sunday night–duck legs. Stanley was fretting about his play which had just opened in New York, The Chinese Art of Placement, which I mentioned a while ago when they were over here last. Well, a review came out today in the New York Times–a really good review. I can’t imagine anyone not liking it–loving it–it’s a brilliant work. So it does happen, and to people who deserve it. Congratulations Stanley. He says he’s working on a new play about a couple in a highrise, completely surrounded by glass walls. He’s got vertigo, she’s a voyeur.

Day Tripping

Elin has flown away, back to winter in Texas. Friday we drove over to the Sacramento River delta area, stopping first at her friend Frank’s ranch near Davis. Frank (pictured above) is this very broad character, with a ruddy face and a white beard, who lapses into and out of an affected Scottish accent. Elin, Bob, and I packed a picnic and lunched with him in a pine grove near one of his ponds. He frequently stopped the conversation with “Hear that? That’s a downy woodpecker” or “See that? That’s a yellow-billed magpie” and on and on and on. After a while I found it hard to believe that his property could support such biological diversity, but was charmed by his knowledge and interest. He warmed to us quickly, and we to him, and even stayed on after lunch to help pick daffodils and prune his pussywillows, which he was going to sell at the market the following day.

Elin as Pinup Queen of the Pussywillows:

We drove from little town to little town, and were especially taken by Locke, which was constructed by local Chinese around 1920, and hasn’t changed since, except for a fun-house type of bulging and tilting due to the settling and sinking of the various buildings. We ended up checking into a real fleabag of a motel in Rio Vista (Bob and Elin masqueraded as “Mom” and “Dad,” and I was “Junior”), and then took off the next morning for apple pandowdy (sp?) at Sonny’s in Isleton, and antiques in Rancho Cordova. I was convinced that I would find the mother lode of California Faience and Jalan pottery there, but found only junk, mounds of it, and nothing of interest except some new juice glasses from the 40’s which look fantastic in my kitchen. At one point while driving along the river, supposedly heading north, we ended up in the same spot twice, and heading south. We can’t figure out how we did it, since the river was always on our left, although I do remember remarking at one point how strange it was that the sun appeared to be rising in the west. Spooky.