Category: Friends

Posted on

Serious as a Heart Attack!

Greetings from Alabama. Alabama the Beautiful, the license plates say. Dad’s had a triple coronary bypass, and I’m the last of the siblings to make the pilgrimage to Birmingham to help nurse him back to health. He’s been cranky the last few days, contrary to the mood of his post-operation survival euphoria. Yesterday during his checkup, the doctors found that half of one of his lungs was filled with fluid, hence his getting winded so easily, and genetic predisposition for crankiness aside, the root of his recent crankiness. So I’m sitting in the Same-Day Services Waiting Room while he gets checked in for the procedure. They say he’s going to be here for a day or two. Two days just to stick a needle in his lungs? Can’t they just turn him upside down? I’m experiencing the paranoia of an early 30’s heroine told that everything’s going to be fine, and then the next scene the doctor’s turning to his assistant and shaking his head.

S_ picked me up at the airport. Her daughter’s having a rough time, going through the rebel teen years. She’s fallen head over heals for an unexceptional little dude from, as S_ puts it, “an unexceptional family,” unexceptional except for their criminal records–a murderer, an alcoholic, a registered sex-offender. “But the mom’s a Christian,” S_ was quick to add. Little 16 year old C_’s passion seems entirely hormone driven, and given blind forward momentum by her dad’s steadfast refusal to bless her little love. I respond to everything with, “Family counseling, family counseling,” but according to S_, C_ adamantly refuses, failing to understand that a counselor is going to actually listen to her and guide her through living harmoniously with mom and dad and her feelings for the unexceptional little dude. I’m afraid that she’s not going to be able to set aside her willful rebellion and see this guy with any clarity until they’re living in someone’s tool shed with a bun in the oven and a minimum wage job at Wal-Mart. In a way it’s very romantic, or could be, but I’ve seen the movie, and since 1938 the ending has always been tragic.

Someone in the waiting room has a telephone with a series of warbly histrionic country love song ring tones. Turned up full blast. The phone’s owner has temporarily disappeared, but left his bag behind with his clueless but you can tell tender-hearted beer-bellied baseball-hatted totally-my-type friends, so every like two minutes there’s a new tear-jerking tune jolting me and the blue-haired ladies out of our seats as the buddies shift nervously.

Tyra’s on the TV here in the waiting room. It’s a show about straight girls who like to make out with women, with some lesbian wanna-be’s and a panel of expert lesbians. The guys in the waiting room are all totally turned on, and the women look occasionally at the TV and let out exasperated huffs. I watched Fassbinder’s Fox and His Friends the other night. It’s like Fassbinder never happened in this country. A thing that I love about his films is that most of them are really structured like standard Hollywood melodramas, but with an unapologetic gay disposition transposed on the directorship and narrative. He’s my total hero of the moment. When I get back, I’ll screen his BRD Trilogy, so let me know if you want to join me at the Coco-Plex.

The Lesbians are riding horses on Tyra now.

Look who just walked in. Omigod. He’s like 7 feet tall, teetering on cowboy boots, with a 10-gallon hat, horseshoe mustache, and a tiny little girlfriend who fits at his side like a polyp. He mumbles an incomprehensible southern scramble of words to her occasionally as his eyes shift from under his hat towards me. I blush and squirm under his intense but sweet honey gaze and focus on my laptop. His little belly wobbles as he fills out his admission form.

There don’t seem to be any single men around, just a lot of married men looking for “friends.” And what is it with those half-naked married guys who are just “looking for friends?” I’m ready to start perusing the Convicted Sex Offender list.

Posted on

40th Birthday Dinner #7: Philip Calls it Chez

Philip and I had dinner at Chez Panisse last night. He’s buddies with one of the cooks, so we ate in the kitchen at the “chef’s table.” After sticking our noses in the fridge to see all the little piggies hanging from hooks, and being seated, everyone, one at a time, came up to us and greeted us and chatted as they shuffled about to prepare their dishes. They were all calm, having fun, no sweat. There seemed to be no exertion at all in preparing what was one of the most memorable meals I’ve had.

We started off with a salad of heirloom tomatoes served with a grilled sardine and couscous. The couscous, we both agreed, didn’t make much sense, other than as a diverting texture, but actually, come to think of it, the other flavors, which were bright and fresh, were made in a way more brilliant by the couscous, and it served as the perfect medium to carry the juices and olive oil from plate to mouth, so never mind what I just said about it not making sense. A lamb course followed, marinated lamb served with okra, wild greens, beans and a hint of coriander. The sauce was light and infused with soft lambiness. The wine that was paired with it was a dynamite Spanish wine, a 2000 Rotllan Torra priorat reserva. It smelled of earth, a soft sulfuric volcanic nose that led to blissful cherriness and soft fruit, like rolling around in a dusty field while kissing a spanish youth and slowly unbuttoning his shirt while eating an apple. Sue, the pastry chef, really knocked my socks off, transforming the ordinary with such little gestures into the extraordinary. She served us deep fried mission figs served with a ginger-infused cream, raspberries, and drizzled with honey. Simply amazing. Every taste bud sang a song of love. Thank you Philip! Do you have any buddies at The French Laundry??

Posted on

Reno, schlemiel, schlimazel, ready for next chapter of The Dating Game

I took D to Reno to visit his mom a few weeks ago. D’s got new glasses and had me trim his beard into a goatee. He looks like a european film director. The countryside and mountains are beautiful, the air thin, dry and cool. The casinos are just awful. Everybody smokes and sits in front of these machines pushing buttons over and over as their money disappears. There are no windows or clocks to remind you of how long you’ve been there, and all the big casinos are connected with overhead bridges that completely separate you from reality, nature and fresh air. It reminded me of something that Jesus would have flipped out over if Reno had made it into the New Testament–overturning slot machines, rolling roulette wheels over the hacking heathen.

Bachelor #8 got really mad at me because I bailed on going to his friends’ wedding in Boston. My brother Mark’s 40th birthday shindig is that weekend and I just can’t miss it. He said that if I really cared for him I’d go with him. I told him that’s co-dependent language and a perhaps more useful response would be, “I’m disappointed and angry, so give me a little time, I want to respect your reasons, which I’m having a hard time understanding.”

It’s apparent that we’re not going to make it as a couple. Not that it ever wasn’t, it’s just getting harder and harder to not acknowledge.

Over a recent lunch, he drove the wooden stake into the barely-pumping heart of our co-demented love. He refused to acknowledge that my feelings were open for discussion, going so far as to say that I was selfish. Me. I didn’t talk to him after that. He claims that he will have only fond memories of our time together. He should, since everything about our relationship was geared towards that–his happiness. Goodbye, Bachelor #8, I’m sorry our lighthearted screwball comedy took such a convoluted plot turn.

Bachelor #8 really did take me on a wild ride, with me hanging on trying to keep us on some track that took my interests into account, but I never felt that I could wrestle away the reins from my furry friend in the driver’s seat. I told you all along, Dear Reader, right, where this was headed? So this isn’t, like, a surprise?

Hop on the Love Train! Catch me on the rebound! I’m vulnerable! And needy!

Posted on

Junkin’ With James, Drive-In With Susan, Biscuits With April

James, now sporting a humdinger of a goatee and living with his parents, picked me up yesterday in his 30 foot 1989 Lincoln Town Car (Cartier Edition). One sort of falls into it, and then it’s really hard to get out, as it’s so super comfy. We went to every Jimmy Hale Mission Thrift Store (“Mission/Possible”), from Pinson to Bessemer. I bought several interesting shirts, including…

– a “Set Free by Jesus” t-shirt (backside: “Serving Jesus 24/7”) which can be worn simultaneously with sincerity and irony
– several sporty t’s, including a “Huffman Baptist Girls” shirt; a “Ramsey Physical Education” shirt with a beautiful ram; a lovely glossy basketball shirt with “Moody” printed across it; a “Birmingham Police Department Police Athletic Teams Basketball” t with a stylized Vulcan popping out of a police badge.
– a vintage large-collared striped fitted polyester short-sleeve partly see-through shirt

I passed up several things that I now regret, including an “Alabama Rest Stop” worker’s jacket (it was an X-L), and a well-worn size 46 pair of farmer’s overalls (with my 32″ inseam) with denim as soft as a baby’s butt.

Total spent= $4.95

James dropped me off at my place and stayed for dinner with my parents while Susan and I went to see Talladega Nights at the Argo Drive-In. The sign at the entrance says, “Pay at Window,” which was probably the only sign available at the drive-in supply store, as there was no window anywhere. The drive-in didn’t have the old speakers that you used to pull up to, instead they broadcast the soundtrack on radio waves, so you could listen to the movie on your car stereo. The movie was just silly enough to not warrant our complete attention, so we were free to chat. During the credits, a voice came on to very seriously announce that the next movie would be shown after the first movie.

April and I had an authentic southern breakfast this morning, of eggs, grits, biscuits, bacon–no fruit or vegetables to hinder the pure experience of lard.

Final thought before leaving for Florida tomorrow: Southern boys are still, and always will be, the hottest boys around. And when I say “hot,” and I say “around,” I’m not just whistlin’ Dixie, I’m talkin’ red hot, and spin your little heart all around every whichway!

Posted on

At Home with the Folks in Birmingham

Here I am in Alabammy, sippin’ sweet tea with my mammy and pappy. It’s hot here. Like as soon as I step outside I’m moist. Which we all know is the essence of beauty, right? Actually, my body has evolved out of its former adaptation to this environment and my moistness is closer to soppy wetness. I’m like a cat that’s overheated, panting and staying as close to the cement (that’s pronounced “SEE-ment”) as I can, always sprinting for the shade.

My parents are doing well. Their life and home are as orderly and neat as ever. We took a walk around the block this morning with their dog, Bootsie–the same walk that I’ve taken with them since they put in the street behind the house making it possible to have a block to walk around. We first bumped into Trudi–Mrs. Simms–who lives next door. She’s married to a railroad man, who used to be this really large grumpy character but who found Jesus a few years ago and was told to take better care of his “temple,” so he lost 100 pounds and prays on the lawn in the morning. The Simms’ house is like where Hansel and Gretel’s parents would live, with a densely planted blackforest-themed front yard populated with little gnomes and mythical figures, big fake geraniums on the porch. Further up Red Hollow Road Dad pointed out where a car recently smashed into–through–Mr. Neighbor’s field stone mailbox and into his beautiful old cherry tree. The driver broke a leg, ribs, and some other bones, saying that he was blinded suddenly by a bright light. If he had been blinded by anything light, it was a 12-pack of Light beer. As we made our way around the block, I noticed that almost every other tree near the road had a big chunk taken out of it. And then we bumped into Mr. Ousely, “Otis,” who’s 80 now. He always shakes my hand and says, “You’re from San Francisco? I was there in the Navy–came in under the bridge and left over it,” just like he always does. I get fidgety whenever we chat with Mr. Ousely because my Dad, who’s this real liberal intellectual character, suddenly reverts into a racist cracker. He assumes that all white older southerners with thick accents are racist, and bonds with them by making gross generalizations about the cultural, religious, or ethnic background of the subjects of their breeze-shooting. Whenever I point out that he’s making a racist comment, he just laughs, like my lack of humor is elitist and to be pitied. The last high point on our walk was the little doggie who lives with the Vietnamese neighbors, of whom my dad, surprisingly, has never made any racist statements. The little pooch, who has this mega huge backyard to play in, is always smushed up against the fence, yearning for the world beyond his 3/4-acre enclosure. His fur is like white velvet, and looking at him elicits an involuntary “awwwwww,” like looking at one of those sappy framed studio dog portraits that every dog-loving great-aunt has in her guest room that you giggle at but really want to cuddle up with.

Tomorrow I’m going Junkin’ with James, my fabulous homosexualist friend, no longer a fugitive from justice, but still living with his mom and dad, who, incidentally, smoke like chimneys and whom I adore but can’t visit for very long because of the air-conditioned Chernobyl-like cloud of smoke in their house, and then it’s off to dinner and the drive-in with Susan!

Posted on

SFMoMA, Tomatsu, Davide

Dean Smith and I met last night for a very thorough tour of Matthew Barney’s installation at SFMoMA. We really put a lot into it. His work demands it. It takes and takes, asking so much of its viewer, and at times seemed worth the investment. Otherwise, if you’re not willing to read about what he’s up to, or call the special cellphone hotline at various points in the museum, the work itself doesn’t seem to contain or convey much about experience or form. Sometimes the sheer theatricality or spectacle, or ambition, is thrilling, but I don’t know, sometimes it seems like he just needs a good editor. Like ditch the photo stills from the films. The films are great, but the stills don’t extend the narrative or experience, they just locate the work as a capitalist venture, okay, consistent with his underlying themes, but if I were the King of the World, I’d strip it all down. I bumped in Jonathan Katz and suggested that Barney should really make a gay porn film to end his career–all this struggle building up to some revelatory Man-on-Man action. Björk and the kids can sing at the commitment ceremony. I see blubber, lots of slippery blubber.

I’d really never think of re-imagining someone else’s work, or sexual idenity, but my obsessive compulsive side just can’t take it when I get near a Matthew Barney.

Downstairs, one is treated to remarkable photos from Japanese post-war photographer, Shomei Tomatsu. This is what inspired my Barney rant–his work is so moving, and like, there, in the image, contained within the frame. The content and formal qualities support and extend each other. The images are of the effects of the atomic bomb, the influence of American military and pop culture, and the impact of the Japanese economic boom–quietly powerful works that stand in stark contrast to the grand empty gestures upstairs.

Tonight Davide came over for L’Avventura. Rather than focus on the isolation, desolation, and impotence of the characters, I got lost in Monica Vitti’s hair–the way it reflects light, defies gravity–kinetic and wild, yet always with form and visual dazzle. It deserves its own Special Mention at the Cannes Film Festival.

Posted on

Release the Sausages

The gay film festival has so far been the exact same film festival that I’ve gone to since but a wee gay laddy. It was nice to finally meet Alonso and his fabulous husband Dave, though. Alonso presented film clips and comments from his recent 101 Must-See Movies Blah Blah that surely you’ve all read by now, and if you haven’t, be a good little homophile and pick up a copy today. Alonso, have you seen Black Lizard? It’s the 1 Film That All Gay Men Should See–and for literature buffs, you get to see Yukio Mishima dipped in wax for the infamous transvestite jewel thief Black Lizard’s wax human doll collection! I must know if this oversight was intentional, and why!

Anyway, back to the festival—no wait, first back to Alonso and Dave… Philip once again failed to live up to his user name (foodpoisoningsf) and this morning whipped up some tasty victuals for our hungry guests from LALA land and their 8 greatest San Francisco fans. I had 5 sausages. The pancakes were like the kind that usually have little fish eggs on them in really expensive restaurants, but with blueberries instead. Can we just call my life La Grande Bouffe?

So the film festival, yeah, I remember now why I haven’t gone the past couple of years. Gay filmmakers just don’t know how to make movies. Sorry, that’s “un-repressed” gay filmakers. They make gay film festival movies, with insipid twists on coming out and being all muscly. The week’s films are all a blur, what I’ve had to sit through… I could write Alonso’s anti-book, 1001 Films That Every Gay Man Should Never Have to Pay to See and Really Should Just Avoid at All Costs. There are a few promisingly bright cinematic points on the horizon, though, so all hope is not yet lost…

Posted on

Bob Reading

After dinner last night at the über-homey east-German eatery Walzwerk, BC and I went to Bob (ex-BF Glück) and Amanda Davidson’s reading at New Langton Arts. Bob was suave and charming, focused, open, his work dynamite–stellar. He started his reading, characteristically, by taking his sweater off. He does this because Judy Grahn told him it’s a way of focusing the audience’s attention when you’re part of a big lineup. He usually has a beer in his hand, too, but has been less forthcoming about what I assume is a very specific reason for doing so. Bob’s reading of the first two chapters of a kitty story that he’s writing for Michelle Rollman’s pussy book was followed by a performance by the new BF, under-30 opera singer Anthony, who played on a miniature toy piano and delivered the third chapter of the work in his deep baritone voice. He playfully mimicked the sturm und drang of opera, but with Bob’s contemporary auto-biographical new narrative libretto. It was the best performance I’ve seen all year. The crowd stood and cheered afterwards. When’s the last time you went to a reading and the crowd stood and cheered?

Posted on

Earthquake!

There was a 4.7 earthquake this morning around 5:30. I was jolted out of bed, the chandelier crashed to the floor, and the Golden Gate bridge collapsed! Actually, it was just a little jolt, and the car alarms didn’t even go off. There’s something very comforting about those little quakes, like the earth’s releasing its tension–the way it would with its boyfriend after their second couple’s counseling session. I’m the kind that falls asleep on the bus, so I wish they’d last a little longer so I could be rocked back to sleep. Instead I sat there wondering why I hadn’t secured that vase to the shelf with museum wax, and what I’d throw on if the Big One was next.

Last night Philip and I had a wonderful meal at Delfina. I mostly complained. #8 this time. Sometimes I wish that the gay community, instead of being divided into twinks, bears, rice queens, chasers, feeders, daddies, sweater queens, tops and bottoms, would have just two communities– “The Marrying Kind” and “Sluts.” It’d be so much easier.

Posted on

The Dating Game: P_

With #8 out of town, and a bit of acting out around the house, I called P_ and asked if he’d like to get together. “Come over for dinner,” he said. Great, a fabulous meal with a fabulous friend, thank you Oh Mighty Isis for taking me away from it all. Well, he made an amazing dinner: a soup of beans, nettles, and artichokes; roasted chicken served over oak-leaf-lettuce; and a ricotta cheesecake and cherries for dessert. I shouldn’t say that the dinner was amazing, it was a work of culinary and visual art, one of the most memorable meals of my life, the evening itself to unfold in cinematic dimensions.

We watched Two for the Road, which he thought that I had recommended to him at some point, which I don’t remember, but we agreed on the lack of compelling dialogue and a mutual aversion to Albert Finney’s character–but Audrey’s clothes! Worth the ride. After the movie, and during dessert, he came over to my side of the table and kissed me, just a little peck, but with something behind it that hadn’t been yet expressed, well, besides in a jokey or teasing context, but there it was, this delicate little tap. And the walls came tumbling down. I was alternately incredibly excited and intensely scared–this guy’s one of my best friends–is this going to ruin the intimacy that we already share? Is it just an extension of it that I shouldn’t be so anxious about? What about bachelors number 8 through 10? He knows too much! While trying to read the confusing messages ping-ponging across my brain, D called. I was late coming home and he was worried. Did anyone see Love, Actually? Remember the Laura Linney character with the mentally ill brother? Bingo. P_ made me pull my socks on and go home.

Now, it’s that time in the movie when everything would seem to be in falling into place. Our hero has perused a healthy cross section of eligible San Francisco inamorati… and bam! the best friend, the one that the audience has been rooting for all along, the one slinking in the shadows but always available, always sympathetic, the one with the most in common, suddenly grabs our hero and plants one on him. Curtains close, The End, don’t forget your umbrella.