Category: Friends

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The Dating Game: #4, #9, #10 Coming Soon!

I’m not sure yet if he’d be comfortable being considered Bachelor #9, but #9 came over for dinner and a movie Thursday night. We quickly ditched the movie idea and settled into a very comfy tête-à-tête and post-dinner mini snuggle-pet. #9 is a very fine fellow, with an easy likable manner, and warm. He has cute dimples and is going to change the world, an inch at a time. (He said it, not me.) I’m convinced, and eager to do my part.

But, Sunday I visited Emily’s studio, I’ll tell you that much. Emily’s the best. Her work is so strong and so real and so intoxicatingly good. It makes me so happy to see this stuff that tumbles so easily from her brain directly onto the canvas, or paper, or whatever she’s spilling herself onto. Anyway, we hopped over to Bachelor #4’s in Oakland, for brunch with 4 and his childhood friend, Lori, whom I actually knew but hadn’t seen in 10 or so years since I was a resident at the Villa Montalvo when she was the artist residency coordinator. She has a cute Moroccan hubbie, and is planning to set up a residency program in Morocco some day! Sign me up, and bring on the dancing boys! From there we attended the artist-led walk-through of the MFA show at the UC Berkeley Art Museum. Of course, 4 was the best, the most articulate, charming and intelligent.

Please stay tuned for the next installment of Chris Komater’s The Dating Game. What happens when Bachelor #8 returns to town. Does #9 get asked on a second date? We meet #10… And what wacky antics ensue when they ALL show up at Coco’s opening on Thursday???

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The Dating Game: #8 Revelations, etc…

So #8 Überbear isn’t a slut after all. The other night, after watching Eros, and just after the Wong Kar-Wai part–fabulous by the way, using sentiment, cliche, and even melodrama to create erotic tension–I called up #8 to say nighty night. Well, somehow we got to talking about our impressions of each other and how those impressions have been feeding certain behavior patterns. He thought that he’s been withholding sexually (remember the log trick?) and I thought I’ve been withholding the responsibility of my pleasure from him–his perceived lack of interest in my pleasure actually a sensitivity to my distance, a distance based on my mistaken belief that he was the slut of all time, but actually his interest in a monogamous relationship goes beyond curiosity, he actually wants it, but I’ve been afraid to fall into his hands, hands that I thought weren’t able to hold on for very long–but get this, we’re like, ON THE SAME PAGE.

What a wacky pair!

There is a complication, in the person of an out-of-towner who will soon be visiting, and whose affections predate mine, so Good Luck #8, call me if and when the coast is clear.

Whew.

Let’s all take a deep breath and move on to Bachelor #9.

Although… back to Bachelor #8, now I’m all kind of excited. There doesn’t seem to be much there there, but I feel a warm tingley-ness when I think of him now. BC is bent on exposing his dark underbelly, but I just want to bury my face in it. Could I love someone who’s just centered and communicative and makes me happy and excited but who has no interest in mid-20th century lighting or non-narrative film?

Last night Dave, BC, and D joined me and Little Reesey for dinner. Reese seemed very amused that my dating life was the subject of so much heated dinner conversation, and even more amused by D’s overt and extended pass at poor Little Dave. Dave behaved admirably, simultaneously deflecting and honoring D’s misguided amorous advances.

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The Dating Game: Another Sat’day Night

Today’s Dating Game Update is brought to you by the Number 4, and the Number 8.

#4 came over for dinner on Thursday, and Busby Berkeley Night. I played Ruby Keeler to his Dick Powell–that is, Ruby at the beginning of Footlight Parade, before she got the haircut and took off the goofy glasses and gave in to Dick Powell’s delicate woo-pitching. He gave me a sweet peck as he left, then pulled me in harder for another, which I deflected demurely, channeling Ruby’s you’re-going-to-have-to-work-a-little-harder-to-get-in-these-stockings attitude. I don’t want to lose sight of his brain this early on, which is the part that I’m lusting after most urgently.

Meanwhile, #8 had significantly less in between his pitching and my catching the following night. I picked him up at work, and after a swift, but elegant dinner, took the ferry to Larskpur and eventually to his bubbling cauldron of chlorine. He makes these wonderful sounds that drive me crazy. Wild. Instead of “uh-huh,” he says, “uh-yeah.” Not as two syllables, though, really fast, like a cough, only excited. “Uh-yeah.”

BC and I checked out the Calder show at SFMoMA this afternoon, and the surrealist photography show. One piece in particular of Calder’s stood out, called “Tightrope,” of a wire strung between two abstract conical forms, with little loops and squiggles of wire balancing delicately across the span. It was him at his best–spare, with just a suggestion of form. The wires on the span seemed like they’d blow right off if anyone walked by too quickly, and created a circus-like tension of imminent collapse. The photo show had many fabulous iconic Man Ray photos, but way too many of everybody else. Edit, girl. Please.

Philip and I joined up later for dinner at Dosa, and bumped into Philip Kaufman. The director. “Phil, this is Chris. Chris, Phil,” blah blah blah, “Enjoy your dinner.” “Wait… that was The Right Stuff Henry and June Unbearable Lightness of Being Kaufman Phil?!!” “Yes,” Philip said matter-of-factly. Philip hides his glamour well, but I’m happy to be around when it slips out. After dinner we watched the thoroughly enjoyable Match Point at the Coco Monoplex, interrupted briefly by the fireworks outside. Woody Allen makes me squirm these days. The critics all seem to want to examine his work independent of his personal life, but really, doesn’t it seem like his last few films have been so much about latent Soon Yi guilt?

I work and I play and think I’m enjoying being in the world by myself, engaging with people and ideas, but really, I just want a plump furry man in my bed. Who worships me. And moves. Without me having to flip him over all the time. And has a place in Rome. And reads. And cries. And sends me little notes. And…

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The Dating Game: Dinner With a Friend and More Notes on #8

Dean came over for dinner last night. We had gnocchi, and a salad of greens tossed with grapefruit, avocado, and olive oil–just perfect–and prosecco, wine, and limoncello. I filled him in on the Dating Game, which took up the bulk of our conversation–and is going to probably take up the bulk of this post–and the challenges of living with my mentally ill ward, still residing downstairs in my studio. I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about the latest with him yet, but I will tell you that I’ve come to grasp the true meaning of compassion, and the limits of my capacity to stay calm under extreme and daily manipulation.

It’s been fun playing the Dating Game, but #8 has thrown me off balance a bit. I’m conscious of hormones kicking in and taking over, some inner caveman bonking my outer Po-Mo and shaking his club over my head in conquest of rationality.

You’re not only fascinated by the car wreck, you want to be in it! Flee the scene, Coco, flee!

So Rational Coco is obviously flummoxed by Caveman Coco’s insistence on… on… on what? I’m not even sure. I’ve sort of been in the driver’s seat with #8’s predecessors, could it be that his distance and lack of focus is somehow attractive? Is this just about conquest? Intertia? Why isn’t there some equal and opposite bachelor exerting pressure to slow down? Have I become one of those horrid people who thinks he can project desire and substance on an empty vessel?

No, Coco, no! You’re not that guy! You’re just having what we like to call “a co-dependent moment.” Relax and it’ll pass. We have about 5 more minutes, so could we wrap this up?

CAVEMAN COCO [shakes club over head]: Caveman Coco want #8 to take down internet ad and love only Coco.

RATIONAL COCO: Are you bananas, Caveman Coco? That’s who he is! You can’t change that, and despite what he says about wanting to be in a relationship, he’s a child of 70’s Gay Liberation and he’ll never give up free love for a secure future and only one pussy.

CAVEMAN COCO: Caveman Coco make #8 love him with club.

RATIONAL COCO: Put. The. Club. Down.

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Arkadin

I just watched Mr. Arkadin, the supposedly comprehensive one, recently re-edited and restored for the Criterion Collection. It really does make sense–like finally. (I’m a little behind on my dating news, sorry, it’s getting to be a big blur, and nothing substantial to report, although I did get a hottub invitation that I had to take a rain check on, from a guy that was practically sent from Central Casting–“Chris’ Type”–but unfortunately after I had already accepted a date with a gentlemen less impulsive. More on him As the Suds Turn.) So Mr. Arkadin is this just wacky story, filmed all over the planet, with fantastic European actors that you’ve never heard of, and cut in this dizzying fragmented fashion. Orson Welles’s vision, in general, I think, is not so much a vision as a record of the attention deficit disorder of a genius. And all of his films have at their core a mysterious, elusive and self-destructive man that everyone is trying to understand but ultimately can’t. If you’ve sat through the previous almost unwatchable versions of this film and come out shaking your heads and asking, “Now, why did he he…?” “What was he….?” and “Who was…?” then see the new version.

In other news, I’m really enjoying Exile in Guyville, which is pretty entertaining. I’ve made a deal with myself that for every hour I spend on Bear411, I’d spend reading. Tonight Dave White, tomorrow Proust. Internet dating will make a literate poof of me yet.

And the Word of the Day is onychophagia (on-i-ko-FAY-juh, -jee-uh).
“If bad-tasting polish, gloves or fake nails haven’t cured your onychophagia, reading Coco’s Journal may help.”

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The Dating Game: Bachelor #1, Again

Last night Bachelor #1 and I saw Spike Lee’s latest, his first mega-budget film, the thriller Inside Man. He got Jodie Foster to swagger and teeter on these 6 inch spiked heels like a circus perfomer. Her performance alone is worth seeing the film, all cocky and confident. While the lights were still up, #1 announced that he likes to hold hands during the movie. My palms immediately started sweating. I tried everything to keep them occupied, scratching this and that, tucking my shirt in, tying my shoes, putting my hand under my arm like I was cold. To no avail, as soon as the lights went out he snatched my hand from under my seat and smushed it into his big hairy paw. I was able to focus on the film, because it was so gripping and well-made. But I was still sweating, as I do when my anxiety level rises. I figured out a way to switch hands and let one dry off, while creating a little air pocket between my hand and his to let the air circulate between the held hands. The lights came on and I quickly withdrew my hand to point out something in the credits, I think about the “clapper loader.” We had a nice dinner and a nice chat, and thankfully I was the one in the driver seat and the one to say, “Thanks, not tonight” when he asked if I wanted to come up. The thing is, I had already given him the “I’d like to just be your friend” shpiel, and next thing he’s holding my hand, asking me up to his condo… I suppose I need to be even clearer, like, “Just being your friend means not holding hands or having intimate relations.”

Earlier, I had coffee with KrispyBear, who should be called “CreamyBear” because he’s such a smooth and easy fellow. Bloke. He says these very English things like “Brilliant, aaaabsolutely brilliant” which I just adore. Anyway, after cohabitating on LiveJournal for the past year or so, it was nice to finally meet the real person, who is every bit as charming and delightful as he is online. Welcome back to town!

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Mugging

BC was beaten up last night. He’s visiting his mom and family in Illinois, for his mom’s 70th birthday. He was hanging in a gay bar across the Mississippi and offered to drive a guy home who seemed to have had too much to drink. The guy directed him to his home in a dark alley. He staggered when let out of the car, and when Chris got out to help him, BAM, punched Chris is the face, demanded his money. Well, the first rule of mugging, I think, is something like, “Always pick on someone smaller.” Chris is a big dude–he’s “Big Chrissy,” remember? He fought back, and ended up with a piece of the guy’s pants. He didn’t lose his wallet, but ended up with a black eye, some cuts to his face, and bruises. Gay on gay violence, I didn’t think it was possible. “Ape has killed ape!” I started crying when I talked to him this morning, imagining that I had received a call that he was found dead in that alley. Poor Big Chrissy, I feel just awful that I wasn’t there to protect him, but am so grateful that he’s (relatively) okay.

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Dinner at Dosa

Last night I had dinner with Peter and Luis at Dosa, on Valencia, although without Luis. Really great south indian food. Peter goes there a lot, and is treated like royalty. He had made the reservations for the wrong night, and even though it was packed, with people crowded around the front door waiting for a table, they immediately whisked us to a cozy little table. All the wait staff came by to kiss him, one by one. Since Peter began losing his sight, his intelligence, wit, and charm seem amplified. He’s my age, but he’s a gay man from a different era, a voracious reader, conversant about everything. Sometimes walking with him I forget that he’s blind, and he bumps into things and just laughs, neither frustrated nor upset, just accepting and amused. He uses his hands to push things onto his fork, which is almost shocking at first, and then endearing, to hear this brilliant man talking about Buddhism and his new Ming cabinet with his hands dripping lamb curry.

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Lecture

Nayland spoke tonight at the SF Art Institute about his work. I’m really sorry that more of you didn’t get to hear him, as it was a very inspiring and entertaining presentation, with Nayland challenging us to make and look at art by extending our experience beyond that of passive fixed voyeurs and gimmick-seeking provacateurs. Frustrated by the limitations of documentation, and the “tyranny of the image”–that is, the experience of art reduced to a documentary photo that denies the viewer of an experience of the art beyond one frontal perspective–Nayland recently placed an ad on CraigsList, offering to finish reading books that people haven’t been able to finish. His expression is an experience shared between him and the person who responds to the ad, documented through telling people about it. Isn’t that just great?!

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Movie and a Reading

Emily came over earlier and we watched Cisco Pike, Kris Kristoferson’s film debut. He plays a has-been but still-struggling singer/drug dealer trying to leave the drug biz, drawn back in for one more deal by corrupt, jaded but dreamy police Sargeant Gene Hackman, who offers a light sentence on a previous drug charge if Cisco can raise $10,000 for him by the end of the weekend by selling his confiscated pot. Kristoferson is pre-beard, softer, and with what looks like the promise of a great career–he even wrote and performed several of the songs in the film. I think that Gene Hackman is one of the greatest actors of his generation, able to convey malice and dangerous potential with the twitch of an eyelash. Plus he’s just beautiful. Emily is the perfect person to watch 70’s film with–she understands the radical urgency of the fashions and the aesthetic significance of the pulled-back zoom.

I made some crab cakes and a salad, and then we took off for a reading of New Narrative writers at Artifact, a salon that happens once a month in the Mission. Laura Simms, a poet from Wisconsin read her poetry, and Dodie Bellamy read from an essay that she’s working on about her work. Dodie’s essay was brilliant, so completely entertaining. She read about being a student of Bob’s, who takes responsibility for unleashing the New Narrativers on us, and afterwards she came to me and said she felt strange reading about Bob and our house in front of me, but I told her we were talking now and that I was completey charmed by the piece. Her metaphors are so clever and witty. She spoke of being a Language Poet groupie, and learning to write from gay men, who showed her that pornography and group sex were okay subjects to write about. She was introduced by her husband, writer Kevin Killian, whose introduction could have earned an Academy Award nomination, so filled with sincerity and wit. We split before Rob Halpern could read, but I tend to drift with his writing, so it was for the best.

Tomorrow it’s time to meet Bachelor #5, and a second date with Bachelor #2!