Category: Gay

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Arbus, My Bad Haircut, Finished My Little Film

I just got back from the Diane Arbus show, Revelations, at SFMoMA. No real revelations–her images are so deeply etched into my psyche–although there were a few early photos that showed clear influences prior to her finding her own voice that were interesting to see. There’s one particular room, of her later images of asylum inmates, that, even though I’ve seen them a gazillion times, moved me to near tears–the dark brooding skies and the inmates dressed in masks, performing for themselves and for the camera. “Kak stranno… how strange,” Norma Shearer got it right in Idiot’s Delight. Last night I had peking duck with Peter and Luis–a total delight to be among queens who were raised on MGM musicals and Von Sternberg films. We lamented the new generation of gay men who missed out on the tutelage of the sweater queens (Peter’s father and my early, well, all of my boyfriends), who nurtured our camp sensibilities and anti-assimilationist tendencies. I’ve always wanted to make some sort of public monument to the sissy, to whom we owe everything, and who was sadly jettisoned from the center stage of gay liberation, upstaged by a safer, more palatable representation of masculinity. We talked of throwing a Mae West film festival soon, and plan to grow old as we imagine she did, wisecracking and surrounded by hunky sexpots. I have a horrible haircut, by the way. Bob accused me of anti-semitism this morning when I cursed my hairdresser for making me look like a concentration camp survivor. I carefully explained that I was commenting on Nazi stylists, not their victims.

I finished my first edited version of Tremor, my entree into avant-garde filmmaking. I don’t know if it’s awful or interesting, but I love watching it. I’m going to be one of those Pierre Molinier artists, I’m sure, discovered by some little art fag 50 years from now and proclaimed grande fetishiste –“How could they not see?” he’ll ask… And hey, if you didn’t see my work in the LAB’s 20th anniversary show, tomorrow’s the last day and I don’t show a lot around here. So get your ass away from that computer monitor and over to 16th Street.

So tonight it’s Kill Bill. Yes.

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Mary Shelley’s Coco

CHORUS OF THERAPISTS: “Coco, you’ve got to be alone for a while. Your happiness shouldn’t be contingent on whether you stay with X, Y, or Z.”

LITTLE BUNNY COCO: “But I want all of them.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“They don’t want each other.”

“Perhaps you need to be with yourself for a while.”

“You mean to eat in restaurants by myself? Are you insane? I can’t even walk into a singles bar by myself. Why would I want to be happy by myself? Am I going to be like Garry? Forever the first person on the list of available San Francisco Bears on ‘bear.net’? Always looking for that perfect mate? And always single? I am not a single person.”

“Exactly, you’re half of one. You’re already married, and have a wonderful boyfriend, and you flirt with anything with hairy shoulders. You’ve never been alone, and you’re driving everyone crazy with your partial commitments.”

“You’re the ones who are missing the point. I want to live in cro-magnon South of France and breast feed my furry clan of hus-apes.”

“You’ve defined yourself since age 16 as the ingenue, and your erotic life has revolved around struggling against the inequities inherent in such a dynamic, gaining power through your sexuality, and pushing yourself to match the achievements of your mentors/husbands. Through your art, you’ve stumbled into a different relation to your erotic life, one not dependent on power struggles, but rooted in physical desire.”

“Here we go with the transition, again.”

“Yes, you’re growing up. But you’re almost 38. Most people go through this stage in their 20’s.”

“Almost 38. And this is different. I started early. This is a mid-life crisis.”

“It’s going to be if you keep it up for another 3 years. You’re piecing together a relationship with men who don’t add up to what you want from one man. Mary Shelley’s Coco. You don’t need the structure of a relationship to be complete. You aren’t able to feel complete in your relationships because you are not complete.”

“But I’m afraid to be alone.”

“But you’ve never been alone, how do you know?”

“I was alone for a whole year after Manny died.”

“You mean the year that you dated Christian, Alfonso, Garry, David, Will, Bob, and Luis with the ‘husky football player-type build’?”

“They were part of my grieving process. Wasn’t Alfonso cute?”

“…”

“What? Just tell me what to do?”

“We’ve already told you what to do. You hear what you want to hear. When you’re ready, you’ll do what you need to do.”

MONTHS, YEARS PASS…

Bob came home Sunday night to say that he had a little evening romp with someone on Diamond Street. “Bob? Who’s Bob?” Bob’s my partner. We’ve lived together for 10 years. He’s the father of my stepson Reese. I don’t talk about him much. Since the commencement of my blogging we’ve been in a strange purgatory, inititated by my announced need to be with someone my age (he’s 18 years older) and my less than successful attempts at integrating that need into our otherwise quite successful relationship. (Successful except for the essential core.) I was upset (“Hippocrite,” cried Big Chrissy, with whom I’d spent the evening), not so much because Bob had finally taken steps to get some much needed physical attention, which we’d actually negotiated months before, but because I’d put my partner in a position of needing to do so. Something clicked. This isn’t the kind of relationship that I’d like to be in, where we’re both grabbing here and there to piece together a completeness that eludes us.

I don’t know exactly what’s going to happen in the next few days, but I’ve turned a corner, tossed out of the car, actually, and it’s bright and clear, but a long walk to the next town.

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Not at Swim, Two Boys

Big Chris and I, after pancakes at Orphan Andy’s, decided at the last minute to spend the day lounging around, instead of frolicking with the Dore Alley boys. Chris looked really cute, too, dressed all in white for the fair, sure to stand out in contrast to the black cowhide and lobster tans. So instead of shaved penises, I’ll be reading At Swim, Two Boys, by Jamie O’Neill, which promises to be a good read. The summer’s rocketing by and I haven’t made much of a dent in my summer reading pile. I’m looking forward to reading Little Me next, and then some Leo Bersani, if only because I feel that I have to. I actually forget what else is in that pile, but I’m needing a big hit of Nabokov, which I thought would be great to follow with Shelley Winter’s Shelley, Also Know as Shirley, which I’ve always wanted to read, and Lampedusa. Okay, to the book…

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Hot weekend and the next hot reality TV show

It’s supposed to be really warm this weekend. I don’t know if I could get through the weekend without hopping up to Guerneville to help keep the boys cool at Lazy Bear. The thought of all that exposed fur, without ME there with my palm fronds, kind of, I don’t know… hurts. Incidentally, I’ve come up with a new reality TV show idea called Femme Eye for the Gay Bear, with me, of course, dispensing advice about collectible pottery, beard trimmers, pants, closet organizers and low calorie popsicles. I posted an ad on bear.net a few days ago, soliciting potential models. My username is NotABearBear, which most accurately describes my bearness. I’ve only heard from one guy, whose brother, incidentally, is the lover of the director of one of the most desirable galleries in town for an artist such as I (Lorelei Lee) to be in. Woo hoo!

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Saturday Night’s the Night I Like

I forgot to mention Pink Saturday! You know that guy who always puts on the show above Walgreen’s? Well, this year he did not fail to delight and stimulate–simulating, quite convincingly, and even committing actual acts of sodomy (in the privacy of his home, of course, and to 500,000 guests), and with a WOMAN, which somehow seemed perfectly in keeping with the wild tenor of the evening. She even went down on him, while the crowd screamed in delight and horror. Across the street, on the balcony above the Bagel Brothers, a cute but not quite drunk enough little bear dude teased us all by rubbing his crotch aggressively, pulling his pants down a bit, and then casually turned back to his beer, frustratingly in and out of character. He did moon us at one point, but by then our attention was seized by the Walgreen’s guy, who had changed his thong and hopped into a pair of cowboy boots. Up the street, in front of the Castro Cheesery, a wannabe go-go boy put on a great performance, I was even turned on by his skinny little body jiggling his pants slowly down down down. His excitement at being watched grew visibly and sweetly as the audience encouraged him, and he shaked and waved his hard little pecker at the audience and at one point suddenly turned around and upended his ass to the crowd below for a rub and a poke. I love and encourage public sexual abandon. The 70’s are back, girlfriend.

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Gay Day

This weekend got off to a nice start with the Joe Goode Performance Group at Yerba Buena, the perfect opener for the gay festivities to come. Joe’s performances contain spoken word, dance and theater, whimsically intertwined, drawing from American icons like Agnes DeMille, twisted with a gay sensibility. Sometimes narrative seems to intrude too much, though, and then gets lost in sentiment. The best thing he ever did was a performance I saw years ago at Theatre Artaud called 29 Effeminate Gestures, that brilliantly deconstructed the gay self into a series of highly articulated movements and facial expressions.

Big Chris and I went to the gay parade, and had a great time, one of the more festive parades in recent memory. At a BBQ that I went to afterwards at Peter and Luis’, I had an interesting conversation with this guy named Bradford, who used to have one of the largest Barbie clothing collections but is now collecting and selling vintage couture from the 50’s and 60’s, an interesting character himself. Anyway, we both related the upswing in mood to the visibility and acceptance of gays by mainstream culture and to the recent Supreme Court decision, everyone thrilled and hopeful, in a party mood.

The Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence won my vote for favorite float, based on a USO show, called “U Ass Ho,” featuring lots of big hair, a caged pope, (a play on this year’s theme–“Gotta Give Them Pope,” instead of hope) the Andrew Sisters, and Dick Cheney as Slim Pickens from Kubrick’s Dr. Strangelove, straddling an enormous “Weapon of Ass Destruction.” Other faves were the Sunset Scavenger dudes and their trash can ballet, more big haired drag queens, the GAPA “sushi boat” float, Armistead (I’ve got to photograph him–he’s too cute) and Laura Linney, a very scary buxom Dorothy screaming “I’ll find my own way back home!!” and of course all the furry bellies.

People were saying that this parade was more political, but it was a political sensibility closer to compassionate conservatism than to the Lesbian Avengers or ACT-UP style political activism.
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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.

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Panic Attack

Jack Radcliffe just sent me a Valentine.

I am going to completely die.

Hi Chris,
Thanks! Happy Valentines day to you too!
*****

Okay, so he was responding to my Valentine, but I’ve read and reread his sweet and heartfelt note to me, and I’m sure there’s a secret message there. The lower case “d” for instance (he wants a little “d”), and the lack of the apostrophe (he wants to possess ME), or the missing comma after “you” (“I miss you”).

He is just the sweetest guy, so clever and discreet. He wants me, I know it…

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For the Personals

I photographed Alex last night.  His lover of something like 28 years is no longer interested in an erotic life with him, so it’s been my mission to help Alex secure temporary companionship over the internet by taking pictures of him in various stages of undress.  Alex and his lover have been collecting my work for years–I completed a huge commissioned work of them a few years ago that I might have to rework into 2 smaller pieces if they split up.  I posed Alex as a della Francesca dandy and a Mantegna St. Sebastian.  Alex is very sensual, the complement to his lover, who is slightly restrained with his affection and physicality.  He responded to the lens as if it were caressing him.  I stayed on my side of the camera.

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A Nice Long Day

Well, it looks like “It’s over” means something with a little more flexibility than I had thought the other night. My life and art are very much intertwined with things Big Chrissy, so I appreciate the chance to continue working together towards something really wonderful.

I hopped out of bed yesterday morning and ran quickly down to the market to pick up some apples and flour, zoomed up the hill to Chris’, popped a pie in and out of the oven, and was immediately swept away by Dave and Dave, who treated us to a lunch at the Cliff House. I’ve been here 19 years, and I’ve never been, except to visit the Camera Obscura, the Musee Mechanique, etc…, and the buffet was really great, with spectacular views of Seal Rock and huge waves. They need to tear it down and rebuild the Victorian building, though, and Sutro Baths while they’re at it…

Chris and I spent the rest of the day making the best chilli that I’ve ever had, and that we’ll all be eating for the next month, hot dogs specially chosen for the Pratt, home made cornbread, etc, etc… and only after an hour past the time when The Pratts were supposed to be there did someone say, “Did you talk to The Pratts about tonight?” Well, it seems like there was too much communication, but none of it very successful, so sadly we dined sans Chris and Dan. We must try again, for I miss those guys whom I’ve met only once but have grown so fond of through their online presence and cute pictures.

The boys and I then went to the Stud, where Chris and I were approached by several bloggers who had actually read our journals, we bobbed our heads by the dance floor, looking so thirty- and forty-something, while Dave and Dave went off and made out with several guys at the bar. They are something, those Daves, and should be in charge of all libido-related activities.