DUMBER THAN A CAN OF HAIR
I like to think of myself as quite intelligent. I am able to process a good many ideas and express opinion/thought on a number of topics (excluding sports) — However, if you know me. And, really, you should. I can be somewhat — well, absent minded. I am the person who can dismantle a film or a book or a philosophy and offer up various essays on what the art means. I am also the person who can mediate between two disgruntled people. I am the person who can creatively come up with solutions to hard to solve problems (excluding sport strategy) …I am also the person who will ask you if you know where I left my hat and be reminded that I am wearing it. I am the person who gets lost. …in his own home. I am the person who buys the proto-cylo of popcorn which is impossible for a village to consume because it is only fifty cents more than the regular-one-person-size popcorn — and I will then complain about it for an hour or feel the need to explain why I paid for such a large amount of popcorn which I have to discard upon exiting the cinema. And, I am the one who of how to spell “decide” or “receipt”
…the other day someone teased me after I had made a really stupid error. This person said, “You know, when you get down to it Matty is dumber than a can of hair.”
This really made me laugh and I wish I could make claim to having had even made up the concept of a can of hair. Which, we all know, would be quite dumb indeed. I mean, can there be anything dumber than a can of hair (excluding the Landers Sisters of course)
This is a picture of me taken during my fumbled and confused senior year of high school. I was a mess. At the time my plan was to meet “Ginger” at the Greyhound bus station in Beaumont, Texas the day after graduation with my most fave things in a zipp’d up travel bag. We were going to get a one way ticket to Manhattan. She was going to become a serious actress and I was aspiring to be a comic. I fell out of bed after a night of stoned confusion where “Betty” and I ended up spending over an hour stuck in one of those car wash things — I kept just missing the mark and having to put it in reverse. Too out of fit to drive into a car wash garage — I opted to finally just reverse out. This ended up banging my poor car into all manner of things. And, after landing halfway in a ditch — “Betty” and I giggled for a quite a while when we realized that the 5 minutes spent attempting to drive thru the car wash machine had actually been 40 minutes — after we stopped laughing, “Betty” got annoyed that we had filled my tank to get the excitement of driving thru the car wash and hadn’t been able to do so she stormed to the cashier’s box to demand a refund. …And, promptly walked directly into the booth before she could say anything. I think she thought there was a door there. Anyway, I remember pulling her up and back into the car. We slept a few hours in the parking lot at Denny’s. I got home with a massive headache at about 5am. I made my way to Greyhound at about 11AM. “Ginger” showed up half an hour later in her full McDonald’s costumary. Thru heavy tears she told me she couldn’t do it and that I should just go without her. I thought about it. But, I ended up calling “Betty” and “Betty” told me that I had to go to university with her and that I would be majoring in English. I would teach and all would be happy, I did as “Betty” instructed but opted out of teaching when I discovered that the Powers That Be’d in Texas wanted me to discipline kids and not teach them. And, I hate the silly rules of grammar. I know them. I simply choose to reject them. Not good for a teacher. And no one liked my idea of using Hip Hop to get to some of the kids. That was shot down.
At this time I also believed that there was a chemical, a person and a job that would provide me with what I felt I really needed: 24 hour/365 days a year of absolute bliss. I just knew that could be mine if I searched hard enough. I remember also thinking that the only two people on the planet we could really trust and respect were Woody Allen and Yoko Ono. See? In many ways I’ve always been dumber than a can of hair. Fast forward some 23 years later from my 17 year old self and I know this all to be quite silly. However, a part of me still pretends than a purchase can make my day or an extra bit of chocolate can save a bad moment — but I am much more grounded now. I am in love. I have a couple of GREAT friends. Life is good.
Oh, and from my 423 Reasons I Love Living in San Francisco: Reason # 117: I love that my waiter is a guy who wears a leather skirt, a form-fitted shirt imprinted with a silk screened black and white photo of hairy balls and semi erect penis, has his nose, ears, forehead and other things pierced and is apt to pat me on the back and chat with me before taking my order. Love that. And, I suspect I will only find that here in lovely San Francisco! I figure that there is no better city for person who wore Barbra Streisand on his tshirts when he was 9 years old. Sort of fitting, don’t ya think?
If you’ve noticed me missing from Blog Land — I’ve been working hard at moving all my stuff in with B. We’ve taken the Big Plunge. It is very exciting and fun. It is also a bit scary and stress-inducing. But, I should be getting settled in by mid week. I’ll be catching up on my blogging soon! Kisses!
I’m not sure I understand why I love the beach so much. I can’t quite figure it out, but I know that I am happier than than I am at a movie. And, that my friends, is saying an awful lot! I love the sound of the water rushing to the shore. I love the scents and the way they mix together. I love the way the sky seems to cut into the almost reflecting it back up to the heavens. The way the water seems to go out forever. The feeling of calm that comes over me as I sit on the sand with my toes mingling with the sparkling grains and the breeze kissing my face. So, yeah. I guess I understand what I love about it but I am still not entirely sure I understand why I love it so. It doesn’t offer the same avenue of escape from my thoughts which the cinema brings. In fact, I find I do some very serious thinking when I am on the beach.
Here, in Northern California, it is far too cold to swim — unless you’re wearing one of those black rubber suits. But, then the sharks often mistake you for a seal. They will attempt to eat you. So, I am afraid to wear one of those thermal suits. And, even more than this, I have an irrational fear of being mistaken for a baby seal and being clubbed to death. No. I don’t want to end up yet another statistic on the GreenPeace website. But, I digress.
Here, in Northern California, on our beaches there is an over abundance of driftwood. And, I love the way the nude sunbathers and other beach-goers turn these washed up bits of wood into little huts to offer shade from the sun and wind. Even more so, I love the way so many people use the driftwood to create random objects of art. Left behind — these little creations are both lovely and somehow sad.
I will often spot such an object a good mile or so away and will make my way toward it slowly. These works seem to change form as I approach and they seem to leave something of the people who transformed them and offer up something for you to bring as you look at it. …And, out to the long stretch of sea in front of it. This is art in a very pure and even pre-civilization form. I love that. This was one of those driftwood formations that I wish I could just snatch up and take home. But, the thing is — the beauty and power only works on the beach. And it is very fleeting. This little sculpture was probably blown or washed away by night fall. Here, it is captured for you to see. A moment in time on the beach.
Yesterday, as I sat thinking about the beach, worrying about being clubbed for my pelt and contemplating the natural art all around me — B and his brother (who was visiting from Canada) started talking quietly. They began to collect driftwood and seemed to be working toward constructing something. I heard them discuss the building of a fort. I also thought I heard them discuss building something really cool. In the end, this was my lover and his brothers’ way of bonding and playing on the beach. Like two men changed to children they began to work together. A was balancing wood. B was digging deep into the sand. They were lost in their fun. I sat trying not to appear too interested. I didn’t want to get in the way of their time together and I was loving the experience of watching them. In the end, what was so interesting to me was what they wound up creating: a single post of wood standing erect in the sand. Sort of like a sign post to mark the fact that B&A had come, conquered and put there name on the map of St Gregorio Beach. There was a certain simplicity to it that I loved. I asked them to pose with it. After I snapped the picture, B decided it best to knock the post down for fear that a small child might get harmed if it should fall over for some reason. I was sad to see him knock it down but pleased that he would so worry about someone being harmed by their fun.
Who knows why I love the beach as much as I do. In the end I guess it doesn’t really matter. All that matters is that it brings me great joy. Oh, and that no one mistook me for a baby seal.
RANDOM OBSERVATIONS FROM MY NOTEBOOK
…There is a lot going on right now. It’s all great and exciting stuff but that isn’t to say that there are not more than a few stressors at play. I am moving in with B. It’s a big deal for both of us. We are pushing past the barriers that our past relationships have created and are jumping off into the arms of love. I think we will both be caught or I wouldn’t be doing it, but I think B and I are both a tiny bit “freaked out” — Particularly B who is now trying to refer to “his place” as “our place” —- And, one can’t forget that he is an architect of some forces and a designer/artist. So, over the course of the next week our home will soon had the addition of all my full-on color pop art and stuff. Anyway, it’s all good — as they are prone to say in sunny California. But, I find my creative juices are somewhat dry. However, I’ve been following the advice of Ing and have been recording just about all of my thoughts and observations.
The problem is that these little scribbles are much like my writing always seems to be: odd, disjointed and somehow confusing. Welcome to my mind. I do find it fun to constantly be pulling out my way cool little book and scribing my ideas/thoughts/observations. This is much different than a journal.
Anyway, here are some of my recent “notes” of life…
“Idea re: ‘over-heard conversations’ which are actually conversations I have just had or have heard — ongoing…
‘I like to take it deep and work my tongue around it’
you don’t worry about him coming in your mouth?’
‘No. I like that.’
‘But, is that safe?’
‘What’s safe anyway? It’s not like I’m gonna let him pop his load if I’ve got a gashing wound in my mouth’
‘Oh. Wait. Shhhhh. Hi Erin.’
‘How long were you there?’
‘Sorry, I was listening in. You know what me and my boyfriend like?’
‘When I take this old serrated kitchen knife out and run it across his cock till he comes. Drives us both crazy. We love it.’
‘Yeah, you should both try it! Oh, gotta get back there! Later!’
‘Erin is a freak.’
‘I wonder if there is a fetish around socklets. Seems like there should be.’
‘There are four people sitting on a blanket in Golden Gate Park eating. I guess it is a picnic. I don’t get this concept. Is that supposed to be fun? Most worrying’
‘Lounge singers need more work. Maybe that is why radio stations still use cheesy jingles — hits coast to coast! 92.5 FM’
‘You know, I’ve never even known a sex worker. Kind of interesting to be involved with someone who was a sex worker.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, you were a sex worker for a while back in the early 90’s.’
‘I was? Oh, yeah. Yeah. I guess I was.’
(according to the on line dictionary I was a sex worker. ok. whatever)
‘You’re such a cute young thing!’
‘But, I thought you said I was a hot hard rubber thing last week.”
‘Oh, honey — you were and you still are!’
‘The same old lady is always on the same corner every work day starting at 7am and is still there at 3pm. She has been setting up shop like this for over six months now. She sells beads which she must have strung into necklaces. They are so ugly. No one ever seems to stop by her tiny table. She always looks so sad. However, for the past couple of weeks an old man has been sitting with her. They do not appear to speak to each other but she is always smiling now. I like to think she is in love. Still. No one stops to look at or buy her ugly homemade necklaces. Maybe I should buy one.’
My best pal, Ing, writes reviews for a San Francisco website and is now officially considered “press” — this means she gets loads of free passes and that tanslates to opportunities to check out lots of cool shows/concerts in the Bay Area. Tonight, she was kind enough to invite me and B to join her at San Francisco’s infamous performance club located in the far stretches of The Mission, The Dark Room, for a performance by original punk rock writer/performer Jennifer Blowdryer. I want to share some of the show with you but it is so hard.
First of all — how does one describe The Dark Room space? How would I explain the way cool original art tiles I purchased in the lobby? (I will not attempt that, but I will post them here for you to check out! Aren’t they awesome?!?!? They were done by a local artiste by the name of Louise Varmilowecz and are very pretty) How does one describe Jennifer Blowdryer and her fellow performers and highly entertaining videos by her NYC artiste friends? (title: I Love You This Much)
Ing has a beautiful way of taking notes all of the time. You might be having a conversation with her about t-shirts — and, as you change topics you might notice her whipping out a tiny leather bound journal in which she is scribbling something down. As I’ve become close to Ing she has allowed me access to her notes. They fascinate me and have insprired me to attemp the same. I suck at it. Tonight, Ing sat with her pad in hand. Last week I purchased a way cool little journal which I now carry with me at all times to scribble down my ideas. (title: Tambourine With Nature)
So, I think I will just transcribe my sad little notes of the show for you. Unedited. I hope I captured the strange and surprisingly entertaining evening of fun. I wish I could tell you more about Ms. Blowdryer’s stories of Cher’s one night stand and drunken moments on Polk Street and at Studio 54 or her interest in people who tend to get tossed out of public places for bad conduct. But, my notes of the evening will have to do. I should note that Ing wrote a lot. I sort of stopped after the first 20 minutes.
And, please, admire my tiles!!!
@ The Jennifer Blowdryer Show at The Dark Room
Ing is wearing a vintage plaid fitted jacket, a cute designer print t, cool zipper suede boots with her jeans rolled up. B looks REALLY hot in my shirt and brown/orange jacket. His hair looks real atomic. Like the Blondie song. He (B) checks the time.
I wonder how many people have had orgasms in this art/theatre space? I suspect this place is haunted. Go Go Dancer/Surfer rock plays. B yawns. Ing swallows and stares out into space.
A container of milk gone rancid. B gets up. Ing’s boots have almost platform heels. Cool. B’s butt looks great. I wish I could get a Diet Coke. B goes out for a smoke, to get Advil for Ing who has a bad headache and a Diet Coke for me!
Apprently I gave Ing an idea for a visual blog.
More people are coming in now.
Jennifer Blowdryer is really cool! Funny. Smart. This show is going to be strange. I don’t think there is a plan. Improvised all the way.
“Every second is a precious moment”
“I wish there were as many people as there are bubbles in my bubble bath because that would mean there are as many people in the street as — Wait. No. It would just mean that the people in the street are bubbles.”
Funny stuff and off-insights about the fringe. Punk rock for the new century.
“I don’t work. So, I have lots of hobbies”
I envy people like Jennifer Blowdryer. Brave. Free. Not so much an artist as a person who simply lives and tranlates that into art. I feel like a stranger at her home watching her fave movies and talking about things. That drag queen seems out of place her. The girl in the stripes is really quite interesting. I could just sit and listen to her talk for hours.
Those were my notes. On our way to the car we saw a drunk homeless man who appeared to have been hit by a car. People were trying to help him and wait for the police. He was covered in blood.
…life in The City By The Bay.
(Actually, I wish I had a Hello Cat) Well, a boy can dream…
Tomorrow night B and I are joining Ing for a night of light adult entertainment provided by Jennifer Blowdryer! Ing always finds the coolest bands and the neatest things to do! I can’t wait! …and, then a dinner and movie with several good friends Saturday night! It is going to be a Kick Ass weekend!
THE IMPORTANCE OF SHOES…
…from a San Francisco artiste — I really love this clip. You’ve probably all seen it, but just in case…
Gay Men Rule!!!
I was just invited to join this blogging community —
Oh, and I love getting emails but I hope that a few of you who read my blog will start to feel more comfortable about posting a comment here and there! I like the exchange that this creates from time to time. You know, you can still hide your identity if that is a concern!
CONFESSIONS FROM A TUBE SOCK CIRCA 1979…
As I am want to do while engaging in conversations with my friends I pursued a better understanding of us all by asking when we each discovered the magical powers of masturbation. Being my friends, no one was at all ashamed or afraid to discuss in detail. So, it was very interesting.
I discovered that I was a bit late in the game. I have already written about when my Gay Little Heart found its way to an erection. …While watching Kris Kristofferson romp about sans clothes with Babs in A STAR IS BORN. I was a little kid. I was frightened and had to ask for an explanation from my 70’s mom (who was at my side watching the film in a sold out cinema)
However, it would be several years before I discovered to what an erection could lead me to.
For me, I was about 13 years old. I was in the tub reading “Rolling Stone” — I can remember spending more time than was required looking at the cover photo of Robin Williams. I remember being worried that I was getting the newsprint wet. Yeah. Am I the only one old enough to remember when Rolling Stone was a newspaper type magazine?!?! Anyway, I placed the magazine down on the yellow tile floor next to the tub. Yes, I had an erection. By this time I thought nothing of it. I was not ashamed or embarrassed but I knew to be discreet. My mother was quite sex positive until she decided to go thru a Born Again phase which lasted a horrible 5 years — but that, my friends, is a whole other story and decade.
This was 1979 and Mom was still listening to Elton John.
Anyway, back to my discovery of the Big O. I had to raise up on my knees to reach the soap. Ivory Soap, I might add. As I reached up for the soap the hot water poured down, um, on me. Well, this gush of hot water created a favorable sin-sa-tion. I remember staying fixed with the water running full force on, um, me. I remember turning to my left and glancing down at Mork on the cover of The Rolling Stone. …and, I will never forget the feeling that took me over. My thighs felt like they were giving ‘way. I had to turn away from the lovely picture and hold my palms out in front of me against the tiles. I came.
I fell back into the water sending a wave of soapy water over the tub and on to the floor and fully drenching the magazine which had led me to such pleasure. Pleasure. Well, to be honest. I was also quite frightened. I remember thinking that I must have somehow gotten soap inside me. What was that stuff?!?!?
Well, this brought me to another conversation with my mom. Luckily, she didn’t use any of the posters on my wall as visual pointers. (and I did not tell her of the Robin Williams picture) …she seemed to be fairly sure I was gay anyway.
She always blamed Barbra Streisand. Granted. It was odd for a 4 year old to become obsessed with Barbra Streisand. She felt I played “The Wet” LP way more than was necessary. Oh well. I think she still might blame Babs for my being gay. Anyway, she explained that the stuff was sperm and all normal. Actually, she had explained sex to me over and over again. I think she was a bit annoyed. I remember her pinning up her hair as she was getting ready for a swim, “You came. That’s all. No big deal. I’ve got get going” — and, with that she picked up my baby brother and they tailed it to the pool where she would flirt with the guy who owned a local record store. Sadly, she never followed thru on the flirting and re-married my orge of a father. But, once again, that is a whole different blog.
Within a few months I had discovered the pleasures that could be added with the aid of my Grandmother’s Vasoline.
I spent a lot of time with her in Houston. I would hang out at her pool and watch her hot gay neighbors swim in the apartment complex pool. One was a hair stylist and the other was about to become a doctor. The stylist had hair just like John Travolta from the BOY IN THE PLASTIC BUBBLE days and his lover had his hair really short like a new wave singer. I would not go swimming with them because, well, they rather excited the 13 year old in me. I think they knew. I remember both of them asking me about the movies and music I liked. The punk looking-soon-to-be-doctor attempted to explain that Elton John’s “Tiny Dancer” was actually about Elton’s penis. (it was only recently that I realized what he was talking about) …Anyway, I kept trying to steer the conversation away from things gay to things like weed, Pink Floyd, The Who and Led Zep (all of which I had become a bit of an expert) …but they only wanted to pry into me about being possibly queer.
“Matty, have you heard the 12″ version of ‘No More Tears’?”
“Do you like Ted’s wife beater? Do you want one?”
“Come on in and swim! Did you want to cry at the end of ‘A Star Is Born’?”
…my answer to these questions was really “yes” but I always said “no” before giving myself away.
One of them asked me if I liked to play with my tube sock. I remember I was wearing my blue gym shorts with matching tube socks. When I asked what he meant they both laughed. My Grandmother was inside baking cookies. The stylist told me that he used to jerk off into his gym socks.
About 3 minutes later filled with thoughts of my Grandmother’s gay neighbors in their tiny jean cut-offs which were acting as swim trunks — I was locked in my Grandmother’s powder blue bathroom. Lying on her blue carpet, my feet pushed against her blue toilet and my head jammed against the blue door. I scooped out a large portion of her Vaseline and inserted into one of my tube socks. I then slid the sock over, um, me. I closed my eyes. Moved my hand around my sock and, well — let’s just say my thighs/knees gave out a lot that summer.
1979. Me, my tube sock, a glob of Vaseline and a blue bathroom. Sigh. Oh, the joys of self-discovery. Sure, over the course of the years I’ve done my share of exploration and continue to do so. But, there is some thing magical about discovering what joys can come from within and spring from out the mind.
God bless Robin Williams — and my Grandmother’s gay neighbors where ever they all might be. Hmmmm….
STOLEN MOMENTS FROM A MIS-SPENT YOUTH…
Skipping classes, hanging with my best friend, some silly ideas and a stolen Sears surveillance video camera —- hours of fun shared. Fast forward about 18 years to youtube and share a moment of that time. …when the possibilities seemed without end and without hope all at once…