Rolled solo to the first Friday at the Contemporary art museum, as Ben and Johnny were djing, and so I got listed, which was a plus - I could see the otherwise 'spensive exhibits furr free and eat copius amounts of cheese cubes and little egg rolls off baby sized plates. My favorite exhibit was the cardboard constructed swiss chalet, which used 4 tomb-rooms using egyptian iconography, several hundred roll sof duct tape, homemade bongs and graphic depictions of anal penitration as comment on how (the white people of) America are fucking Iraq.
In the main room of the chalet, there was a bank of tvs playing loops of war/nature and porn footage. The central clips being of the DP/backdoor gangbang variety. Which was not my favorite part of the exhibit; watching a room full of dudes try really hard to pretend they were not entranced by it was.
Their manic mini-second glimpsing of it was comical and compelling. They would browse the cardboard pyramids and then, suddenly, jerk their heads, like an animal, to peak at the porn, so as not to be noticed and judged by their wife, or their date or everyone else in the room.
Watching these men have to deal with porn-as-art - while on dates, watching them have to deal with 300 images of graphic fucking and a table full of yikes-sized prostetic cocks, watching porn guilt, curiousity and insecurity meld and manifest into a barely contained OH SHIT moment... I might have to do my own art exhibit about that. Women's reactions, across the board, was to walk through quickly, head down and determined like they were on their a treadmill at the gym, make comments about the fakeness of porn - "That's not real. That has to be fake. I bet they do not use real cum, it's got to be like, melted ice cream," one says to her date. Date-man is speechless. "Yeah, that's totally ice cream" says her girlfriend. I laughed, as I was reminded of one of the only dirty joke I know, which is about a penguin, and the punchline goes "Oh this? This is just ice cream".
After that, Bekka, Ben's pigtail'd sis, and I, we got interviewed and had our pictures taken for the fashion section of the Tribune, despite the fact that I was wearing mens dress socks with gold cha cha heels. There was a notes taking lady, then the main lady with the tape recorder and the photographer, taking notes too. They asked me where I got my shoes, and I told them "some scabby ass yuppie resale shop up north," and they wrote it down, as if it was a hot tip.
Got on the "dancefloor", or rather dominated the blank dancing area with a fresh new dance/solo exhibition I was doing to amuse Ben and Johnny. It's called "the hungry pony" and it goes like this: stamp the ground, pawing the floor three times left, then three times right. Hands up like yr about to catch a basketball. Mime a sort of cud-chewing motion opening and closing yr mouth to the beat of the song, or you can also eat for real. Stare blankly at anyone who even so much as glances at you.
The Hungry Pony got some good reactions, and is an easy fit with everything from JJ Fad to french house to King Tubby. A 50-something Indian doctor man came over and said "What you are doing is great. The dress you are wearing, it's asian style combined with your dancing, you are like a kabuki donkey. Your dress is great by the way." He toasted me with his glass and walked away. Another guy pawed the floor back to me, with the subtlety of a drug-deal signal. I showed the dance to Johnny's friend, who deals soybean futures and had on a green chapeau, and his friend the internet clothing magnate, and they told me I was the funniest person they had ever met, which means either they were way drunker than they let on, or this dance is much more genius than I am giving it credit as.
I have some more stories about this but am too distracted by other thoughts:
1. My brand-new friend Luke Wolter, who was born tonight at 7 pm, to my friends David and Eileen. David is one of the best men I have ever known and the thought that he's someone's dad keeps making me cry. Soon, I will send Luke all the stuff I think a baby should have: A Johnny jump-up bouncey swing, a copy of Goodnight Moon and a copy of Lungfish's Talking Songs for Walking. Eileen played The Who to Luke while he was still in the womb, so I do not think Lungfish is too much for him to get.
2. Through a series of strange events that were entirely out of my control, it was told to me that the two possible places I am being put up in Palm Springs for Coachella are either a lesbian spa resort or a clothing optional nudist camp. I am not joking. I am kind of hoping for the nudist camp, only because it will make my Coachella story that much better.