pray tell

I've noticed more devils and demons showing up in my artwork lately.
Scary? Or is it just because these guys are fun to draw?

Either way, here's this week's Blotter:
A pastor said the church sign was stolen from his church on Metropolitan Parkway.

the great white hope

Last weekend, the BF and I made a fast appearance in ATL, in town for a meeting about his budding dotcom biz. The trip didn't afford much social or recreation time, but I did make a point of seeing the newly expanded High Museum of Art.
It should be noted here that although I no longer live in ATL, I still feel a great deal of ownership toward the High, which fundamentally changed the way I saw the world as a child. I won't make one of those sweeping statements like, "The High made me an artist," but it certainly provided a fertile creative soil from which many of my adult artistic inspirations sprang. I first toured Richard Meier's sparkling white palace on the hill in 1983, the year of its completion. I didn't know how new it was at the time; I was in third grade.
I returned to the High every couple of years after that, then became a member when I moved to ATL after college. In short, the old High felt like a second home to me.
I knew all too well where the pieces would likely fall in the fourth-floor gallery, always reserved for traveling exhibitions. I could take you straight to the freaky Howard Finster shrine that no one ever talked about, and would even suffer through the endless (and, to my mind, mostly pointless) chambers of decorative arts when friends were in town and seeing it for the first time.
When news came that Renzo Piano had been tapped as the celebrity architect in charge of a $178 million expansion for the museum, I took the news in stride. Change is change; sometimes good, sometimes bad. The erstwhile white box certainly deserved a major makeover for the new millennium.


Touring the expansion last weekend felt like going back to the neighborhood where you grew up, only to find that different people live there. I do admire the new piazza connecting the High with the Memorial Arts Building. JP wisely pointed out that Piano's true success lies in completely erasing what once was there, and he's right: I can scarecely recall the former space. The new public space, albeit a trifle threadbare, does create a wonderful new unity between the various components of the Arts Center.
The piazza reminded me of a mini Lincoln Center, no doubt due to my many recent visits there. I'm not sure what purpose the new Anne Cox Chambers wing serves, but it's pretty to look at. Ditto for the new entrance in the Wieland Pavilion. The space, not quite grand, suceeds at only being open. Perhaps it's a nice change from the claustrophobic ticketing area in the old High, but the new entrance aches for ... something.

Moving the main entrance to the new Wieland Pavillion also makes the still-gorgeous atrium in the old museum something of an afterthought. I kept thinking that the Meier building has been put out to pasture. Poor Howard Finster, now confined to a dark corner upstairs.
The whole fourth floor of the old building will be forever haunted for me. As I walk through, I see ghosts of former exhibitions. Wasn't Picasso's Three Musicians once here? Remember the Rockwells, which I expected to hate but instead relished? Is this the same hallway where we saw The Machine Age?
By contrast, the contemporary galleries at the top of the new Wieland wing do sparkle. The circular skylights made me smile, and I enjoyed the flow of the space — reminiscent of the modern stuff at the Met.
Of course, the paint's still wet on the renovation, and only time will tell how the new building will age. I'd like to see the atrium used for some grand and cutting-edge installation, something on the scale of Matthew Barney climbing the Guggenheim. Ditto for the piazza, which deserves more than a vacuum.

I realize that my assesment of the new High is colored by nostalgia, and probably comes across like an old man bemoaning horse and carriage days. So be it. I'm happy to see the old girl grow. It's different, yes. It's not my High anymore, but then again, it never really was to begin with.

something fishy

This would be my Weekly Plug, except that I'm a few days late doing it and with good reason. In case you haven't heard, Time Warner Cable really, seriously, majorly blows.
I won't go into the saga — a tragedy, really — of what it took for the cable company to come and hook the Internet up in our new apartment; let's just say it was more drama than a Susan Lucci marathon on Lifetime Television. Four missed connections later, and at least two phone calls in which either I or the BF used curse words, and now we finally are online again. (Plus we now have DVR! I'd say it's cable karma, but we're paying through the nose for it.)

Anyway, here's another Shameless Plug. This week: An armed gunman goes after the Georgia Aquarium. Talk about drama.
Enjoy.

The Blotter: Police responded to a robbery call ...

dog and pony show

You may have read by now that Johnny Galecki (who played David on TV's "Rosanne") has a nude scene in the new play The Little Dog Laughed, and that audiences have been wowed by his impressive ... range.
I'm here to tell you that there are many reasons to go see this sizzling show at Second Stage Theater, and that Johnny's big dog is only part of the attraction.
Even better: Julie White. In a word, she's brilliant. She plays a fast-talking Hollywood agent to a closeted leading man (think Kevin Spacey but with a very Tom Cruise edge). Never mind that she's a lesbian; she urges her client to keep quiet about his sexuality as they try to aquire a sought-after script from a famous gay playwright.
Douglas Carter Beane, who wrote not only this play but also the script for To Wong Foo, clearly knows the biz, and he illustrates the war between Hollywood and the Big Apple in spiteful, inspired language that had me literally guffawing a time or two.
Julie's role can be a bit one-note, playing both narrator and sideshow, and the beginning of the first act drags. But as Carter Beane's mouthpiece, she spews forth deliciously hateful truths about Tinsel Town, queer people and human nature itself.
I'm sure half the audience in the theater last night (lots of old gay men) turned out just to see Johnny's cock, but it was the dyke on stage who stole the bone.

science is fun

My diabolical plan to infiltrate all media continues this week with a placement on Seed magazine's Web site.
Many thanks to the Nikman, who commissioned me to illustrate a piece on using DNA sequences to predict the future. Too cool for school.

Concerning the President of the United States of America

new! my weekly plug

A resolution for 2006: To better plug my own work.

Therefore, here's a link to my latest Catch column from Genre magazine: I Heart Homogeny. Appropriately enough, it's a look at gay narcissism.

And speaking of me, check out my Blotter doodle from the week.

porn again

So I met Peter Berlin tonight.
Never heard of him? To be honest, I couldn't completely place the name before a couple of weeks ago, when his photos started flooding my inbox at work. Seems this is unofficially Peter Berlin month in NYC: The '70s porn star has a new gallery show of his photography, a new documentary premiering this weekend and even a fashion show of his own designs next week.
I use the word "star" loosely: Berlin technically only ever completed two pictures, but his iconic photos attracted the attention of Warhol and Mapplethorpe. Then he basically vanished, dropped out of public life and spent the next 25 years doing god knows what. (Apparently a lot of drugs, according to Butt magazine.)
Now Herr Berlin is back, although the sprightly and chatty gentlemen I met at the gallery opening looked absolutely nothing like the Tom of Finland-esque blond bombshell of the '70s. And he's still a perv: Five minutes after meeting me, he was telling me about his jerk-off session earlier in the day. Hot.
The photography show at Leslie/Lohman is worth a trip to Soho, just for sheer novelty. The real opening is Tuesday night, open to the public.

the breakfast club

I finally got around to seeing Breakfast on Pluto last night.
This was a case where I knew too much about the movie going into it. The reviews I'd read had been largely mixed (or negative), but I wanted to see the film because a) I like Cillian Murphy, even though he's creepy, and b) "King Kong" was again sold out.
And Cillian's performance as Patrick "Kitten" Braden, a spacey transvestite who flees Northern Ireland to find her lost mum in London, almost made it worth the $10 ticket.
Almost, but not quite.
For a straight guy, Cillian certainly gets comfy in a parade of jaw-dropping outfits, from platform heels to a gold-glitter squaw ensemble that made all the nellies in our theater hoot. The problem is with the directing, as well as the writing. It's a little too hard to care what happens to Kitten, and director Neil Jordan can't quite decide if his protagonist is eccentric or flat out insane.
This doesn't mean you shouldn't see the movie. The above-mentioned costuming often wows, and the soundtrack (though a little heavy-handed and literal at times) made me smile. Just wait for video.

Meanwhile, I'm still curious to see Transamerica, the fall's other tranny road pic. It's funny: I can't help but wonder why all these cross-dressing travel flicks seem to touch on common themes. Pluto invovles a transsexual hustler on the road to find her lost mother, and by the end of the movie she's basically adopted a baby. Transamerica has to do with a male-to-female transsexual traveling cross-country with a troubled teenager who may be her son. Even in the classic The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert, another heels-in-the-heartland picture, one of the main drag characters finds out he has a son. Hedwig and the Angry Inch, not quite a road picture but awfully close, also gave us a warped relationship between wig-wearing Hansel and his bitchy mother.

The easy answer might be that this has become a sort of indie-flick cliche: If you're going to have guys wearing dresses traveling great distances, some parent problems are bound to ensue. But I don't buy that answer entirely, nor do I think it's the old "blame-the-mother" excuse.
The whole question of gender assignment and identity hits so close to the reproductive impulse, and writers seem to settle into plots involving parent problems easily.
There's more to it than this, but I haven't yet sorted it all out. Thoughts?

how the west was lost

It happened Thursday night with JP and Meatcute, then again last night with EMC and Adam.
I keep getting lost in my new neighborhood.
Now, "lost" is a relative adjective: I always know where I am.
Sort of.
It's just that the streets get all weird and Twilight Zoney south of 14th, and it's easy to get turned around. I mean, when you look up and realize you're at the intersection of 4th and 10th streets, there's obviously something not right.
Both nights we were trying to find food, and both nights we put our names on the list at Westville, but ended up going someplace else because of the long wait.
After dinner last night, I said good-bye to the boys and set out confidently in what I thought was the direction of my new apartment. Several blocks later, I realized, oops, I'd somehow drifted into a corner of the Village that was completely foreign to me. For just a moment, I felt like I was 11 years old again, getting lost in the wide patch of woods near my grandparents' house. In both experiences, the terrain would suddenly go from familiar to a view wholly unexpected: Is that the hill I just walked past? Can I see 7th Avenue at the end of the next block, or maybe I'm totally turned around?

Last night I stopped, caught my breath (which was visible in the chilly January air), and decided to wait a second while my inner compass clicked back into operation. The street was silent and empty. Such a strange sensation. I finally took a right, and realized my building was just around the next corner.

both sides now

About this time last year, my dear friend Lucas gave me a miraculous thing: a two-disc collection of his favorite songs of 2004. There were 10 or 11 songs included that I loved: Snow Patrol, Kaskade, Tegan and Sara. Great gift from a great guy.
This year I'm following the landslide myself and making a greatest hits disc of 2005 of my own. And, guess what? It's damn hard.

First there's the consideration of what songs were actually the best, as opposed to just the ones I listened to most. (Yes, those lists are not always the same.) And then there's the issue that arises when a song wasn't technically from '05: Many, many of my favorite tracks of the year were actually older. (Both Arcade Fire and Neko Case show up often in my most played list in iTunes, though they had nothing new in '05.)

In the end, I decided to just go with what felt right, focusing mainly on what new(er) songs made me happy this past year.
Here's my list so far, in no particular order.

1. Casimir Pulaski Day — Sufjan Stevens
Selecting just one track from his amazing record was nigh impossible. This one nearly made me cry when I realized what it was about.

2. Winter In the Hamptons — Josh Rouse
Despite the name, this track makes me think of late summer in the city.

3. I've Got a Life — Eurythmics
Not one of Annie's best ever, but I'm so happy for something new from her and Dave.

4. I Wasn't Kidding — Angie Stone
Me neither, girl.

5. Me Plus One — Annie
Big bubblegum for Big Fags. I love it.

6.Both Sides Now — Dolly Parton
So, somehow I never knew the original. But once I heard Dolly do it, I downloaded the Judy Collins track and listened to it EVERY DAY FOR THE NEXT MONTH. It's life's illusions I recall: I really don't know life, at all.

7. We Will Become Silhouettes — The Shins
Makes me think of Wings. In a good way.

8. Lotion — Greenskeepers
Actually from 2004. It's so dirty/creepy/wrong. Thanks, Heather, for showing me.

9. Ready To Go — Jennifer O'Connor
One of those CDs that I really wanted to like, but just didn't. Great song, though.

10. Gold Digger — Kanye West
Much to the BF's chagrin, his sister and I bonded over our love of Jamie Foxx.

11. Daft Punk Is Playing At My House — LCD Soundsystem
Secretly, I like the song "Yeah" better. But it's way too long for the disc.

12. Feeling Good — Michael Buble
I've written here before about this amazing cover.

13. Feel Good Inc. — Gorillaz
One of those tracks that I liked OK, then forgot, then rediscovered, then became obsessed with.

14. It Got All Black — Shivaree
See Jennifer O'Connor.

15. The River — Missy Higgins
I wrote about Missy for David magazine, and listening to this one gives me chills even now.

16. I Was Thinking I Could Clean Up for Christmas — Aimee Mann
Me too, girl.

17. Hummingbird — Wilco
Actually a couple of years old, I think, but new to me.

Honorable mentions:
Doorbell — The White Stripes
A little too Lynyrd Skynyrd for repeat listening, but it still makes me grin.

Johnny Met June — Shelby Lynne
I also loved "I Won't Die Today" from her latest.

Four Hours in Washington — M. Ward
The highlight of his show in Battery Park over the summer.

Back to Me — Kathleen Edwards
Cute song, cute girl. Rest of the disc was just OK.

Forever Lost — The Magic Numbers
Awesome animated video, not a bad track.

Bloody Mother Fucking Asshole — Martha Wainwright
I went back and forth over whether or not to include this one on the CD. A title like that has a way of making the whole year look bitter.

Lord, Lucas, how ever did you do it? (For the answer, check out his own list of 2005's best CDs.)

a house is not a home

"In New York City, all you have is your apartment. Just a few hundred square feet to call your own."
— Uma Thurman in Prime

Horrible movie. Great quote.
And these days it feels especially true for me, given that I'm not quite a week into our new apartment. The BF and I are no longer Chelsea Boys. We've moved downtown (just a bit) to the West Village — making us, um, Village People?
The movers arrived at 10:30 a.m. on Thursday and by 2 p.m. it was all over, our life uprooted and tossed like Dorothy Gale's farmhouse into the technicolor wonders of a foreign land. We're a mere seven blocks from our former address, but it feels as different as Oz was to Kansas. I'm sure the new will wear off any second now, but so far we're loving the change of venue. I have to keep reminding myself it's the same city.

The things we lost:
• A view of the Empire State Building
• Our second bedroom (not really used unless guests were in town)
• Surly neighbors who didn't speak and cooked stinky dishes daily
• The asshole who kept stealing our Sunday paper (hopefully)
and most importantly
• Six flights of stairs

Gained:
• A much larger living room and bedroom
• An actual kitchen
• Friendly neighbors (and they said it didn't happen in NYC)
• More closets and built-in shelves
• Front row seats into nearby apartments (we've already seen some hetero sexplay — hot.)
• An elevator! (Praise Allah!)

A day after we moved, the Rock and KK arrived from D.C., and New Year's Evil soon set in.
No sooner had 2006 dawned, then the house guests left and even the BF abandoned me, fleeing town for a four-night business trip. So now I'm alone, exhausted and overwhelmed by the task of unpacking.
Still, it feels good to be home.