YOU TAKE THE HIGH ROAD
i'm at an internet cafe on st. vicente's street. took a long walk around the city center so that i could see some other people besides artists, presenters and that ilken. lots of very tall ginger boys and bubble butt pale skinned beauties. how i'm going to lure them in to my sex net is another story. . .
Franko was warning me the other day that on the weekends i'd better beware of the hooligans who like attacking ladymen who are bigger then them, becuase it gives them credibility as a street thugette. so far i haven't run into that but i still have a few days to go.
on the first day franko presented a beautifully stunning piece called "Still life" with his living bleeding body situated on a glow warm bed of angel light. the crowd was mesmerized---that franko is a genius at creating an engrossing and powerfully laden image. my favorite part was his re-positioning from repose to doggie then papusa style and then he gracefully walked away with leaving an invisible gown trail.
yesterday i took part in kira's piece which is a one-on-one. you're given a scalpel to mark her body with. very brave of her to share herself in this way. i didn't mutilate her but just gave her pounds and pounds of love affection and gifts, and sang to her. a very sweet exchange. i'm always inspired by miss kira.
i have to return to the hotel and get ready for today's events so i'll come back and write down some more thoughtas later. forgive my spelling and grammer but i just can't get that part of this writing process together.
kalema kalesh!
Saturday, February 12, 2005
Friday, February 11, 2005
MY ONE AND ONLY HIGHLAND FLING
Been in Glasgow now for three days---what a whirl! my plane from los ang had elderly ingenue Selma Blair with Guy Oseary of madge's maverick label. i didn't know they were an item.
cute colin-richardson-webb, the NRLA general mgr picked me up from the aeroport. on my plane was the grand madame of performance, the one and only linda m. montano, along with dapper art critic Robert Airs. i worship ms. montano. my movie costumer girlfriend Crepe Suzette worked with her during her Red period of living art. linda is a treasure and so dear. What a highlight meeting her and riding in the taxi to our hotel ibis, which is a little low rent, but i have a nice shower and full sized bed, so i'm not complaining, plus there is a free breakfast, and since i'm low on funds i have to stuff myself and make it last all day.
Franko B. and Ron are already here plus Franko's beau, adorable kristofer who is now sporting a full head of lush hair, super post modern intellect Dominic Johnson, handsome Manuel Vason, and the delightfully stunning beauty that is Kira O'Reilly. Daddy Athey takes me to tea at the famous Willow Tea room designed by famed architec CR Mackintosh. Mackintosh is a fluffier architectual version of Frank Lloyd Wright. We were served by a nice potato apple doll lady and her tight bodied young son with peaches n cream complexion. The NRLA at the Arches across fromt he grand central train station is wonderous. Imagine, a performance event held in a catacombe. The new moves festival is like a performance art convention. its unlike anything i've ever been a part of. its a little on the dry side, but i'm enjoying reuniting with people i've met in the euro performance art scene. linda montano's cute editor of her new book Jenny Klein is like a baby Annie Sprinkle with red bright hair and pre-raphelite skin. We've really hit it off and i love how she takes care of Linda. She teaches at a university in Ohio and wants to bring me out there. i love ohio and those kornfed boys and appalachian hill jacks. one of the performance installations i see is from anne seagrave of france who has a tight male-ish body, like a wound, like a gash, a mixture of hannah from osseaus labrynth with a little bit of la ribot thrown in for good measurita. i liked Canadian Alexis o'hara. she was cute and bubbly in that Canuck fashion i cherish. her piece started off really strong, then veered into laurie anderson as stand-up commedienne territory. of course i was exhausted from my lack of sleep and inability to adjust to the time change, so my meter for everything was a bit off.
met festival director nikki milican who reminds me of hanna hurtzig from berlin's volksbrunner. all the artists are big networking queens, i don't get any sexual vibes from them, so i don't think i'll be getting my proverbial gnut in this city. i had no idea there would be so many presenters, programmers, festival directors and the like in attendance.
The audience is made up mostly of other artists, students and academes, not exactly crossover appeal. just preaching to the subflirted. my arthritis is kicking into high gear, so i'm going to have to continue this report later. hiyawatha!
Been in Glasgow now for three days---what a whirl! my plane from los ang had elderly ingenue Selma Blair with Guy Oseary of madge's maverick label. i didn't know they were an item.
cute colin-richardson-webb, the NRLA general mgr picked me up from the aeroport. on my plane was the grand madame of performance, the one and only linda m. montano, along with dapper art critic Robert Airs. i worship ms. montano. my movie costumer girlfriend Crepe Suzette worked with her during her Red period of living art. linda is a treasure and so dear. What a highlight meeting her and riding in the taxi to our hotel ibis, which is a little low rent, but i have a nice shower and full sized bed, so i'm not complaining, plus there is a free breakfast, and since i'm low on funds i have to stuff myself and make it last all day.
Franko B. and Ron are already here plus Franko's beau, adorable kristofer who is now sporting a full head of lush hair, super post modern intellect Dominic Johnson, handsome Manuel Vason, and the delightfully stunning beauty that is Kira O'Reilly. Daddy Athey takes me to tea at the famous Willow Tea room designed by famed architec CR Mackintosh. Mackintosh is a fluffier architectual version of Frank Lloyd Wright. We were served by a nice potato apple doll lady and her tight bodied young son with peaches n cream complexion. The NRLA at the Arches across fromt he grand central train station is wonderous. Imagine, a performance event held in a catacombe. The new moves festival is like a performance art convention. its unlike anything i've ever been a part of. its a little on the dry side, but i'm enjoying reuniting with people i've met in the euro performance art scene. linda montano's cute editor of her new book Jenny Klein is like a baby Annie Sprinkle with red bright hair and pre-raphelite skin. We've really hit it off and i love how she takes care of Linda. She teaches at a university in Ohio and wants to bring me out there. i love ohio and those kornfed boys and appalachian hill jacks. one of the performance installations i see is from anne seagrave of france who has a tight male-ish body, like a wound, like a gash, a mixture of hannah from osseaus labrynth with a little bit of la ribot thrown in for good measurita. i liked Canadian Alexis o'hara. she was cute and bubbly in that Canuck fashion i cherish. her piece started off really strong, then veered into laurie anderson as stand-up commedienne territory. of course i was exhausted from my lack of sleep and inability to adjust to the time change, so my meter for everything was a bit off.
met festival director nikki milican who reminds me of hanna hurtzig from berlin's volksbrunner. all the artists are big networking queens, i don't get any sexual vibes from them, so i don't think i'll be getting my proverbial gnut in this city. i had no idea there would be so many presenters, programmers, festival directors and the like in attendance.
The audience is made up mostly of other artists, students and academes, not exactly crossover appeal. just preaching to the subflirted. my arthritis is kicking into high gear, so i'm going to have to continue this report later. hiyawatha!
Monday, February 07, 2005
SIMPLE MAN
THE NOMI SONG, MORE THEN A MOVIE FOR LITTLE GIRLY BOYS GROWING UP
As a young F.I.T. (Fag-In-Training) one of the most cherished, hallowed, inspirational moments that flushed throughout my entire late 1970's being, occured while watching Saturday Night Live. I usually went to bed around 9:30 whether it was a school night or not, since I was a devout member of the Jehovah's Witness sect, and arose early Sunday mornings for proselatyzing door-to-door and on the highways and byways of my South Central Los Angeles neighborhood.
David Bowie however was making a well publicized, rare appearance on SNL, and though i wasn't a big fan of his, i was curious how he’d look on our ancient Emerson black&white monitor, with the limited reception factor of only being able to view channels 4, 5 and 7.
According to negro urban legend of the period, the freaky Bowie had recently emerged from the hospital with his stomach pumped because of swallowing a pint load of Rod Stewart's ejaculate. My mother was already sound asleep so i crept into the living room and kept the sound down low to watch the ensuing brouhaha unfold. To my utter amazement la Bowie in a copycat Tristan Zara was flanked by two exotic looking men in elaborate make-up wearing dour frocks. One of the men i recognized from the LA local disco scene that centered around the Circus and Ginos II dance clubs. On Bowie’s left the popular Chicano queen Joey Arias who had made a name for himself by moving to New York, and was working at the uber trendy clothing hot spot Fiorucci.
The other back-up singer on Bowie’s right really caught my youthful eye. His robotlike movements and high C Susie singing voice made him much more compelling to me then Bowie, who was already at that time a huge international star. The next day after field service and theocratic ministry school I made it a point to call some pen pals of mine who lived in New York and milk them for information. My two Manhattan friends were infamous teenage boy sluts who were familiar with Klaus Nomi, but knew very little about him other then his name. The damage was already done. Soon i would be living full-time in drag in Hollywood, leaving behind my religious life and becoming immersed in the disco, punk and new wave scenes.
So what a revelation that at last there is a documentary film about the legendary Klaus Nomi. "The Nomi Song" a beautiful and compelling film by Andrew Horn, an American who has lived for decades in Berlin Germany. A country that Nomi left in 1974 to seek fame and fortune in New York City. And a country that I am desperately trying to leave Los Angeles for.
Klaus Nomi---the ultimate misnomer of the downtown New York demimonde. This film while keeping the mystery of Klaus Nomi intact is also able expand on the Nomi mythology. I'm certainly not the first fey boy to be influenced by Nomi's well crafted image. I certainly wished I had his singing skills and chops. When he made his debut appearance in a New Wave Vaudeville Review it became one of those defining moments that cemented an emerging art movement. Klaus Nomi was born camera ready for the MTV video era. Before I made a feeble attempt to move to New York in the early 80s, Nomi was on the verge of a global takeover, then suddenly he became one of the first well known artists to succomb to the ravages of Mrs. A.I.D.S. then only known as the gay cancer.
This extroidinary documentary does capture an exciting period with some never before seen archival footage and devastingly lovely, poignent moments. I never met Klaus Nomi but he is certainly one of my idols and outsider art forefathers. I wish I had a chance to experience his magic first hand, but perhaps its just as well that years later I’ve become friends with many who were a major part of his life, like the divine Ann Magnusen or the immensely talented Kristian Hoffman whose career in The Mumps, The Contortions and The Swinging Madisons I followed faithfully, and who I had a major crush on. I knew Hoffman worked with Klaus Nomi but I didn’t know that Kristian wrote some of Klaus Nomi’s songs and in true record industry fashion was ripped off by never being paid for them.
The Demon of Endor spirit that was Klaus Nomi lives on with a new generation who are now discovering his genius and in performers like Antony and the Johnson’s who are his falsetto singing, operetta children of the corn.
THE NOMI SONG, MORE THEN A MOVIE FOR LITTLE GIRLY BOYS GROWING UP
As a young F.I.T. (Fag-In-Training) one of the most cherished, hallowed, inspirational moments that flushed throughout my entire late 1970's being, occured while watching Saturday Night Live. I usually went to bed around 9:30 whether it was a school night or not, since I was a devout member of the Jehovah's Witness sect, and arose early Sunday mornings for proselatyzing door-to-door and on the highways and byways of my South Central Los Angeles neighborhood.
David Bowie however was making a well publicized, rare appearance on SNL, and though i wasn't a big fan of his, i was curious how he’d look on our ancient Emerson black&white monitor, with the limited reception factor of only being able to view channels 4, 5 and 7.
According to negro urban legend of the period, the freaky Bowie had recently emerged from the hospital with his stomach pumped because of swallowing a pint load of Rod Stewart's ejaculate. My mother was already sound asleep so i crept into the living room and kept the sound down low to watch the ensuing brouhaha unfold. To my utter amazement la Bowie in a copycat Tristan Zara was flanked by two exotic looking men in elaborate make-up wearing dour frocks. One of the men i recognized from the LA local disco scene that centered around the Circus and Ginos II dance clubs. On Bowie’s left the popular Chicano queen Joey Arias who had made a name for himself by moving to New York, and was working at the uber trendy clothing hot spot Fiorucci.
The other back-up singer on Bowie’s right really caught my youthful eye. His robotlike movements and high C Susie singing voice made him much more compelling to me then Bowie, who was already at that time a huge international star. The next day after field service and theocratic ministry school I made it a point to call some pen pals of mine who lived in New York and milk them for information. My two Manhattan friends were infamous teenage boy sluts who were familiar with Klaus Nomi, but knew very little about him other then his name. The damage was already done. Soon i would be living full-time in drag in Hollywood, leaving behind my religious life and becoming immersed in the disco, punk and new wave scenes.
So what a revelation that at last there is a documentary film about the legendary Klaus Nomi. "The Nomi Song" a beautiful and compelling film by Andrew Horn, an American who has lived for decades in Berlin Germany. A country that Nomi left in 1974 to seek fame and fortune in New York City. And a country that I am desperately trying to leave Los Angeles for.
Klaus Nomi---the ultimate misnomer of the downtown New York demimonde. This film while keeping the mystery of Klaus Nomi intact is also able expand on the Nomi mythology. I'm certainly not the first fey boy to be influenced by Nomi's well crafted image. I certainly wished I had his singing skills and chops. When he made his debut appearance in a New Wave Vaudeville Review it became one of those defining moments that cemented an emerging art movement. Klaus Nomi was born camera ready for the MTV video era. Before I made a feeble attempt to move to New York in the early 80s, Nomi was on the verge of a global takeover, then suddenly he became one of the first well known artists to succomb to the ravages of Mrs. A.I.D.S. then only known as the gay cancer.
This extroidinary documentary does capture an exciting period with some never before seen archival footage and devastingly lovely, poignent moments. I never met Klaus Nomi but he is certainly one of my idols and outsider art forefathers. I wish I had a chance to experience his magic first hand, but perhaps its just as well that years later I’ve become friends with many who were a major part of his life, like the divine Ann Magnusen or the immensely talented Kristian Hoffman whose career in The Mumps, The Contortions and The Swinging Madisons I followed faithfully, and who I had a major crush on. I knew Hoffman worked with Klaus Nomi but I didn’t know that Kristian wrote some of Klaus Nomi’s songs and in true record industry fashion was ripped off by never being paid for them.
The Demon of Endor spirit that was Klaus Nomi lives on with a new generation who are now discovering his genius and in performers like Antony and the Johnson’s who are his falsetto singing, operetta children of the corn.
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