Sol Lewitt underground (September 19, 2009, Part III)

To go downtown, we got down into the subway at the 59th Street station and were delighted to see that the new Sol Lewitt mural has been unveiled. (We sold our Sol Lewitt last year and have always felt a bit of kinship to his work. If he were alive, I wonder how he'd feel about the carved out sections for access and infrastructure. It's an energetic and happy piece and we are glad it is there. I believe that the pairs of yellow safety treads are an unintentional harmonic.

The Terrifically Playful Pandrogynous Genesis Breyer P-Orridge

You know you’re at the vernissage of a good English artist when you approach the open bar expecting the usual sawdust wine and instead are offered gin with the instruction “Say when”! I am glad to report that I had the good fortune to view his/her show and finally met Genesis Breyer P-Orridge at “30 Years of Being Cut Up” at the Invisible Exports Gallery on Orchard Street on the Lower East Side of Manhattan.


It has been a few years since I saw him/her perform with Psychic TV at the Bowery Ballroom. S/he sent me a sly note when my review came to his/her attention. S/he remembered sending that note and dated that performance in terms of the death of his/her beloved Lady Jaye whose image on his/her forearm was revealed upon my following his/her instruction to “Push my sleeve up.”


Those of you who read me regularly know that I am dismissive of approximately 95% of the contents of any given category in this world. Genesis resides in the 5% that I respect. Before attending this event, I had enjoyed only his/her music, but now I am also entirely happy to report that the collaged visual images that comprise this show are intelligent and fascinating.

Those of you who read me regularly also know that I have little patience with trans folk who bristle at the limping of the English language in describing gender assignment, especially those who take up arms whenever they feel that innocently imperfect references disclose a malicious prejudice. Genesis famously plays with gendered words, and has done so for years, and is light years beyond those who harrumph about the indignities of inadequate grammar. On the subject of transgender issues, I’d also call your attention to his/her actions when faced with the prospect of performing at an Arizona venue that badly handled the business of bathrooms. Genesis is so much deeper than some whiney trans folk who seem to be playing in imaginary dollhouses with solipsistic house rules.

At one point in the evening, I whispered to Genesis that the crowd seemed unusually somber. I wondered why. Genesis bristled slightly and began to say that some things are beyond his/her control, but I supplied the answer to my own question. The mostly young crowd who filled the gallery was extremely reverential regarding their Genesis Breyer P-Orridge. Eavesdropping while threading through the crowd, I heard many accounts of love for his/her music. I don’t think s/her realizes the extent of his/her following despite the passage of many years of COUM, Throbbing Gristle, TOPI and Psychic TV and all the other fantastic iterations of the mind of Genesis Breyer P-Orridge. I don’t think Genesis realizes the durability of what s/he has built. This may be evidenced by the fact that Psychic TV will be touring exclusively overseas on their next outing. I think their American audience is underestimated.

And now for my focused review: Genesis Breyer P-Orridge is terrifically playful and is not afraid of using his/her own body as an expression of the playful exploration of identity. Cutting up everything in one’s life and rearranging the pieces can, with luck and intuition, tell you the truth with which you were born. Genesis tells us not to fear the cutting up. Genesis employs no artifice and hides behind no pretense or stylization. Like all prophets, Genesis tells us things that we appreciate but will never fully follow as we return home to the security of our own wigless, unaltered, unpainted, intact and pedestrian bodies.

S/he told me that this was his/her favorite among the images on display. S/he pointed out the tampon string and proclaimed it beautiful.


S/he asked me what I made of an adjacent picture. I told him/her it looked like the photos I received at my last colonoscopy. S/he said that s/he had had a colonoscopy recently and did I know what it disclosed? That s/he was full of shit. Obviously, Genesis had not swallowed the required Fleet products in advance of that scrutiny.

Ultimately, I think Genesis would find me lacking in audaciousness. I who admire him/her and can appreciate his/her voyages into unexplored regions and can only wonder about the strength of one who survives the loss of the beloved, might fail in his/her sight, but that is beyond my control and I am happy to know that somewhere is a creature who is fearless with a silly Psychic TV lyric that we sang together in the course of our encounter.

You’re very nice.
I like you.
You’re very nice.
Your eyes are ice.
I think that I’m in paradise.

Let me stop here. Do your homework, lads. Get to know him/her. I’d have worn the t shirt but it’s in Florida.


PS: I have interviewed and photographed several trans people and I have begun to understand something about them . They seem to fear the lens. Where most people see bravado, I see fright. Their agreement to being photographed feels like an act of surrender. In a single instant, when they look from the lens to me, they are saying “I’m going to trust you. I do not know if you are worthy of that trust or if you will abuse it, but I am giving you the gift of trust.” In their photographed face, they convey a complete summary of their inner journey. Their faces seem to say “Look, I’ve taken my own very private road to where I am today. I’ve had to put up with criticism and disapproval and hatred and discrimination along the way. Now I place my creation in your hands. I am proud of what I have become. I trust you with all that I have become. Please be kind.”



Genesis, you needn’t worry about my camera. It loves you as do I from the safety of my own less cut up collage.



Here you will find a compete set of photos (NSFW) from the show which may be visited through October 18th.

My Stint as an extra in "Bear City"

I had a great time as an extra in a movie called Bear City. Filmed at the legendary New York leather bar The Eagle, this movie is described by its makers as a bear version of Sex and the City.



When the casting director asked me to bring a few different outfits, she specified that I should avoid red, white or black because those colors do not read well under the lights. She said that earth tones would be preferable. Earth tones? No black? This girl has obviously never been to The Eagle, I thought, but I managed to throw together an appropriate combination of grey, navy and olive. At one point in the filming, the director yelled for a pause and fetched a dark leather baseball cap to hide my radiantly silver hair that was casting some blinding light of its own.

During my three day stint, I was interviewed by some documentarians about the definition of bear. That is actually a tricky question to answer, but basically, a bear is a hairy masculine gay guy who is most often stocky. There are variations labeled cub, otter, panda, polar, etc.

I am still thinking through the matter of obesity as it relates to the bear culture. More on that soon.

The fabulous Michael Musto, and the rather well preserved Randy Jones of The Village People, both had cameos. I chatted with Mr. Musto who was not at all pleased at having to wait quite some time for his brief "nipple clamp" scene/cameo on the dance floor.

The weirdest part of this experience involved dancing with no music. We'd be given a couple of bars, and then it would cut to silence so that the dialogue would record correctly. Oddly liberating.



The best part of the experience was the camaraderie that develops among the extras during the long hours of waiting for the next scene in which we might be needed. And there was the exceptionally fine catering....




You can just about see my leather cap in the photo on page four of this Advocate piece about the filming of Bear City.

I learned a new phrase. When the director shouts "And back to one", everyone moves back to the exact positions they had at the beginning of the take. We all agreed that this would be a fine phrase utilized during sex.

Another New York City Moment: The Reminescents

And this one will make you smile. We were walking toward Central Park to view the tree damage caused by the recent "microburst" when we came upon a 100 Year celebration of Hostelling International's building on the Upper west Side. Designed by Richard Morris Hunt, the exterior is still handsome, but we were disappointed to find that the interior contains hardly a trace of its original ornamentation.

The singers, from Jersey City, call themselves The Reminescents (their spelling). I didn't get the names of the "Devil with the Blue Dress" dancers.

Bear Hill -summer 2009 begins.

On Saturday, the boys gathered on Bear Hill in Central Park. Here are David, Joe, C, Nick, Jeff, Craig, Chris, Mike & Chris.



Others arrived later. The Pino Grigian Sprite was most quaffable.

Some are born raconteurs.



Others are born to dance. (And he had the best line of the afternoon, after having had his fill of Joe describing the perfect Jewish husband that is somewhere out there: “Well you just saddle up your unicorn and find him for me.”)




Still others are born just to love, as is evidenced by this photo made by Dr. Jeff of two guys who settled near our group, having just met in the Ramble.

Broadway - Car Free!

New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg and his Transportation Commissioner, Jannette Sadik-Khan, have scored another success. We got out of the subway at 50th St and walked down Broadway only slightly annoyed by the 7th Avenue traffic crossing it at Times Square.

Festive to say the least, and nice to know that this is permanent. It will be reviewed at the end of the year, but I can't imagine any one clamoring for the return of traffic to Broadway. If anything, the pedestrian-only sections will continue to multiply.



(I disagree with some of Nicolai Ouroussoff's review. He disses the tables and chairs, saying they are wobbly and out-of-scale. I guess he has no sense of humor. The furnishings are deliberately beachy and fun in an insubstantial non-monumental way. The people in this video will tell you the real story. No one lingers when the public space is not commodious.)

Protesting False Arrests in New York City on Valentine's Day: video/pics/texts

A group of men gathered at the corner of 79th Street and Fifth Avenue (a few doors down from Mayor Bloomberg's home) to protest the recently escalating number of false arrests targeting gay men in adult book and video stores. The entrapment involves a young undercover vice squad policeman coming on to an older gay man and eventually offering him money in return for sex. Once the older man is lured from the premises, he is arrested for prostitution.

This is wrong on several levels. There is the absurdity of a hot young guy having to offer cash to an older man. (I won't say it never happens, as I myself have been offered cash for sex even in my dotage, but I think it is extremely rare.) There is the fact that this drama deliberately targets gay men. There is the ridiculousness of using limited police resources to entrap gay men who are doing nobody any harm.

Surely the mayor can put a stop to this. Surely a leader as enlightened as Michael Bloomberg can prevail upon his own police department to stop this type of persecution.

Here is the flyer distributed at the rally, and the texts of the two poems written and delivered by the delightful activist George Tynan Crowley. Your click will make them readable.








And here is a photo of the scruffy/sexy JoeMyGod with Little Nick who, when I pointed out the owner of the now defunct sex club El Mirage, wondered if I had ever been to the nightclub El Morocco. Sheesh Nicklet, I'm not that old.



And here are two raw videos showing the delightful George Tynan Crowley reciting his poems and one video of the protestors.

Gay Rights Protester seeks husband (or something like one)

When the gay marriage protest march reached Times Square, we bumped into Stan Richardson, "Playwright and Protagonist", who was handing out leaflets and feeling desirous of a New York wedding.

He's cute and funny. (His best line is the one at the very end of the vid.)

Hey you single guys looking for a man, what are you waiting for? stanrichardson@gmail.com

I get the yenta points.

Gay Protest in New York City tonight

We froze but we marched.
From Herald Square (think Macy's and Miracle on 34th St, you hinterlanders) to Times Square. In numbers approaching a few hundred strong, the little lights of protest warmed up the night. More formal observations and video to follow tomorrow, but

a) Just as I expected and despite instructions from JoinTheImpact, this was not a silent, prayerful or chanting crowd. Out came the megaphones and all the usual shouts of "When I say XXXX, you say XXXX...XXXX! etc. (I really hate that one. It's too convoluted.) and the hey hey ho ho chant was aimed this time at having Rick Warren to go.

b) Numbers were small (<300?) but impact was high: strong sound system and a stage in Times Square.

c) Proof of the consistently amateur or naive approach to this phenomenon is the fact that the wooden podium had no sign on it with a logo and info that would show up in media coverage.

d)And this is MOST important, we need to show great respect and encouragement to the young people who are producing these events. Someone at last is doing something. The flaws are inconsequential. To not show up, despite the weather would have been unthinkable.


Go here for some pics.

OMO's JFK/FLL review.

It is annoying to have so little time left for the pleasure of reading what anyone else is delivering. Mostly, I stumble into your woods when you leave me a comment. This is inefficient but I have no other options and it did lead me to OMO's recent spot-on review of New York City and Fort Lauderdale.

What he says about the NYC bath house is correct. The entering of it is so strenuously convoluted, and one is so exhausted by it that only the prospect of the safest sex (flopping down in the steam room and sleeping till it's time to go) remains.

Their time in Abercrombie & Fitch. Well, if that's your poison, expect the burping.

Gym bar. I agree, but occasionally it does attract some men who actually do something with a ball on grass. And it is certainly not as bad as the "sports bar" in Lauderdale in which most of the attendees are chain-smoking.

About Fort Lauderdale. Well if you've been reading me for a spell, you know my opinion about the state of the minds of the men who live there and the redemption of their bodies.

I'll part ways with OMO only by conclusion. I do like living in both of those places. I think you need to scratch their surfaces more deeply to see how and where they can glow. When these men return, I hope they will let me show them some of what they missed and judging by OMO's other posts, they missed a good deal of what they would have liked. Some doors are unmarked. Some corners located only with Luminol.

Contemplating art in a Chelsea gallery.

Click pic for truth.

Fashion Trend Alert - Cuffed Jeans

Fashion is largely an attempt at amusement through affectation and application. Its statements are sometimes also signals that, unlike the mythical phoenix, mutate when resuscitated. "Cuffed jeans" are a good example of fashion's modified messaging. In the 1950s, the exaggerated cuff was the mark of a young male prostitute working in New York City. Those cuffs probably telegraphed "I'm young, a hayseed, poor and wearing hand-me-downs from taller older brothers." Today's cuffage telegraphs "I'm young (or, would like to be considered such), moneyed and hip enough to know exactly how wide my cuffs ought to be."

Caution: do not confuse cuffs with rolls. Rolled jeans signify the proximity of high water, a bicycle or Mayberry. Cuffs are a deliberation for those unconcerned with the bail-outs of financial institutions or whether or not Frank Rich's coinage of the word truthiness meaning political mendacity will catch fire.

Caution: these cuffs should be applied exclusively to long legs. The short among us will not be permitted to adjust the width of the cuff proportionally.

Caution: cuffed denim shorts, like smallpox supposedly eradicated worldwide, reappeared on the streets of Manhattan toward the end of the summer. Black suited men jumping out of Crown Victorias snatched the guys wearing these off the sidewalks. I think they have it under control, but we won't know for sure until next summer.

On Saturday, on Bear Hill in Central Park, Ned cuffs:


Nick also cuffs:


The kids, Corey and Matt, still in knickers and therefore unable to cuff, were delighted with a new tee shirt from Lululemon that changes color wherever you chew it.

I myself own two Lululemon tee shirts. One has silver threads that supposedly absorb odor. They do. I smell like a locker room when I wear it. The second one was marketed as being made of seaweed. This was exposed as a hoax. I am remorseful when I wear this shirt. It is indeed a Lulu Lemon. I don't shop there anymore.

With no regard for appearances fashionable or un, our group fell into its usual shenanigans


Darkness surprised us, its equinocturnal army claiming our unguarded citadel while we were in a nearby valley throwing the frisbee. I think that next summer we will modify this game. The frisbee will be thrown from one group to another (rather than from one Sprite-addled blogger to the next) with individual teammates fighting for it. I suggest we call this new game "Catch the Bouquet".

"This is a highly irregular procedure"

On Sunday,at 8AM, we wander into Central Park with morning coffee in hand. We swing by "the balloon" assuming that it would still be grounded because the breeze felt just as strong as the Saturday breeze that had forced cancellation of all flights. We were surprised to find it in operation, and the line short!

Here's a video of our ascent. The first ranks of buildings that skirt the park made me feel as if I were in the centre of Stonehenge. The slow and silent turning of the balloon made the impact of the view both stunning and calming.


Here we look south. That's the old Plaza Hotel on the left.


Here, we look west at our neighborhood. That's the Dakota on the left.
Here are the Bow Bridge and the Ramble. If those trees could talk.


Here is a video of our descent.

New York Social Diary and Bearotic.com

If you are not regularly reading David Patrick Columbia's New York Social Diary, you really are walking past a window into a world that few of us will ever otherwise experience. Sometimes, Mr. Columbia will deliver a fascinating historical glimpse, such as today's bit about Onassis and diamonds. Ordinarily, we read about the socially prominent of New York and their philanthropic events. The writing and photography are unfailingly satisfying and never mean-spirited. There is also a list of names to help you follow the players. I think you'd have to have a serious case of reverse-snobbery to be angered by this diary.

And, as the perfect antidote to the spectre of so many lifted and relaxed faces, I recommend a quick trip to Bearotic.com!

Highline benchmarks

Yesterday, I attended the unveiling of the architects Diller Scofidio’s plans for Section 2 (20th to 30th Street) of the fantastic-but-real “Highline Project”.

Section 1 (Gansevoort to 20th Street) has already been designed and work has begun.

If you are not familiar with this project, you can become so here.

In short, the Highline is 1.5 miles of elevated steel-supported train bed built in 1929-1934 and connecting 22 blocks on the west side of Manhattan. Before the line was built, pedestrians were frequently killed by trains passing along 10th Avenue which came to be known as “Death Avenue”. In the 1800’s, the city hired men to ride horses in front of the trains, waving red cloth to shoo aside pedestrians. They were known as “West Side Cowboys”. (There are still a good number of cowboys on the west side, but their hankie colors vary.)

Incidentally, the Highline Project is the brainchild of two good-looking west side cowboys named Robert Hammond and Josh David who live in Chelsea.

The architects asked that we refrain from photographing the slides showing the plans for Section 2 because they are not finalized, but I was allowed to photograph the following which show the state of the highline today: an unused river of wild greenery that will become public space containing lawns, thickets, meadows, bleachers and benches.




One particularly imaginative feature of Section 2 will be a raised (eight feet) path through a sumac forest. Sumac trees are already growing on the highline, tolerant of the damp and shade of the canyons of tall buildings. The raised path would allow you to walk among the treetops while looking down at an urban hammock of ferns and greenery.

The idea is to fashion a contemplative urban oasis, but those in attendance yesterday voiced valid concerns that the number of people who will use and/or visit the highline will make it crowded and noisy. Robert Hammond and the architects agreed that this could be a problem.

In conversation with the architects after their presentation, I noted that their plans show backless benches that, while attractive in a minimalist/modern way, are extremely uncomfortable. I asked if they had perhaps sat on the new wooden benches at Columbus Circle. They had. I countered that they should then be aware of how a backless bench can be visually elegant but totally uncomfortable. I pointed out the fact that the more traditional park benches in Central Park, especially those along the promenade leading to the Bethesda Terrace are both elegant and comfortable. They rolled their eyes a bit but assured me that they had been forced into including benches with backs by Amanda Burden, Chair of the City Planning Commission, who has already test-sat their proposed bench design and approved it. They just had not included the backs in their design slides. You really have to watch modern architects closely to check their fever for sleek design over comfort.

And, to clarify my position for those of you who are from out-of-town, I schlepped the camera out into the rain today to take some pics of both the comfortable benches in Central Park and the uncomfortable ones at Columbus Circle. Applying myself to this task gave me a good excuse for avoiding any more serious or pressing responsibilities.

Here are the comfortable benches.





Nearby, I spied a very uncomfortable fashion model being forced to perch on a cold and damp stone bench at the top of "Bear Hill".


Here are the uncomfortable benches of Columbus Circle.



While I was there, this gentleman became a fashion victim of a different sort, having come to rest briefly on the loathsome bench. With his jeans belted well below his butt, the damp wood was less than hospitable and when he arose, left its mark on his tighty-nolonger-whities. I thought this particular and absurd urban style trend required plaid boxers. Maybe he was trying to be fashion-forward.



Here is the bench that C and I call ours. It is located on an island in the middle of the elaborate intersection of Broadway, 65th Street and Columbus Avenue. To get there, we pass by the tiny Parisian café chairs of Richard Tucker Square (also uncomfortable and located under trees that hold impolite pigeons). We take morning coffee here and at 7:30PM we do our people watching here, judging the well-dressed and not-so-well-dressed horde of theater-goers on their way to Lincoln Center. Yesterday, I learned that we are not the only ones who call this bench “ours”. When I got to it, an elderly couple was just getting up. As I sat down, the lady smiled at me and said “Best seat in the house. We always sit here when we are in town.” Architects, take note.

Bryant Park

This is for Little David who has requested that I "post something in order to get that grotesque image off the top of the page".

Here are some soothing views of Bryant Park. I was going to do a longer post about this jewel of a park located in the middle of Manahttan, and I still might, but for now, this ought to help David's reflux.

Rapture Cafe

A long road brought us to the event last night at the Rapture Café (200 Avenue A between 12th and 13th Streets) where four readers, including a winning JoeMyGod, delivered themselves of whimsical, almost nostalgic accounts of a church organist fisting someone sans wristwatch, Charles Pierce being ordered to his knees in a janitor’s closet, a rhapsodic KFC staffer getting tenderized behind the counter, and a chagrined “son” whose trip to Connecticut to meet an online “daddy” gets re-scripted. What would have been considered shocking and pornographic material a scant few years ago now elicited appreciative laughter from the packed room, and no one seemed too upset when a two year old on a scooter weaving through the crowd stopped at the foot of the stage a few inches below the towering presence of Miss Understood who was at a particularly steamy part of her narrative. (Not to worry, for that child will never recall the words, only the sight of Miss U’s gigantic candy pink do and her glittery blue lips. Much less traumatic than most circus clowns.)

This event, "Reading for Filth", had been organized by the recently deceased Dean Johnson who was memorialized in picture on the wall behind the readers, and in word by recitation of one of the last entries from his diary. It is not an exaggeration to say that Dean Johnson paved much of the New York portion of that long road to self-worth and freedom of expression.

A word about the Rapture Café with its small stage, wall of books and bar. This is a friendly space with lighting and sound level conducive to human interaction, something so rarely accomplished in this city of murky deafening rooms. If I were single and looking for love (and twenty years younger), I’d probably shop here. The evening's DJ was Baby K:



Eric Leven read first. Earlier in the evening, a few of us confessed to viewing photos of Eric while employing mental whisk brooms to sweep aside any words he might include on the pages of his blog. While not surprised that he looks as hot in person, I was charmed by his fine delivery of a story so good that I will have to start actually reading him.



Joe was up next, offering two JMG classics including the aforementioned fisting story, and a selection that I would have considered risky because of its visual nature: a list of hilarious online hook-up proposals including the wonderful “I am totally uninhabited”. Joe’s dazzling and razor sharp delivery worked perfectly to translate the material into speakery, once again convincing me that he ought to be performing more often and to a much larger audience.



Chris distributed party hats to us just as Joe took the stage and he seemed not at all thrown by our singing “Happy Birthday” to mark his day.

Miss Understood, a warhorse of a drag queen, and Jake Shears of the Scissor Sisters were entirely entertaining while delivering material written by others.



I was disappointed that Michael Cunningham was a no-show. Rapture staff did not seem to have any advance warning of his absence and it would be wrong to jump to any conclusions about it.

Quite a fun crowd including Vasco, Chris, Dr. Jeff, Damien, Craig (who fended off a bicycle thief), Chris/Randy and a handsome stranger named Brian who raises money for the Episcopalians and had to ask what the “(NSFW)” on my shirt meant.

Herbert Muschamp

He was perhaps the greatest of them all.

resined trash, painted paneling, purple pagodas, new york city art

C drags me to the Chelsea galleries with some regularity. There, I am subjected to much disgusting stuff sheltered under the tolerant umbrella of Art. I don't mind this experience because I have learned that seeing garbage passed off as art can scratch your mind in a good way and help clear your vision. The object is to learn to be the first to laugh at the emperor who has no clothes. Or, to learn to appreciate a thing just because it is pretty or delicious even when it has no depth. These four clips contain some of both.

Only in New York

What started out as a Sunday afternoon tour of Central Park's Bethesda Terrace and Fountain (don't miss the newly restored Minton tile ceiling) ends with a startling and yet typical "Only in New York" encounter. I wonder if he caught anything in his fish nets.