Joel Westendorf
I'm guessing it was around 2000-2001... I was out @ the club Spaceland with a friend, and we ran into some other friends, and those friends had a friend who had brought along Vincent Kartheiser. We all drank and half-watched the band that was playing. I knew who Vincent was because my roomate Dennis was totally "fascinated" by him @ the time so I'd seen some of his movies. In person I found him to be brash and juvenille, but hey.. he was like.. 22. So, whatever. I can see how some people might've been charmed by his antics. Anyway, as the night was winding down and people were leaving, we gathered on the sidewalk, wrapping up conversations and saying goodnight. Vincent was loudly talking to anyone and everyone, asking aloud "Who's gonna gimme a blowjob so I can go ta sleep?" a few times, and in different ways. People couldn't tell if he was serious or not. I wasn't interested in helping him out, so I said goodnight to everyone and went and got my car from the lot next to the building. I took an immediate right and stopped in front of the club to roll down the passenger side window and tell my friend something I'd forgotten. My friend came over and Vincent followed. He poked his head beside hers as I told her whatever it was that I'd forgotten, and then we said goodnight. She pulled back from the window and Vincent put his head further IN to the window, and then both hands and arms, and then his whole torso. He said "Goodnight, Joel", lightly grabbed my face with both his hands, kissed me on the lips and then withdrew from the window to bounce back to his pals. I was like - Huh? Weird. and I drove off chuckling about how jealous Dennis was going to be when I told him. The End.
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Chris
It was somewhere between the summers of 1978-82. I was bicycle messenger in NYC. Which means I was all over Manhattan on any given day, often in elevators either crowded or alone with someone. One day I happened to be in an elevator with David Mccallum, the sexy one from Man from U.N.C.L.E., the "great" TV show of my youth. Sometimes I used to start up conversations by saying, "would you like to switch jobs?" So nervous, I thought I'd try it out again. His response went something like, " how dare you ask me...I've been out of work for years." True or not. That shut me up.
Those summers as a messenger were when I got to know NYC in more detail. The two other "famous" people I saw on the street several times were Tiny Tim and Andy Warhol. Then there was club 57 after work.
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Daniel Portland
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Kevin Killian
Here I am surrounded by two legendary ladies, Dodie Bellamy on my right and Valerie Harper on my left. Very eighties! Very LA! We were staying at the Hotel Bonaventure, then itself an iconic place by virtue of having been written up by Fredric Jameson and by Baudrillard. It was ground zero in the society of the spectacle. We were meeting Valerie Harper (once Rhoda on the Mary Tyler Moore show) because I had won a contest involving murder mysteries and soap operas. It was back when I was a devoted fan of the NBC soap Santa Barbara. The event we were at was the only one I've ever been to that was covered by "Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous," and in the months that followed I got a few phone calls for disbelieving relatives asking if they had indeed seen me for a split second on Lifestyles.
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Misanthrope
I’d never heard really heard of Matt Marcure (otherwise known as Panda? throughout the blogosphere – who knew, right?). Even from the countless photos of him I’d downloaded from the net during hours, days, weeks, and years of stalk- um, perusing the internet; from the thousands of daily visits to his blogs and to his myspace and facebook pages; from the hundreds of thousands of hours of listening to his music; from the millions of hours looking at the posters I’d made from his online pics and hung on my walls; even from all of this, I had noidea who this guy was.
I mean, really, how was I supposed to know I was in the presence of the world wide web’s, nay, the world’s!, biggest, most talented, revolutionary, hottest celebrity when I accidentally stumbled upon him in his backyard:
Or when I inadvertently ran into him while he was at an awards ceremony in Hawaii:
Or when I mistakenly bumped into him as he put into effect his plans for world Panda? domination:
Seriously, how was I to know?
Well, now that I have an inkling of how big a star this dude is, when I get out of prison, I’ll be sure to run into him again. In the meantime, I’ll just share with you the few pics I have smugg- um, have left of my chance encounters with this mysterious fella about whom, I swear, I knew absolutely nothing…
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Trees
During an encore performance of "Fuck the Pain Away," I fed Peaches grapes on stage and she frenched me and spit beer on my face.
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Bernard Welt
Teeny-weeny Brush with Greatness (inspired by Dennis' March 13 post)
I think I've already told all my stories about meeting famous people here: Gore Vidal smiled at me, Roseanne hugged me, Patricia Clarkson flirted with me, and hugely, when I was 15, I shook hands with Sammy Davis Jr.
This is a really tiny one, but like many a subpar American film comedy, it does feature a sudden and unexpected celebrity guest appearance:
Last year we saw Noel Coward's Blithe Spirit, on Broadway, with a friend who knew someone in the cast, so we went backstage to see him. Christine Ebersole said hi, Angela Lansbury herself offered our pal in the cast a ride but he said he was going out with us and she sort of said, suit yourself, and gave us an over-the-shoulder ta-ta wave.
Rupert Everett was in the play, too, and we'd been remarking how his face was now an absolutely featureless plane surface, with not a line in it--eerie, we said, in something of the manner of Jocelyn Wildenstein. Backstage, he kind of coasted by us, oozing charm, followed by about 5 middle-ages women. And the first among them was Jocelyn Wildenstein. From which we more or less assumed that there's some kind of weird club for people who actually think that their horrifying experiments in plastic surgery look good.
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Oscar B
Now, I don't want to look like I'm obsessed, but the truth is that the last celebrity I met was indeed Michael Jackson.
It happened three years ago. I was living and London, and one day I read on a newspaper that he was in town. The article included the name of the hotel he was staying in.
I decided not to go at first, he was part of my past after all, and it felt too melancholic and kind of pathetic to do so.
But I went anyway.
After a few hours waiting outside, and I didn't even know for sure what I was waiting for, me and a bunch of other mad people decided to go in the hotel and sit at the bar. We had to order a £ 20 cup of coffee just to be able to stay there.
At some point, everything went silent. The businessmen in the lounge stopped talking, the waiters stopped serving, an elderly, rich looking lady sitting on a sofa with a dog on her lap suddenly stood up. The dog fell with a cry.
Some disembodied voice whispered: "HE is coming!"
People, me included, moved to the center of the room and formed a living corridor that crossed the hall, curved and ended where the door was.
Finally, I spotted a tall, skinny figure wearing a red shirt and a fedora hat walking towards me.
He was wearing sunglasses, but no mask. His face looked kind of bored and tense.
I felt sorry to be standing there looking at him as if he were some kind of rare animal. I started thinking of when I was thirteen or so and I was convinced that between me and him there was some special connection that nobody else could understand. They were mad thoughts, but they felt good.
That wasn't the real Michael Jackson of course, it was like a projection of myself on him. And standing there in front of him ten years later, it was really odd to have to accept that I was looking at the person who had embodied feelings that seemed so strong as a young teenager. It might seem stupid, but I think that deep inside I really was expecting something to happen.
I remembered I was carrying one of my notebooks in my back pack. I quickly took it out to give it to him, who was at this point literally being swallowed by a sea of screaming fans.
He saw the notebook at the end of my stretched arm, and took it.
Then, the crowd took over and I couldn't see him anymore.
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Pisycaca
1.AV Festival, Málaga, Spain, 2003
Stephen Malkmus, there, in front of me and no one seemed to notice him. Being Pavement my favorite band and SM the embodiment of cool, I was all shaky but I got to say hi to him and the picture done.
2. Apolo, Barcelona, Spain 2008
Xiu Xiu has probably been the most important band for me in the last decade. Once I got to interview Jamie Stewart for a music website and he was adorable. A few years later I saw him before playing his gig and ask for a picture. Didn't manage to say much more.
3. Primavera Sound Festival, Barcelona, Spain, 2009
When I first started listening to Deerhunter, my world changed a little bit, as it had happened with Pavement and Xiu Xiu before. Getting to meet Bradford Cox last year and hanging out with him at the festival was one of the best things of 2009 (meeting you, Dennis, was on the top of the list too of course!).”
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Dorna
This is a picture of me, or at least of me as Rita Verlaine, my Second Life avatar. I’m relaxing on a boat that belongs to Guillaume-en-Egypte, my celebrity of choice for the purposes of this exercise.
The boat is in the Ouvroir. The picture of the orange cat is a portrait of Guillaume created by Chris Marker. Guillaume is a constant presence in Chris’ work and in fact Chris channels him. Ouvroir is the name of the territory Chris has constructed on Second Life. Here, as your avatar floats, flies, walks, runs or hovers, you travel through three-dimensional space that is densely crafted with treasures and surprises aplenty. As you advance, you uncover this world’s topography—a group of islands set in shimmering blue waters. The proprietor offers his visitors thrilling glimpses of the things he has cherished. Constraints of time and place do not apply here, nor does the distinction between interiority and exterior reality. All holds are off. The notion of identity itself gets muddy as you explore this space and discover scraps of its maker’s past and present. Unsurprisingly film references abound. At times, if like me, you are inept at flying, you might fall in the water. But then you’ll simply float down to the bottom. You may discover a wreck down there, or a strange submarine that you might ill-advisedly enter, only to find yourself trapped.
When I came across Guillaume-en-Egypte’s boat, the large sprawled black cat offered an option to hang out and relax. I lay leaning against him and listened to water lapping and bird sounds. There’s also a whale somewhere nearby who floats around and you can hear the splash of his giant spray every so often. Earlier, before I had found the boat, not understanding how exactly these virtual spaces work, I’d managed to lose my hair as well as my polka dot dress that had somehow ended up turning into this long-john outfit. Chris is so meticulous and everything in this space is so mesmerizing that today, looking at this image, I have to fight a rising feeling of shame and inadequacy at my casual adoption of one of the generic avatar appearances on offer by Second Life. Chris is never generic. Just the other night, I came across an avatar that may have been him, an elephant-headed sphinx sitting on a director’s chair. I asked if I could take a picture with him, and he said, “No, not now. Maybe later.”
Endnote: I sent the entry to Chris and asked if it was ok with him if I submitted it for the celebrity and I photo blog post day. He wrote back, "No problem,” he wrote back, “but a few precisions: the cat on the armchair is not my habitual recreation of Guillaume in 2-d, it’s a portrait of the real Guillaume by my friend Remo Forlani, who died just a few months ago. And the character with the elephant head is one of the numerous avatar-robots belonging to Max Moswitzer, who is the conceiver and architect of the Ouvroir. It would be good to name them both."
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Changeling
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Christopher/Mark
George Harris III, AKA Hibiscus, (1949-1982) and M.L. Hollywood, 1966
ML and Nicky Haslam two days ago on March 12th 2010 Miami Beach Florida.
"Time Passes" - (Virginia Woolf - To The Lighthouse)
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Steevee
THE O WORD
“I’ve been waiting for a guide to come and take me by the hand.” -- Joy Division
“Did you exchange a walk-on part in a war for a lead role in a cage?” -- Pink Floyd
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After receiving a mailbox full of rejection notices for this story, which was written in January, I've decided to put it up on this site. (No, I don't have any screenplays in the works.) Before you read this, there are 2 things I should point out:
1) I'm not the narrator of this story, even if his voice sounds like mine. Let's just say that this story is personal without being autobiographical and that I'm not pathologically obsessed with any movie stars - or anyone else, for that matter.
2) All the film titles in the opening paragraph, QUEERATIONAL & VIDEO CONFESSIONAL are products of my imagination. Thomas Bernhard really exist(ed), as do Slavoj Zizek, IMAGINARY LIGHT and Cannibal Ox.
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I’ve been obsessed with Todd Bates as long as I can remember having any sexual feelings, ever since I saw DREAMS OF A VIRGIN. We were both 12 years old at the time. He’s the first man I recall ever being attracted to, and his "films" - mostly the kind of teen sex comedies that now show up on Comedy Central at 3 AM - accompanied me through my adolescent years. Even then, I was aware how bad they were, but that didn’t prevent them from inspiring wet dreams and hours of masturbation. In college, about 7 years after I saw DREAMS OF A VIRGIN, his rare appearance in an art film, STRANGE COMFORT, finally convinced me that I was gay after years of denial. (A vaguely bi-curious friend told me that Todd’s performance in STRANGE COMFORT made him question his sexuality.) As the years rolled by and Todd blossomed into a star and relatively talented actor, his films stuck with me like fetishes. I got my first full-time job around the time one of his characters did. My first real relationship too, although his lasted longer and looked infinitely more glamorous. I remained a geek with a massive hard-on and/or schoolgirl crush for him. He became an icon of American manhood. Titillating rumors abounded about Todd. I followed them intently; like Fox Mulder, I wanted to believe.
I’m an artist - or rather, I work at a record store while attending grad school part-time. My latest project was pretty easy to put together. Coming up with a title took longer. After admiring the collages I’d put up at the store and receiving a year’s worth of discounts in gratitude, Vanessa, the director of a small, student-run art gallery, suggested that I work on a new exhibition. She shared my affection for Todd, albeit not to the same extreme. Accidentally, she kickstarted my ideas by asking “Did you know that Todd and Thomas Bernhard were born on the same day?” The two had nothing in common: Todd wanted everyone to like him (and everyone did, more or less); Thomas wrote nihilistic novels about spiritual emptiness and included a clause in his will preventing his work from being published or performed in his homeland posthumously. A perfect match for a new project! The man whose purpose in life was to be looked at and the one whose purpose was to see uncomfortably clearly! So I thought at the time.
I often worried that my obsessions bordered on the pathological. To be honest, 90% of my sex life seemed to happen in my mind, even when I was with another man. My ideal seemed to be a Todd lookalike. While there were plenty of suitable men, most of them were annoying Chelsea queens who wouldn’t give a second look to anyone who disliked Cher, didn’t take Ecstasy and didn’t spend 2 and 1/2 hours a day at the gym. (That exact figure came from one particularly irritating date.) The art project was a way to test whether or not I was crazy. I also wanted to see whether anything productive could come out of all that wasted hand cream and Kleenex. By putting all this out into the world, would anyone else respond? Would they think it was pathetic? All too ordinary? Buried in the back of my mind, another thought lurked: I wondered if there was the slightest chance Todd would respond.
I decided that Bernhard represented darkness, Todd light. Taking photos of Todd from magazines like GQ, VOGUE and INTERVIEW, I wrote his name in glitter on them, faked his autograph and attached smaller photos and shreds of used Kleenex to them with paper clips. For the Bernhard collage, I tore out pages from his books and covered them with excremental smears of chocolate, images of Germany and Austria from travel magazines, and photos of concentration camp victims. My original title was IMAGINARY LIGHT, taken from an avant-garde film composed entirely of time-lapse footage of shifting light patterns in a house and its backyard. (I thought of the light from a TV or movie screen as “imaginary”.) However, Vanessa suggested TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD as a better choice.
Opening night was OK, I suppose. Not very many people turned up: most of my friends, my teachers and the kind of people who turn up at every art opening in town for the free wine and cheese. Although I could probably give you Slavoj Zizek’s analysis of the meaning of TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD, I wasn’t sure what it meant to me, except as an expression of two things: an overactive fantasy life and a nagging, vague feeling of identification with Bernhard’s misanthropy. Could the two be reconciled? Was this even a worthwhile goal? I had no idea, and making an exhibit out of it - hell, making a mess out of it, as long as it expressed *something* - was the best way I could think of to figure it all out.
I didn’t bother making an artist’s statement for the show. Instead, I made another collage out of quotes about Todd, including a few from sleazy tabloids printing rumors about his sexuality. He had sued one for running an interview with a former porn star who claimed to be his boyfriend: a funny move, I thought, since it wound up giving the rag plenty of free publicity. Since I wanted to get reactions from my audience, I included my phone number and E-mail address in the collage.
Then, David, an acquaintance whom I had met at the record store during the brief heyday of queercore, called me up with another hot rumor. He told me “you’re not going to believe this, but Dennis is dating Todd’s psychiatrist!” I was excited, but I had trouble even remembering who he was talking about. I replied “Is that the same Dennis who use to call himself Viva Rine and put out the zine QUEERATIONAL?” David said yes. Even better, he confirmed that Todd had coughed up thoughts on the couch that lived up to my fantasies. He felt terrible that the pressures of stardom included having to stay in the closet and yearned for a long-term relationship. Instead, he jerked off to an ever-expanding collection of porn mags and videos. (Ah, fame is a bitch!) When he got too lonely, he called an escort service but refrained from doing so too often, as he was afraid of getting busted.
Of course, I had no idea whether to believe this story. Besides being a major breach of psychiatric ethics, it played too close to my gut hopes: not so much in that Todd was really gay and depressed about being in the closet, but that he was really gay and as lonely as I was. In my schoolboy fantasies, together we would discover that we were soulmates, he would come out of the closet to take me on his arm to premieres...or we would at least have some hot sex while he remained in the closet to keep those lucrative acting gigs coming so I could quit the record store and work full-time on my art. Had someone given me his phone number that night, I would’ve felt no hesitation in calling him, stalking or not.
TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD did not shake the world, or even *my* world. No one bought my collages, offered insight or shared their love for Todd with me. No one called or even E-mailed, unless hornyteens@blowme.com got my address from the show. I was still left wondering if I was one step away from becoming a stalker.
Flipping channels one night, I caught the beginnings of a public access show. Over the years, Manhattan public access had steadily gone downhill. Still, delights like a stripper/ comedian/ singer with no talent at any of her trades and Nation of Islam rejects who hated Louis Farrakhan even more than the White Devil were more entertaining than any network offering, so I continued perusing it. I came across a show called VIDEO CONFESSIONAL. There were plenty of religious programs on the air: one channel even aired a Mass each morning. The title intrigued me enough to keep my hand off the remote. All of a sudden, it reminded me of Dennis’ story: given Catholic doctrine, the concept of a video confessional seemed as oxymoronic as psychiatric gossip. Yet the latter existed, so why not the former?
The show consisted of homemade videotapes - and at the end, about 5 minutes worth of voice-mail messages - made by viewers confessing their “sins”. Each definition of sin was individual. Some were psychopath wanna-bes - I hoped - owning up to impossible crime sprees. Some were women relating depressing stories of one- or two-night stands. Others were teenagers jokingly bragging about stealing candy bars or smoking pot. For the first ten minutes, I watched the show out of morbid fascination, as if it were a DIY version of tabloid TV. Then my protective shield of irony melted away, and I was moved by the tales of bad sex and fantastic murders. Hell, I wanted in. TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD hadn’t done much to make me feel better about my sanity. Maybe my own “confession” would help, especially if I left some contact information along with it.
Setting a video camera on my kitchen table, I sat in a chair about 5 feet away and did my best not to look *too* nervous. I still don’t know if I succeeded. I had jotted down a few ideas for my confession but couldn’t read them from where I sat. I started talking. I began, “I don’t know if I should talk to a psychiatrist or priest. I don’t think the way I feel is a sin, exactly, but I’m not sure what it really is. I do know that it’s led to a lot of misdirected energy and maybe prevented me from connecting with people outside my fantasies.”
I reprised the story of my ongoing obsession with Todd. Then I went further: “I wonder what he’d think if he had the chance to see all this. Would I look like a stalker? I think so. Would I be a stalker? I’d like to think not. After all, he’s the one promoting himself as a sex symbol. If he’s Mr. 100% Straight, why does he take his shirt off so often? Does he think that only women appreciate those abs? After all this talking, I’m still not sure I’ve really confessed anything beyond an ordinary fantasy life. But I’m genuinely curious what it’s like to be him. If we ever met, would he be my soulmate? Would we have yet another in a long series of unsatisfying one night stands? A friendship, maybe? Call me at {number omitted} if you’d like to share your thoughts.”
I knew that I was taking a risk by giving out my phone number to all of Manhattan, so I had leased a voice-mail number just for this purpose after mailing the tape to the PO box for VIDEO CONFESSIONAL. The response was not encouraging. Several kids yelled “fuck you, faggot” or demonstrated their rap skills; a few called solely to plug their own shows. After a second, failed try at connecting with the outside world, I felt as though my heart was sending signals to a broken modem.
A few days later, David called me with some refreshing news. Dennis’ boyfriend had seen VIDEO CONFESSIONAL and wanted to talk to me. He had taken a big risk by taping the show and lending it to Todd (as much to check out Todd’s attitudes towards his gay fans as for any other reason, I suspect.) Todd turned out to be fascinated by it, and wanted to get in touch with me. One day when I checked my voice-mail, I was startled to get a call from him. His message was refreshingly blunt: “You’re lonely. I’m lonely too. Why don’t we meet somewhere and see what happens?” It ended with his number.
Listening to the message, I suddenly felt like the room was spinning. I didn’t have a panic attack, but I felt like I was having the upbeat equivalent of one: an overload of excitement. Trying to make my voice sound relatively normal, grasping onto my kitchen table to stop the dizziness and praying that he would be home, I called him. (Maybe, like me, he only gave out a voice-mail number.) Our bizarre conversation ran around in circles for at least half an hour. The words “um,” “like” and “y’know” dominated it. I was reluctant to talk about TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD for fear of making myself sound even weirder. (Besides, I doubted that he’d even heard of Thomas Bernhard.) We talked vaguely about politics, trying very hard not to offend each other. Frankly, I’ve rarely felt more self-absorbed. Even so, I felt an odd twinge of vicarious intimacy - yet another oxymoron - talking to him. His image had accompanied my life, so I felt like I knew him through the media. To him, I was a mystery, but I was delighted that he cared enough to investigate further. I must not have been the kind of fan he dealt with a dozen times a day: that counted for *something*.
After going back and forth, we agreed to meet the next day for dinner at Moni, a trendy Japanese restaurant. Under ordinary circumstances, I couldn’t afford anything more than a $10 plate of sushi, but Todd chivalrously said that he would foot the bill. I showed up around 8:00. He was fashionably late, dressed in a blazer with a pair of blue khakis that almost matched and Nike sneakers: the kind of “casual” look that exuded money. I wore a Cannibal Ox T-shirt that I got for free at work and ratty black jeans. My sneakers came from Nike via Goodwill. The atmosphere at Moni was familiar from downtown Manhattan restaurants: in order to get the waiter’s attention, your eyes practically had to shoot laser beams at him. I stared at him for a few minutes, but once he noticed my companion, he came over immediately.
I got the first word in:
“Um...I’m really glad to meet you.”
“Yeah, I got the impression you were waiting a long time for this.”
“So is this...sort of your version of that thing where celebrities go visit kids with leukemia and spend the day with them?”
At this point, I realized that I was scratching my nose compulsively. Somewhere, I remembered that cops consider this a sign that a suspect is lying. I made a mental note to stop scratching, although I’m not sure if I did.
“Is your self-esteem that low?”
“Yeah.”
“No, I thought you were cute.”
The hustler stories suddenly popped back into my mind, but I forced them down.
Not sure how to pick up my end of the conversation - after all, he knew that I found him attractive and there wouldn’t be much point in my saying “I think you’re a hottie” - I decided to describe TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD.
“Well, I did this art show, combining photos of you on one wall, with collages of pages from the Austrian writer Thomas Bernhard’s books on the other one.”
“Who’s he?”
“Uh, he was really negative...I mean, he wrote a lot of books that are these endless but really articulate rants. He hated Austria but he was completely obsessed about it too. You should check out WOODCUTTERS. It’s set at a dinner party that might remind you of Hollywood.”
“Every day I spend there, I feel like my soul is being drained away. I feel too good there, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know. I think I’d kinda like feeling too good.”
“Well, it’s depressing to be sitting at a restaurant and suddenly realize that I’ve become Celebrity X. Some aspiring actor or screenwriter comes up to you and starts kissing your ass, and you realize that if you weren’t famous, they wouldn’t give you the time of day. Sometimes I feel like I should ask them if they can tell me what happened in a single scene from one of my movies.”
This world was so far from my life that I couldn’t think of a single suitable reply. Instead I blurted out:
“So why did you call me?”
“You’re blunt about what you want, yet you seem so incredibly confused about it at the same time. It seems so weird that all your fantasies would center on me.”
“Not...well, hardly anyone except my friends came to see TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD. You can say ‘it didn’t shake the world.’ For now, working at a record store and pursuing art as a hobby is OK. When I’m 35, I don’t know how I’ll feel.”
“Hey, I just played a guy who turns 35 and starts having sort of a midlife crisis. It’ll be out next Christmas. It’s like AMERICAN BEAUTY for Generation X.”
“Uh...that sounds interesting. I feel really weird asking you this, but again, why did you bother calling me after you saw my video?”
“I didn’t want to feel too good,” he laughed. Continuing, he said “I was in a mood where...well, sometimes I just feel like I want to go teach English at Bennington or some place where I could be myself. I never asked for the responsibility of being a star, although I always knew it could happen. It scared me.”
“You want to meet me in order to get scared? Why didn’t you just buy a Clive Barker book?”
“Hardly anyone has the guts to say that their whole life was shaped by my image. Still, they’re out there. Do I owe them something in return?”
The conversation went on like this for another hour or so. It seemed like an elaborate game, and I wondered if Todd really was attracted to me at all or if he’d decided to meet me out of intellectual curiosity. He kept a poker face the whole time. I just hoped I became less nervous - less visibly so, at least - as the evening went on. As our dinner proceeded, my impression that Todd was viewing me like an ant under glass steadily increased. Still, how could I know what “normal” behavior for a movie star on a half-date was? After checking his watch, he told me he had to attend a party held by Harvey Weinstein at 10:00. Feeling more than a little dizzy, I stumbled my way into a cab and headed back home.
I fell asleep with the TV on, not knowing what to make of all this. I called Todd the next day. Surprisingly, he picked up on the first ring. “Hi, it’s me again...the guy from last night,” I said. He replied “Oh yeah.” I decided to be blunt: “Are you at all attracted to me? Because you know how I feel about you, and I’d like to, uh...cut to the chase and have sex and see how things go from there. Besides, you’re in no position to date and take it slowly.” Todd sounded flustered and mumbled something vague for about 30 seconds. His final reply wasn’t too coherent: “No...well, I was more curious and I wanted to see if any chemistry was there...it just wasn’t, it could’ve been...I would’ve liked this to work out but...” I pushed him: “How can you know from one date that this wouldn’t work out?” He said firmly, “I know. Look, I’ve got to go now.”
That conversation delivered a beatdown to my hopes. For weeks afterward, I could barely get out of bed, troubled by the thought that I took things way too quickly . Yet I eventually recovered, maybe because I realized that even if Todd didn’t seem to think I was crazy, but his life and mine were worlds apart. Now that I’d had this fact slammed in my face, I wondered why I had ever thought a long-term relationship with a world-famous closet case was an option. He got his ass kissed at expensive restaurants; I got recognized in the East Village and Williamsburg by fans of Japanese neo-psychedelia and minimalist techno. Some difference. Some wish fulfillment too: it’s left me even more confused. If the fantasy icon had faded, my lust hadn’t dissipated. Now that I had some sense of him as a real person, my hard-on felt even more pressing. The reality principle kicked in: the image had faded, but his body hadn’t. In the right mood, I can now deliver lengthy rants about the evils of America’s culture of celebrity, but even firsthand demystification hasn’t diminished its power or the depressing force of my brush with it. If I’d tried, maybe I could have become friends with him, but I agreed with Cannibal Ox that friendship with someone you’d rather love is “the F word.” I don’t know. Yes, I do: I should take out a personal ad or something and lower my expectations. Or maybe it’s time for another confession.
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Steven Trull
Kathy Acker was my girlfriend.
She left messages on my mom’s answering machine.
Kathy Acker bought three pairs of panties from Vivienne Westwood’s shop in Los Angeles, then we bought a wooden crab that walked on a string from La Luz de Jesus.
I drove Kathy Acker to her friends’ apartment.
Kathy Acker didn’t know how to drive.
When we got there, Bob Flanagan and Sheree Rose were very nice.
We sat around a small table, watched TV.
Bob Flanagan and I ate bagels and drank orange juice.
Bob Flanagan asked me if I wanted to watch some movies.
Bob Flanagan and I watched that one movie where Bob Flanagan hammers a nail into his penis.
Kathy Acker and Sheree Rose left the room, went upstairs.
Bob Flanagan and I laughed a lot.
We got ready to go to Dennis Cooper’s birthday party.
____________
Killer Luka
Audrey Lou Tortingtion is my tortoise. She may seem like any other hatchling but quite the contrary, her reputation precedes her.
Not only is her kind over 100 million years old and survived the asteroid that wiped out half the earth's species 65 million years ago, but at three years old, she has accomplished more than most of us only dream about.
By the age of 1 and 1/2, she became a number-one selling pop artist with her debut album "Live Harmless Reptile" burning up the charts and staying at #1 for a record 665 weeks. Her hit singles, "Do I have Sugar on My Beak?" and "Put Your Beak (On Me)" won seven Grammys...each. She has been cited as one of the most influential pop artists of the early 21st century.
By age 2, she was an accomplished ballerina, touring Europe and Asia with the Mariinsky Theater Ballet and appearing in her most acclaimed role written for her in "Turtle Lake".
Soon she fell into a life of crime, and became a notorious criminal sought by the FBI, the CIA and Interpol. She was #1 on "America's Most Wanted" for a record 665 weeks.
By age 3, she turned her attention to The Winter Olympics and representing Russia, she became the first Olympian to win a record 15 individual gold medals in her sport of choice, Luge. Soon after, she was awarded "The Greatest Russian Who Ever Lived" medal of honor by prime minister Vladimir Putin.
She is currently working on her autobiography, pursuing a PhD in horticulture and is considering running for public office.
____________
Chris Goode
In the summer of 2004 I was making a solo theatre show called Nine Days Crazy. One strand in the narrative involved my central character falling in love with a singer he sees performing in a bar. I wanted to find someone to write and record the singer’s songs, which the audience hear on the soundtrack to the show: and so I drew up a shortlist, starting, for the sake of it, with artists who were way out of my league but nonetheless perfect for the kind of songs I wanted to create.
One name in that region of the list was Mark Owen, who had been part of the stratospherically successful and pioneering boyband Take That until their split in 1996. Mark, the semi-official “cute one” of the band, had pursued a solo career without overmuch success, though a flame-rekindling winning stint on Celebrity Big Brother in 2002 preceded the release of a second solo album, In Your Own Time, which earned some well-deserved critical praise: both his singing and songwriting had improved massively, and I was a big fan of the direction he was going in.
So I wrote to Mark and told him about Nine Days Crazy, by no means expecting a reply: it was more about having an excuse to write a fan letter. Some weeks passed before eventually,incredibly, he called me, and we ended up having lunch to talk about the piece. As a consequence of that meeting he wrote and performed two breathtaking songs for the show. Those recordings are I guess the only documentary evidence of that lunch – which was the only time I met him face-to-face – ever having happened. I thought about posting them here but in a way they feel like his property rather than mine. I guess also, despite the fact that I used them in the show, they feel a bit too special, too fragile even, to stick up on the web for just-whoever to access.
In a way perhaps the high point of my brief connection with Mark was not lunch (though, entirely in line with his reputation, he was extremely kind, thoughtful, and great company; only his chain-smoking surprised me), but a couple of weeks after, when he sent me an advance copy of his third solo album, How The Mighty Fall, and asked me to let him know what I thought. Well, I thought then, and think still, that it’s one of the best, and most grievously overlooked, albums of the last decade. It is extraordinarily smart, sophisticated and exploratory, and several songs from it are etched on my memories of many of the most intense times in the last few years of my life.
I wrote Mark an extremely long and hyperventilating letter about the album, trying to express my genuine pleasure in and admiration for it, though I’m sure I must have come across as a psycho, a fanatic rather than a fan. We haven’t been in touch since. He’s got married and had a family and, to my somewhat mixed feelings, Take That have reformed and seem to be, in a grown-up way, as successful as they ever were, creating radio-friendly adult pop that I don’t love but don’t at all mind. It’s nice to hear Mark more to the fore this time around, and contributing as a writer. I think he’s an extraordinarily accomplished musician, and Take That remain basically impeccable, quite movingly so, as an entity, though I’m sorry not to know where Mark’s solo career would have taken him next.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have met some genuinely fascinating ‘famous people’ over the years and I wasn’t going to write about my brief crossing of paths with Mark Owen, as it’s a story I probably tell too much as it is. But two things changed my mind, and then a third. The first was that he’s still the only person I’ve met whose picture I had on my wall as a teenager, which feels like a very special category of existence. The second was that he’s the only person I’ve ever spent enough time with to be able to watch them deal with a steady stream of people seeking autographs, which also feels categorically distinct. He was incredibly gracious and generous with everyone.
The third reason for writing about Mark is that he’s been at the centre of a tabloid shit-storm over the last couple of days. The front page headlines of The Sun yesterday and today were, respectively: TAKE THAT MARK: MY 10 AFFAIRS and TAKE THAT MARK: MY BOOZE REHAB HELL. So, he’s the first person I’ve personally known, even a little, who’s been subjected to that kind of treatment, and I feel desperately sorry for him and his family. Clearly he’s having a hard time – though anyone listening to the lyrics on the last two solo albums would have known he’s a complex and troubled individual (and why not?, he’s a singer, not a cartoon). I doubt he’d remember me now but I wish I still had his number. I’d like to send him a message to say thanks and best wishes.
The song in the video, ‘Alone Without You’, is from that second album and I guess it was Mark’s last significant solo chart hit. I think it’s a great video and a terrific song, in a nice little niche somewhere between Natalie Imbruglia and Sugar. Every time I hear it, I think I’ve squeaked past the kind of emotional impact that some of his other songs have on me; and then, in the dying seconds of the fade, he sings a line that makes me crumple into tears every time: “I sit in the car without driving.” I’ve never owned a car but I know just what he means.
____________
David Ehrenstein
Here I am with Todd Haynes. As you can see this was shortly before the election of President Low-Normal. He’s living in Portland now. With both Todd and Gus in Portland the city has become The Capitol of The New Queer Cinema. Needless to say, they know one another and get together for dinner and whatnot. But they’re very different dudes with very different choices in boyfriends. Love ‘em to teeny little bits!
I hope my next Brush With Greatness will be with Bernard
Hubba-Hubba!
I've always loved this number. It's today's "Self-Portrait Day" theme song.
____________
Creative Massacre
Adam Dutkiewicz & Mike D’Antonio of Killswitch Engage, Phil Labonte of All That Remains, & Former bassist Aaron "Bubble" Patrick of the band Bury Your Dead. I met these guys in Nashville back in 2007 at Rocketown.
Bowling for Soup and The Dollyrots I met in Atlanta a few weeks ago at the Loft. I was there doing some work for the band I work for and they were chilling backstage before the gig. Jaret of BFS was hanging in his dressing room filming a bit for youtube or something and the other members were mingling around with the other bands and crew and such. Kelly, the lead singer of The Dollyrots just randomly walked up to me and had me hold her bag.
TNA’s Jeff Hardy I met once in Evansville, IN before a WWE live event. We chatted some about his band Peroxwhygen and I gave him a t-shirt I had made for him.
______________
Chris (British)
When people ask me if I'm religious, I usually tell them "No, I'm Catholic." It's a wry reflection on the attitude of Catholics who've dropped out of the religion. The damn cult has a genetic feel to it - you don't feel like you'll ever stop being Catholic, and if you've been Catholic, the only sensible way out is atheism. It's a bit like being human, in that the only way out of being human is to stop living altogether. So it was with much excitement that my girlfriend and I eagerly booked tickets to see Richard Dawkins lecture on evolutionary biology in Wellington, New Zealand.
By pure coincidence, this SPD came along at around the same time as Richard Dawkins' visit to New Zealand to publicise his new book, The Greatest Show On Earth, during the annual New Zealand International Arts Festival. He couldn't have picked a better country to come to - in the last census, 1/3 of the population of New Zealand identified as having no religion. His original venue sold out very quickly, and demand was so great they moved his lecture and interview to a venue twice the capacity. Wellington, where I live and breathe, was his second stop on the tour.
No-one ever comes to New Zealand to speak, and if they do they're either hideously expensive to get to see or sold out really fast. Richard Dawkins' lecture was the latter, and after an amusing lecture in which he read brief extracts from his book, covered the core principles of defending evolutionary biology and took a few questions in which he called morality with a religious impetus "ignoble" and the Catholic church a bunch of criminals, he signed books. I didn't think I'd get to meet him, but I did, because I'd brought along The Blind Watchmaker, just in case.
After half an hour's queuing, we got to the front. The queue was moving fairly quickly, so I assumed that he was just signing and saying hello and moving on. However, when he got to the front, and I thanked him for coming to Wellington - because no one ever bothers with the world's southernmost capital city - he noticed my accent and started asking me questions. How long had I been here? What was I doing in New Zealand? It's a beautiful place.
A remarkably soft-spoken man in person, and very slight, he caught me off-guard with his sudden intrigue, and I stumbled and stuttered my way through the answers before thanking him again and wandering off with my signed book in hand. Before I turned away, I noticed the slight dismay on his face as he caught sight of the man behind me who'd brought five books with him.
I thought that remarkably rude, to bring so many books when there's that many people queuing to sign. If I were to relate that in terms that Richard Dawkins created, and completely bastardise them in the process, I'd say that some people in the queue were stuffed with selfish genes.
But then again, like Richard Dawkins, I'm British. We have to be polite; we have to be reserved; we don't take kindly to those that take liberties with generosity. And that small spark of recognition in our common ground led by our Britishness, he didn't feel so strange. I'd like to think that out of all those books he signed that night, and all the brief question and answer sessions he held as person after person wandered past with their books, mine would be one of the ones he'd remember - for the right reasons.
I'm probably wrong, but I don't get giddy and excited about meeting people very often. I think with someone I've read and admired as much as Richard Dawkins, I'm a little entitled to feel a connection.
____________
Paul Curran
“Uh, he was really negative...I mean, he wrote a lot of books that are these endless but really articulate rants. He hated Austria but he was completely obsessed about it too. You should check out WOODCUTTERS. It’s set at a dinner party that might remind you of Hollywood.”
“Every day I spend there, I feel like my soul is being drained away. I feel too good there, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know. I think I’d kinda like feeling too good.”
“Well, it’s depressing to be sitting at a restaurant and suddenly realize that I’ve become Celebrity X. Some aspiring actor or screenwriter comes up to you and starts kissing your ass, and you realize that if you weren’t famous, they wouldn’t give you the time of day. Sometimes I feel like I should ask them if they can tell me what happened in a single scene from one of my movies.”
This world was so far from my life that I couldn’t think of a single suitable reply. Instead I blurted out:
“So why did you call me?”
“You’re blunt about what you want, yet you seem so incredibly confused about it at the same time. It seems so weird that all your fantasies would center on me.”
“Not...well, hardly anyone except my friends came to see TWO DAYS THAT SHOOK THE WORLD. You can say ‘it didn’t shake the world.’ For now, working at a record store and pursuing art as a hobby is OK. When I’m 35, I don’t know how I’ll feel.”
“Hey, I just played a guy who turns 35 and starts having sort of a midlife crisis. It’ll be out next Christmas. It’s like AMERICAN BEAUTY for Generation X.”
“Uh...that sounds interesting. I feel really weird asking you this, but again, why did you bother calling me after you saw my video?”
“I didn’t want to feel too good,” he laughed. Continuing, he said “I was in a mood where...well, sometimes I just feel like I want to go teach English at Bennington or some place where I could be myself. I never asked for the responsibility of being a star, although I always knew it could happen. It scared me.”
“You want to meet me in order to get scared? Why didn’t you just buy a Clive Barker book?”
“Hardly anyone has the guts to say that their whole life was shaped by my image. Still, they’re out there. Do I owe them something in return?”
The conversation went on like this for another hour or so. It seemed like an elaborate game, and I wondered if Todd really was attracted to me at all or if he’d decided to meet me out of intellectual curiosity. He kept a poker face the whole time. I just hoped I became less nervous - less visibly so, at least - as the evening went on. As our dinner proceeded, my impression that Todd was viewing me like an ant under glass steadily increased. Still, how could I know what “normal” behavior for a movie star on a half-date was? After checking his watch, he told me he had to attend a party held by Harvey Weinstein at 10:00. Feeling more than a little dizzy, I stumbled my way into a cab and headed back home.
I fell asleep with the TV on, not knowing what to make of all this. I called Todd the next day. Surprisingly, he picked up on the first ring. “Hi, it’s me again...the guy from last night,” I said. He replied “Oh yeah.” I decided to be blunt: “Are you at all attracted to me? Because you know how I feel about you, and I’d like to, uh...cut to the chase and have sex and see how things go from there. Besides, you’re in no position to date and take it slowly.” Todd sounded flustered and mumbled something vague for about 30 seconds. His final reply wasn’t too coherent: “No...well, I was more curious and I wanted to see if any chemistry was there...it just wasn’t, it could’ve been...I would’ve liked this to work out but...” I pushed him: “How can you know from one date that this wouldn’t work out?” He said firmly, “I know. Look, I’ve got to go now.”
That conversation delivered a beatdown to my hopes. For weeks afterward, I could barely get out of bed, troubled by the thought that I took things way too quickly . Yet I eventually recovered, maybe because I realized that even if Todd didn’t seem to think I was crazy, but his life and mine were worlds apart. Now that I’d had this fact slammed in my face, I wondered why I had ever thought a long-term relationship with a world-famous closet case was an option. He got his ass kissed at expensive restaurants; I got recognized in the East Village and Williamsburg by fans of Japanese neo-psychedelia and minimalist techno. Some difference. Some wish fulfillment too: it’s left me even more confused. If the fantasy icon had faded, my lust hadn’t dissipated. Now that I had some sense of him as a real person, my hard-on felt even more pressing. The reality principle kicked in: the image had faded, but his body hadn’t. In the right mood, I can now deliver lengthy rants about the evils of America’s culture of celebrity, but even firsthand demystification hasn’t diminished its power or the depressing force of my brush with it. If I’d tried, maybe I could have become friends with him, but I agreed with Cannibal Ox that friendship with someone you’d rather love is “the F word.” I don’t know. Yes, I do: I should take out a personal ad or something and lower my expectations. Or maybe it’s time for another confession.
____________
Steven Trull
Kathy Acker was my girlfriend.
She left messages on my mom’s answering machine.
Kathy Acker bought three pairs of panties from Vivienne Westwood’s shop in Los Angeles, then we bought a wooden crab that walked on a string from La Luz de Jesus.
I drove Kathy Acker to her friends’ apartment.
Kathy Acker didn’t know how to drive.
When we got there, Bob Flanagan and Sheree Rose were very nice.
We sat around a small table, watched TV.
Bob Flanagan and I ate bagels and drank orange juice.
Bob Flanagan asked me if I wanted to watch some movies.
Bob Flanagan and I watched that one movie where Bob Flanagan hammers a nail into his penis.
Kathy Acker and Sheree Rose left the room, went upstairs.
Bob Flanagan and I laughed a lot.
We got ready to go to Dennis Cooper’s birthday party.
____________
Killer Luka
Audrey Lou Tortingtion is my tortoise. She may seem like any other hatchling but quite the contrary, her reputation precedes her.
Not only is her kind over 100 million years old and survived the asteroid that wiped out half the earth's species 65 million years ago, but at three years old, she has accomplished more than most of us only dream about.
By the age of 1 and 1/2, she became a number-one selling pop artist with her debut album "Live Harmless Reptile" burning up the charts and staying at #1 for a record 665 weeks. Her hit singles, "Do I have Sugar on My Beak?" and "Put Your Beak (On Me)" won seven Grammys...each. She has been cited as one of the most influential pop artists of the early 21st century.
By age 2, she was an accomplished ballerina, touring Europe and Asia with the Mariinsky Theater Ballet and appearing in her most acclaimed role written for her in "Turtle Lake".
Soon she fell into a life of crime, and became a notorious criminal sought by the FBI, the CIA and Interpol. She was #1 on "America's Most Wanted" for a record 665 weeks.
By age 3, she turned her attention to The Winter Olympics and representing Russia, she became the first Olympian to win a record 15 individual gold medals in her sport of choice, Luge. Soon after, she was awarded "The Greatest Russian Who Ever Lived" medal of honor by prime minister Vladimir Putin.
She is currently working on her autobiography, pursuing a PhD in horticulture and is considering running for public office.
____________
Chris Goode
In the summer of 2004 I was making a solo theatre show called Nine Days Crazy. One strand in the narrative involved my central character falling in love with a singer he sees performing in a bar. I wanted to find someone to write and record the singer’s songs, which the audience hear on the soundtrack to the show: and so I drew up a shortlist, starting, for the sake of it, with artists who were way out of my league but nonetheless perfect for the kind of songs I wanted to create.
One name in that region of the list was Mark Owen, who had been part of the stratospherically successful and pioneering boyband Take That until their split in 1996. Mark, the semi-official “cute one” of the band, had pursued a solo career without overmuch success, though a flame-rekindling winning stint on Celebrity Big Brother in 2002 preceded the release of a second solo album, In Your Own Time, which earned some well-deserved critical praise: both his singing and songwriting had improved massively, and I was a big fan of the direction he was going in.
So I wrote to Mark and told him about Nine Days Crazy, by no means expecting a reply: it was more about having an excuse to write a fan letter. Some weeks passed before eventually,incredibly, he called me, and we ended up having lunch to talk about the piece. As a consequence of that meeting he wrote and performed two breathtaking songs for the show. Those recordings are I guess the only documentary evidence of that lunch – which was the only time I met him face-to-face – ever having happened. I thought about posting them here but in a way they feel like his property rather than mine. I guess also, despite the fact that I used them in the show, they feel a bit too special, too fragile even, to stick up on the web for just-whoever to access.
In a way perhaps the high point of my brief connection with Mark was not lunch (though, entirely in line with his reputation, he was extremely kind, thoughtful, and great company; only his chain-smoking surprised me), but a couple of weeks after, when he sent me an advance copy of his third solo album, How The Mighty Fall, and asked me to let him know what I thought. Well, I thought then, and think still, that it’s one of the best, and most grievously overlooked, albums of the last decade. It is extraordinarily smart, sophisticated and exploratory, and several songs from it are etched on my memories of many of the most intense times in the last few years of my life.
I wrote Mark an extremely long and hyperventilating letter about the album, trying to express my genuine pleasure in and admiration for it, though I’m sure I must have come across as a psycho, a fanatic rather than a fan. We haven’t been in touch since. He’s got married and had a family and, to my somewhat mixed feelings, Take That have reformed and seem to be, in a grown-up way, as successful as they ever were, creating radio-friendly adult pop that I don’t love but don’t at all mind. It’s nice to hear Mark more to the fore this time around, and contributing as a writer. I think he’s an extraordinarily accomplished musician, and Take That remain basically impeccable, quite movingly so, as an entity, though I’m sorry not to know where Mark’s solo career would have taken him next.
I’ve been fortunate enough to have met some genuinely fascinating ‘famous people’ over the years and I wasn’t going to write about my brief crossing of paths with Mark Owen, as it’s a story I probably tell too much as it is. But two things changed my mind, and then a third. The first was that he’s still the only person I’ve met whose picture I had on my wall as a teenager, which feels like a very special category of existence. The second was that he’s the only person I’ve ever spent enough time with to be able to watch them deal with a steady stream of people seeking autographs, which also feels categorically distinct. He was incredibly gracious and generous with everyone.
The third reason for writing about Mark is that he’s been at the centre of a tabloid shit-storm over the last couple of days. The front page headlines of The Sun yesterday and today were, respectively: TAKE THAT MARK: MY 10 AFFAIRS and TAKE THAT MARK: MY BOOZE REHAB HELL. So, he’s the first person I’ve personally known, even a little, who’s been subjected to that kind of treatment, and I feel desperately sorry for him and his family. Clearly he’s having a hard time – though anyone listening to the lyrics on the last two solo albums would have known he’s a complex and troubled individual (and why not?, he’s a singer, not a cartoon). I doubt he’d remember me now but I wish I still had his number. I’d like to send him a message to say thanks and best wishes.
The song in the video, ‘Alone Without You’, is from that second album and I guess it was Mark’s last significant solo chart hit. I think it’s a great video and a terrific song, in a nice little niche somewhere between Natalie Imbruglia and Sugar. Every time I hear it, I think I’ve squeaked past the kind of emotional impact that some of his other songs have on me; and then, in the dying seconds of the fade, he sings a line that makes me crumple into tears every time: “I sit in the car without driving.” I’ve never owned a car but I know just what he means.
____________
David Ehrenstein
Here I am with Todd Haynes. As you can see this was shortly before the election of President Low-Normal. He’s living in Portland now. With both Todd and Gus in Portland the city has become The Capitol of The New Queer Cinema. Needless to say, they know one another and get together for dinner and whatnot. But they’re very different dudes with very different choices in boyfriends. Love ‘em to teeny little bits!
I hope my next Brush With Greatness will be with Bernard
Hubba-Hubba!
I've always loved this number. It's today's "Self-Portrait Day" theme song.
____________
Creative Massacre
Adam Dutkiewicz & Mike D’Antonio of Killswitch Engage, Phil Labonte of All That Remains, & Former bassist Aaron "Bubble" Patrick of the band Bury Your Dead. I met these guys in Nashville back in 2007 at Rocketown.
Bowling for Soup and The Dollyrots I met in Atlanta a few weeks ago at the Loft. I was there doing some work for the band I work for and they were chilling backstage before the gig. Jaret of BFS was hanging in his dressing room filming a bit for youtube or something and the other members were mingling around with the other bands and crew and such. Kelly, the lead singer of The Dollyrots just randomly walked up to me and had me hold her bag.
TNA’s Jeff Hardy I met once in Evansville, IN before a WWE live event. We chatted some about his band Peroxwhygen and I gave him a t-shirt I had made for him.
______________
Chris (British)
When people ask me if I'm religious, I usually tell them "No, I'm Catholic." It's a wry reflection on the attitude of Catholics who've dropped out of the religion. The damn cult has a genetic feel to it - you don't feel like you'll ever stop being Catholic, and if you've been Catholic, the only sensible way out is atheism. It's a bit like being human, in that the only way out of being human is to stop living altogether. So it was with much excitement that my girlfriend and I eagerly booked tickets to see Richard Dawkins lecture on evolutionary biology in Wellington, New Zealand.
By pure coincidence, this SPD came along at around the same time as Richard Dawkins' visit to New Zealand to publicise his new book, The Greatest Show On Earth, during the annual New Zealand International Arts Festival. He couldn't have picked a better country to come to - in the last census, 1/3 of the population of New Zealand identified as having no religion. His original venue sold out very quickly, and demand was so great they moved his lecture and interview to a venue twice the capacity. Wellington, where I live and breathe, was his second stop on the tour.
No-one ever comes to New Zealand to speak, and if they do they're either hideously expensive to get to see or sold out really fast. Richard Dawkins' lecture was the latter, and after an amusing lecture in which he read brief extracts from his book, covered the core principles of defending evolutionary biology and took a few questions in which he called morality with a religious impetus "ignoble" and the Catholic church a bunch of criminals, he signed books. I didn't think I'd get to meet him, but I did, because I'd brought along The Blind Watchmaker, just in case.
After half an hour's queuing, we got to the front. The queue was moving fairly quickly, so I assumed that he was just signing and saying hello and moving on. However, when he got to the front, and I thanked him for coming to Wellington - because no one ever bothers with the world's southernmost capital city - he noticed my accent and started asking me questions. How long had I been here? What was I doing in New Zealand? It's a beautiful place.
A remarkably soft-spoken man in person, and very slight, he caught me off-guard with his sudden intrigue, and I stumbled and stuttered my way through the answers before thanking him again and wandering off with my signed book in hand. Before I turned away, I noticed the slight dismay on his face as he caught sight of the man behind me who'd brought five books with him.
I thought that remarkably rude, to bring so many books when there's that many people queuing to sign. If I were to relate that in terms that Richard Dawkins created, and completely bastardise them in the process, I'd say that some people in the queue were stuffed with selfish genes.
But then again, like Richard Dawkins, I'm British. We have to be polite; we have to be reserved; we don't take kindly to those that take liberties with generosity. And that small spark of recognition in our common ground led by our Britishness, he didn't feel so strange. I'd like to think that out of all those books he signed that night, and all the brief question and answer sessions he held as person after person wandered past with their books, mine would be one of the ones he'd remember - for the right reasons.
I'm probably wrong, but I don't get giddy and excited about meeting people very often. I think with someone I've read and admired as much as Richard Dawkins, I'm a little entitled to feel a connection.
____________
Paul Curran
I saw the worst minds of my generation liberated by
. . . . mediocrity, bloated sedated overdressed,
driving themselves through the suburban streets at lunchtime
. . . . sniffing out a happy meal,
fuckheaded wankers chilling for the modern earthy
. . . . detachment from the blurry fuzz on the anim-
. . . . als of day,
who richness and unity and sleepy-eyed and depressed fell
. . . . down breathing in the natural light of
. . . . holiday apartments crawling around the bottoms of towns
. . . . contemplating jizz . . .
----. . . . mediocrity, bloated sedated overdressed,
driving themselves through the suburban streets at lunchtime
. . . . sniffing out a happy meal,
fuckheaded wankers chilling for the modern earthy
. . . . detachment from the blurry fuzz on the anim-
. . . . als of day,
who richness and unity and sleepy-eyed and depressed fell
. . . . down breathing in the natural light of
. . . . holiday apartments crawling around the bottoms of towns
. . . . contemplating jizz . . .
____________
Sean Cassidy
I went to the University of Virginia's 2nd annual Arts Assembly and film festival to see John Waters give his inspirational standup titled "This Filthy World". After his talk I nervously got in line for a meet and greet with my old Crackpot paperback and my digital camera. When it was my turn I nervously mumbled that I was a big fan. He couldn't hear me at first so I had to repeat myself. I then crouched down awkwardly to be at his sitting level for my picture. He said it would probably be blurry but that it would be arty. The picture came out clear, I got an autograph, and I was shaking with nerves as I walked away. John Waters loves libraries and encourages people to read. In part of his show he said something along the lines of 'if a 10 year old boy knows who Dennis Cooper is he should be allowed to check out the book'. Maybe someday I can join his imaginary freakshow as the man with no tattooes.
----
*
p.s. Hey. And there's the glorious rest. Thank you, self-portrait artists, and thank you, everyone else. Okay, I'm still totally sick. I did sleep 11 hours last night, so maybe that'll pay off somewhere down the line. I'm in no condition to fly for 11 1/2 hours on a plane today, and yet I must. So I'm just going to fill myself with decongestants and cough suppresants and Ricola drops and, well, hope against hope basically. I'm going to attempt a proper p.s. today so as not to get any further behind than I already am, but, given my state, I'll use the tactic I've used here before sometimes when doing the p.s. in trying circumstances, i.e. I'll try to stick to writing one sentence tops per commenter in order to conserve my energy. Even that sentence won't be much, I fear, so my apologies in advance. Starting on Monday, the blog's posting schedule will return to its usual European roots. Thanks a lot to those of you who've sent in guest-posts, and thanks in advance to those of you who've promised guest-posts. They're going to help me out a whole lot, trust me. Okay, .... ** Thursday: Tim Jones-Yelvington, Hope the AWP readings go really well, man, and, if they get immortalized on video, give the word, okay? ** _Black_Acrylic, Sorry about my perceptual mistake on the artwork, man. ** JW Veldhoen, Hey, man. Too fogged in over here. ** Sypha, Jesse's cold pre-dated mine, but I think I probably got the bug elsewhere, while on the plane ride or ... ? ** Chris, Awesome and exciting about your conversation with Hodgkinson; I love the blend of your minds. ** David, Wow, that's some real hating going on right there. ** Inthemostpeculiarway, Oh, I like those two Burton films too, especially 'Batman Returns'. Uh, my two days in a sentence: Sick and ugh non-stop plus rewatched 'The Life Aquatic', which is godhead in the form of a film to me, and 'The Fantastic Mr. Fox' with Jesse, my friend Jennifer Krasinski, and Joel, and they thought it was sublime like any sane person should, and we ordered food from this Italian place Louisa's, and, uh, Jesse left yesterday morning, and yesterday I just felt like shit all day, and I think I watched some TV maybe but I don't remember, and I eventually fell asleep, which will hopefully be my worst day report to you ever if I can help it, and how was your weekend? ** Misanthrope, I'm fighting and it's winning but today I need for it to call a temporary truce and we'll see, and thanks, George. ** Mark Gluth, Thanks a lot, Mark, and Joel's eye is almost not pink at all this morning. ** Blendin, Maybe. What does she look like? ** Math, I do like malls, although I'm not so wild about these faux-European outdoor ones like The Grove and the Americana (in Glendale) yet anyway. ** Justin, 'The Tripper' isn't one of Lukas' shining moments, no, and thanks for the well wishes. ** Jax, Hey, Jax, and, uh, this should be a strangely constructed sentence, but I bought Yury La Mer Cleansing Lotion, and he wanted testers of some 'eye' thing and of 'regenerating serum', but they only had the serum, and that iPhone app sounds like kind of a must, and awesome to see you, Jack. ** L@rstonovich, Hey, man. ** Chris, Uh, yeah, great, well, I want to do that Day you describe, so, like, I don't know, send me something, maybe links, maybe a Day of crazies links or ...? ** Paul Curran, I've peeked at my novel, and I think I realized it needs even more work than I'd thought, and that's pretty much it. ** Changeling, Sickness is kind of erotic, it's weird; no, I can't indulge this particular illness, or not until I unlock my door in Paris at about 5 am tomorrow LA time, ugh, but at that point I might go ahead and give it leeway. ** Bernard Welt, I want to hear about Spa World, if you get there. ** Tonyneill, Hey, man, my pleasure, and I would say more, but my brain power is dying young. ** Creative Massacre, Thanks, pal. ** David Ehrenstein, Do you know this movie from, I think, the 60s called, I think, 'Black Cherry', a psychedelic looking musical starring Sammy Davis Jr', 'cos I saw a clip from it the other day, and it looked amazing? ** Bill, Oh, crap, about that double booking thing, sorry, man, and best of the best of luck in the ongoing trip prep. ** Killer Luka, Hey, K, uh, I think that Airborne stuff got debunked as a scam a couple of years ago, if I'm not mistaken, but maybe I'll buy some anyway 'cos I'm scared. ** Mark P, Oh, hey, Mark, and, man, I hope you feel a huge amount better by now or immediately! ** Jeff, Hey, Jeff, and that's one hell of a recurring waking dream; I'm only seeing spots at the moment myself. ** My energy is really running out, so the p.s. is going to get even sketchier now, I fear. ** Friday: Killer Luka, Hi, Luka. ** Dungan, Thanks, Sean, and great to see you, and love and respect to you, man. ** Heliotrope, Glad I got to see you the insufficient amount I did, and, yikes, careful with that fumigation shit, and are you off to your sister's for the duration? ** Empty Frame, Thanks, man, and have a great weekend yourself. ** David Ehrenstein, That Franco short story isn't half bad, maybe a little grad school normalized in the writing itself, but not bad. ** Little Foal, Hi, my friend, and I think I'll use my sentence to you to pass along your work/links, which I will read as soon as I have a worthy mind again, and, thus, Everyone, the great Little foal has a new trilogy of works/ writing up and viewable, so click PURE then EMPTY then INFINITE. ** Alex Rose, Hey, Alex, and thank you, man, and I will, and I hope you will too. ** Trees, Very nice Little Richard story, and I hope you rocked the audience last night, and take care. ** Steevee, I haven't followed the GLAAD thing, but, yeah, I think 'humorless prudes' covers a lot of their work/ opinions/ actions. ** David, You're such a tease with that Anne Beattie story, man, ha ha: spill it. ** Bernard Welt, You've told me the Davey Jones story but not the nice Patrick Swayzee one, and I'm glad you're upswinging. ** Misanthrope, If there was ever a safe bet, it was that the lower half of Frank Jaffe's SPD entry would be your favorite of Friday's batch, and, hm, I wonder which will be your favorite today. ** Stephen, Oh, gosh, thanks Stephen, and make New Orleans pay in the good way. ** Alan, Hi, Alan. ** Justin, Mm, I don't know about the sewing question, but it seems like something that's mostly about learning a mechanical trick or two, so maybe it would be easy to get started, and I like that idea: you sewing ** Dynomoose, Oh, hi, Adrienne, how totally splendid to see you, my dear pal, and thank you so much for your kind wishes re: my health! ** Frank Jaffe, Hi, Frank, really nice to see you, and I wish I wasn't sick and semi-brain dead so I could say hello in style, and I think you'll love LA as long as you like to drive, and thanks a lot, man. ** Math, Hey, Math, and very safe trip home, and, no, I didn't wake up perkier, but I'm 'praying' that the whole mind over matter thing has at least a smidgen of truth in it. ** JW Veldhoen, Really good to hear/read that you had a great night, man. ** Dan Callahan, Hi, Dan, and thank you! ** Jeff, If I recall, you had something very like this 'about to die' feeling/signal before, some time ago, and, of course, I hope it's like last time, and that it's a matter of you over-interpreting an illness-related bodily mishap, which would be my guess, and, in any case, no need to apologize for woeing in public, as we're your pals and you are welcome in any state. ** Okay, I made it through, I guess. I can only imagine what state I'll be in come Monday, but, whatever that state is, I'll see you guys then. Enjoy the SPD and your weekends, everyone.
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