Here's Johnny!

A couple weeks ago I caught a screening of "Pop Star on Ice," part of the San Francisco Documentary Film Festival, at the Roxie Theater in the Mission District. I didn't know much of anything about Johnny Weir before, other than that he is currently my mother's favorite figure skater (and "the new version of Rudy Galindo," according to her, which also signified nothing much to me, since I've never followed figure skating any more than I've followed football). But the blurb about the film piqued my interest, and the fact that it returned to the DocFest after screening for the first time LAST year seemed to indicate a fan favorite. And so it was. The theater was small, but packed, and enthusiastic, for the screening (one of only two) that I attended. There were a number of moments when we all laughed together, and I joined in the ovation at the film's end. Johnny Weir is a young athlete of great charisma. His press conference antics, youthful fearlessness and outspoken individuality do not obscure his amazing and innate talent as a skater, but only enhance and embellish it. I came away feeling - and hoping - that he could indeed one day "take the Gold." I always respond passionately to people brave enough to really communicate who they are to you without the fear and boundaries and inhibitions that most people have. It makes them vulnerable, but also uniquely lovable - because there just aren't that many of them. It's so much easier to play it safe. As far as the question of his sexuality goes: on the one hand, I do think it's a little silly for Weir to play coy about officially coming out of the closet, when a CHIMP watching "Pop Star on Ice" would think it blindingly obvious that he's gay. On the other hand - it is UP TO HIM, public figure or no, and in the times we live in, when announcing that you're gay to the press results in People Magazine covers titled YES I AM! - in other words, it amounts to a press conference and exactly the sort of "spectacle" Weir has spoken of in interviews, as something he wants to avoid - I can't blame him for not wanting his sexuality to overshadow his talent as an athlete and performer. Of course, when he does finally make the statement - if only to appease those tiresome enough to require such a statement of the obvious - I will be his loudest supporter. Let your bright light shine, baby! You are beautiful! It's true.

And you just took second place in the first day in the Grand Prix at Nagano.

Now, when will 'Pop Star On Ice" be released on DVD stateside, eh?

Art: it's on your plate and in your yard

I'm relieved/pleasantly surprised to be seeing rooms in the Mission / Castro / Upper Market area of the City that I should be able to afford. I was originally aiming for N. Oakland/Berkeley area, but if I can live right in the City, why not? Of course, it'll be a room, not an apartment, but that's fine to start until I get my college-grad job and can move on up.

My conception of the boundaries of art and creativity has been expanding lately, as a result of living here, and seeing Cousin's landscaping work, the way he's built an empire of real estate here in this tropical paradise, the way he takes flowers from the yard and arranges them into beautiful living indoor sculptures. Five acres of land are a giant green canvas to him. Although I have been painting, I'm beginning to look beyond the edges of a canvas and thinking of new forms of creativity. I'm starting to understand Warhol's statement that "business is the best art." I made an experimental stir fry last night out of things left in the crisper and it came out good, and I thought "this is art, and it's art you can eat." It's more useful than a painting on a wall, although of course, it also has a much shorter shelf life, so there's the trade-off, I suppose. The little tree Cuz trimmed into a martini (complete with pimento-stuffed olive on a giant toothpick) at the Hana house is art, on a larger scale than I've thought of before.

Now when I look at paintbrushes and palettes I'm starting to see garden shears, sickles and weed-eaters instead.

The calm before the ecstasy

And I’m 33. I believe Bette Davis once remarked, “Ah, to be 33 forever!” And look what happened to her.

My boxes are snugly nestled at Vicky’s house until such time as I need them shipped to San Francisco. My social obligations are fulfilled, with the gathering last night at Chameleon now history, except for another two-hour volunteer shift as a greeter at the closing party of the Love Show tomorrow, and maybe one or two other minor things. Now all I have to do is get Lucy dropped off at her new home (still not sure where that’s going to be, but I have a couple options now, and Vicky also said she could be a backup if all else fails) and unload my computer – a guy’s coming to look at it tomorrow. I’m really proud of myself for getting on the ball so early with packing and readying for this transition. Now all I have to do is coast down the last few days until I board the plane, relatively stress-free. This is the calm before the ecstasy. The ecstasy, of course, being Maui, seeing my cousin again, and all the great things we have in the works when I get out there.

Damien, who left Portland for San Francisco last year and lives in the Mission, said a friend told him that “San Francisco hipsters make Portland hipsters look like gutterpunks.” That sounds all right to me, if I interpret this comment correctly to mean that the S.F. kids are dressier, more upscale, more refined perhaps. I’ve been thinking about being a full-time dandy for a while: vintage suits every day, just for the hell of it. Looking sharp, well-groomed, well-coiffed, balancing on the fine line between elegance and pretension. I think I can pull that off. Maybe not three years ago, but this tiger CAN change his stripes. Damien also said I’d love his neighborhood, in response to my remark about the kind of guys I’m attracted to most: the slim, pale-skinned, dark haired lads.

I’ve met a nice boy here named Alexander, of course a week before I leave Portland.

Prez Obama is on the Tonight Show in a few minutes and I’m going to watch it – I never watch the late night shows, but come on, it’s our president! Kirk is bellyaching about how he voted for Obama for hope and change and now he’s disappointed, but I just ignore the feeble backlash for the most part. Bush had eight years to fuck everything up, let’s give Obama more than three months to fix it.

If I want to get into acting, where should I start? I guess I need to meet some actors in the City and see what doors I can open through the magic of social networking. That’s one thing that still doesn’t come naturally to me, at least not all the time, but I’ve definitely improved.

Lisa is off to Seattle for the next stop on her itinerary. We had a lot of fun doing karaoke for five hours at the E Room on St. Patrick’s Day, hitting a strip club on Hawthorne, then more debauchery at Chameleon and Sam’s Billiards last night, but I fell off the wagon a bit. I know my partying days are ending because if I skip exercising one day I find myself craving it. When we brought my boxes over to Vicky’s today, I met Vicky’s cat Audrey Hepburn, a BEAUTIFUL black cat with Siamese blood who looks and acts a lot like a pure-black version of Lucy. Absolutely beautiful, a lovely pantherette with gorgeous yellow-and-black eyes. I fell in love with her on the spot. If Lucy ends up being permanently re-homed here and I don’t get her back in the City, I’m going to try to find a cat like Audrey in my new home.

It’s almost over now, and I am so ready.