EVERYTHING HERE IS OLD: GO TO http://guyclinch.blogspot.com for latest blogging.
**** **** ****
SEPTEMBER 5, 2005
I'm auctioning the painting Brandi on eBay to benefit the Mississippi Animal Rescue League to help reunite pets and their human companions after the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. Click here to view the auction.
APRIL 21, 2005
Oh, lordy, SENATOR SANTORUM SODOMIZED ME! And I enjoyed it! Well, not really, but I have shirts in that vein at www.cafepress.com/goodwinart. After all, let's tell Santorum---which, incidentally, is also the frothy mixture of lube and fecal matter that is often a byproduct of anal sex---that it's okay that he wants to sodomize us all (politically or physically--probably both). Cute little doggie t-shirts are available, too. So, come on, bitches, let's get some credit card action going on!
APRIL 14, 2005
Well, this whole DeLay thing seems to be petering out at last. I thought I'd share a fairly typical exchange I had with an angry correspondent named Cynthia.
What is wrong with you liberal leftists? I thought you were all supposed to be so
sensitive and oh so kind and caring about your fellow man? We all know the truth about
your whole kind. You do not fool us. Mr. Delay did nothing illegal or unethical. All he does
disagree with you fools on the left. Hill and Billory have actually committed crimes and
I don't see you asking them to off themselves
Truly, I'm staggered by how often, among the hundreds of blistering emails I've received since yesterday, you conservative rightists (fair game, I'd reckon--you called me a liberal leftist) assume that we on the left revere the Clintons. I frankly despise them both, especially Bill. Indeed, you're right: they have committed crimes, in particular Bill, who is a war criminal (just look at his bombing of the aspirin factory in Khartoum).
Admittedly, I hold much more contempt for Tom DeLay. Nevertheless, had you done your research, dear girl, you'd have noticed that I quickly withdrew the offending shirt, even before I discovered I'd been "drudged" (and please note, I made approximately $30 on that shirt, whereas it's clear that, had I left it up, I could have made enough to move to Orange County and donate buttloads of money to the GOP). What's more, I even had the sheer audacity to apologize for the shirt and say it was a mistake.
While it's intellectually easy and convenient for you to simply lump me in with the liberal leftists (or "your whole kind," as you wrote), I think it's only fair that you note I singled out one particular person, Tom DeLay. I did not write, "Dear Republicans, Please Commit Suicide." Nor did I write "Dear Christians, Please Commit Suicide." Yet you see fit to lump all liberals with me. Were I to equate all conservatives with just those who have written me since yesterday, I would have a very ugly picture, indeed (most simply resort to calling me a Clinton-loving, cock-sucking fag who should die a horrible, slow death, and leave it at that).
One little thing, though, that I'd like to disabuse you of: You say that "Mr. Delay did nothing illegal or unethical." Why then has he been rebuked two (or was it three?) times by the ethics committee composed of five Democrats and---heaven forfend!---five Republicans? The distinguished Majority Leader (I'm referring to Mr. DeLay here) has now dismantled the ethics committee, so he needn't worry about that nasty business anymore.
At the end of this email, I'll attach the statement I issued yesterday. But I want to stress to you that my apology is extended only to those who were truly offended, those who have had to deal with suicide and who were caused pain by my insensitive wording. My apology does not apply to reactionary partisans who simply find this a lovely little excuse to get their dander up.
I devoutly hope you'll write me back.
Cynthia replies again:
Thank you for the response. I must say I enjoyed it and also admit you had alot of good points. I'm sorry to lump you in with all the lefties. I have, upon further reflection, and after a discussion with my lovely intellegent daughter, have decided that you should be able to say anything you like about anyone you want. I do think it was probably in poor taste for those who have family who have committed suicide, I no longer take offense (and my dad killed himself) My daughter reminded me how much I wished someone would have taken out Bill and couldn't care less if Hillory dropped dead. So please disregard my first email. I want to be able to say anything I want about those awful democrats and you should be able to say whatever you want.
APRIL 11, 2005
Earlier today, I came to my own conclusion that the Tom DeLay suicide shirt
was in poor taste and could legitimately cause offense to people who have
had to deal with suicide in their own families. I decided to pull the shirt
from the web site.
Before I was able to take the shirt down, however, Drudge had posted it on
his site, and I was immediately inundated with hate mail. As I've posted on
my web site, www.goodwinart.com, I unreservedly apologize to anyone I
offended with the shirt. I made a mistake.
Someone pointed out to me today that, by admitting I was wrong, I've shown a
great deal more character than Mr. DeLay himself, who, it seems, can never
admit to any wrongdoing.
For the record, I do not wish Tom DeLay dead, and of course I never expected
him to heed the shirt's request. I just want him to resign.
I will be putting another anti-Tom DeLay shirt up for sale; this one,
however, will not mention suicide.
M________ and I suffered a cripplingly stormy relationship, one suffused with an intensity of feeling that?for my part, at least?touched regularly upon the extremes of love and hate. Indifference, the opposite of love, was never in my sights; nor hers, I want to believe (17 years later).
We were, as they say, young. And bright. Yet, for two bright young things, we were really incredibly stupid and unreasonable. We had no thoughts of the future; we wore blinders, seeing only now, and willfully throwing away the past and refusing to look even 5 minutes into the future, except, that is, when it suited our sensual needs (sex, drugs, alcohol, etc.).
Nevertheless, in what was perhaps a bow to some sense of normalcy in our relations with each other and with the world at large, we decided?impulsively, of course?to get a dog.
And so we went to the New York Avenue animal shelter, starry-eyed and seeking the cutest dog we could find, a dog upon which we could unconsciously project our respective neuroses, a dog we could name and call our own.
To name something, especially a living, breathing animal, represented to us the pinnacle of individual power, and, since M______ had already had an abortion due to our thoughtless licentiousness, this dog-to-be would, furthermore, serve to reconcile our unacknowledged feelings of loss (feelings we never came to grips with, immature as we were [are?]).
The shelter was a mess, an overcrowded way station to incineration for these blighted throwaways. One pen held several shepard-mix puppies, all cute as buttons, of whom one stood out for her aloofness. While the others nipped and barked and beckoned for our attention, sad orphans that they were, the all-white littermate sat back, conspicuously inconspicuous.
M_________ and I prized her for her calm, her seeming imperturbability. We thought: "Low maintenance". She's the one we adopted.
We gave her the incredibly ridiculous and vain and, yet, contemporary (1990 in Southeast Washington, DC), name of "Go-Go Sharmaine, aka Pink Shadow" (Go-Go for short). With this name, we thought we were cleverly paying homage to the character of local graffiti tags.
Go-Go remained small and cute and calm and entirely manageable for approximately 2 weeks. After that, however, she became increasingly difficult. She manifested, as I would years later, signs of severe anxiety (albeit in different forms). She peed all over the floor when we left or when we arrived; she chewed everthing to bits (I still own a specially chewed copy of Richard Ellman's Oscar Wilde bio); she barked and howled incessantly (or so we were told by neighbors and, occasionally, by police) during our absences, which were often prolonged; she resisted all forms of obedience training; and, most alarmingly?and after she had grown into a rather large dog?she cornered me in the master bath for 2 hours, baring her teeth and growling menacingly. I thought I was dog food until, suddenly and without apparent reason, she turned and walked away, as though nothing had happened. But it stayed with me, this horrorshow.
Still, though, this was within the range of behaviors one might expect from a pound dog, right? With patience and care and love, it could be overcome.
Not long after the bathroom incident, M______ and I, throwing off any mantle of responsibilty and revealing ourselves to be entirely selfish, left for a 2-week vacation in St. Lucia. As for Go-Go, we relied on unreliable friends to come by every day to feed and walk her.
We returned to a wrecked, fouled house. Go-Go was noticeably thinner, covered in ink from pens she'd eaten, and the floors were littered with feces and piss. The neighbors who lived in the basement apartment below were quick to let us know that the preceding 14 days were unrelenting torture for them, with several calls to the police. For the life of me, I can't understand why the Humane Society did not get involved. As we went about restoring the house, we pieced together the time we were gone and determined that Go-Go had been looked in on three or four times, tops.
We found it convenient to declare Go-Go irrevocably insane; this beautiful dog with whom we had shared moments of genuine dog-human companionship, we thoughtless two declared Go-Go insane. We condemned this sad and, let's face it, unloved, dog.
We drove Go-Go back to the shit-strewn pound and gravely announced our intentions. The din of barking and mewling was as unbearable as on our first visit. But we were taken to a quieter room, M_____ and Go-Go and me, by a white-coated volunteer, where we lifted the 11-month-old dog onto a stainless-steel gurney.
The volunteer suggested we hold Go-Go and speak to her in soothing tones, as she prepared the shot. Just above Go-Go's right-front paw, the volunteer shaved a small area, exposing a robust vein. Perfect.
The volunteer told us what to expect, what Go-Go would experience, how we might feel after.
After came too soon.
The volunteer administered the shot after admonishing us to turn Go-Go's head away from the site of the injection. "She won't feel it if you distract her," she told us. We both of us held Go-Go's head in our hands and kissed her face. We spoke to her and told her how much we loved her, We started to cry. Go-Go looked at us confusedly, asking us with her eyes "What's next?" We kept talking to her and we became younger. We became kids again, we grew smaller as Go-Go grew larger, vulnerable though she was in the antiseptic, flourescent-lit room. M_____ and I were learning again for the first time what death was, what loss was.
As instructed, we averted Go-Go's eyes. We held her head, more fervently, more lovingly than we ever had. We were holding onto her desperately, looking into those pleading black eyes that in an instant went blacker. And Go-Go went limp, vacant, gone, cold at once.
The volunteer had the good grace to leave us alone with the corpse. We stayed for half and hour in agonies of weeping, shuddering with sobs, and looking back on it I realize now it was the first and last time M______ and I were ever really together, the first time we shared any intimacy.
And we learned that we never deserved Go-Go. And Go-Go certainly never deserved us.
It was 1975 and I was 5, creeping out of toddler-hood, looking ahead to the grown-up lifestyle before me---that bracing first day of kindergarten and its attendant challenges: really getting a grip on colors, on numbers past 10, nappy time on our little mats, not pulling the hair of girls, seducing the teacher, playing Seven-Up (you remember that, don't you?).
On this particular day I believe I was wearing burnt orange corduroys and a red and blue t-shirt. I was home. It was late summer; I was still virgin to how bittersweet that time can be for schoolkids, as the long summer comes to an end, the days of kickball, catching crawdads in the creek, aimless forays into the woods. I was not yet a schoolkid. But soon I would be.
Our long, galley-style kitchen was in its usual 6-ish flurry of activity, with Mom finishing up dinner (after a long day of work herself) and Dad in the bedroom, doffing his work clothes, starting, of course, with that constricting tie (quite wide in those days). We had what in any era would be considered an atrociously poor choice of carpeting (yes, carpeting in the kitchen): a strange burgundy-color with brownish honeycomb pattern. In places, little tendrils of the carpet stuck out, pulled and tugged on by the cats or possibly by Muffy, our mutt, whose stalwart love of peanut butter I shall never forget.
The wall near the kitchen table was covered in wallpaper that depicted a birch forest. It wasn't a pattern---it was, essentially, a 10' x 8' photo. I never really felt outdoors when we ate there; indeed, I felt vaguely oppressed by its insistent YOU-ARE-OUTDOORS vein.
But on this evening I felt so happy, so glad to be there, right then, with those two people I loved so much, even if I didn't yet understand what familial love was. Not understanding love but experiencing it nonetheless is surely the best way to feel it; it comes through unalloyed and unfiltered by the intellectual screens we throw up as disappointed adults, as hurt exes, as betrayed lovers.
My Dad, with his pleasant scent of pipe tobacco, the scratchy 5-o'clock shadow he'd rub against my cheek affectionately, his capable, mustachioed face. My Mom, with her tenderness and soothing singsong, her wonderful way of sidling up and squeezing my shoulder.
I wanted this, I wanted to be in the middle of this warmth.
Dad had come down and started unloading the avacado-green dishwasher (was there any other color then?). At some point he was distracted and left the kitchen. The dishwasher was agape, it's door open and inviting me to sit on it. Which is precisely what I did.
Even my slight, 5-year-old frame (I hadn't yet cultivated the paunch I bear today, at 34) was enough to break it. The dishwasher door was broken.
This led to the unpleasantness.
Now, I believe in false memory, and I have no doubt that some details of this narrative are in fact false, colored by my greater sensitivity to detail and plain old projection. But I believe that my father (he's called Father when you're in trouble) actually unloaded that old cliche, "This is going to hurt me more than it's going to hurt you."
Was this my first spanking? I don't know. It's the first I remember. And it wasn't my last. Encrimsoned cheeks would be mine many more times, at home and at school. Corporal punishment enjoyed fairly widespread acceptance in 1975, so I certainly don't resent my father for the spanking me.
Still, though, it remains here within me. A bad memory, my earliest.
And so it was that I found myself, 19 years old, speeding down Route 355 at 3 in the morning. I was doing at least 55, flashing along in my sad little 3-cylinder Pontiac Firefly (don't feel bad if you never heard of it. They only sold it one year?1985?in the states). Cam and I had had another late-night, National Bohemian-fueled fight, and I was in no mood for delay. I wanted to be home then and now.
But maybe what I really wanted was to be driving fast down darkened streets, flirting with the law. Maybe what I really wanted was confrontation.
At the time, Rte. 355 was a series of flashing yellow lights. To an intoxicated driver like myself, this was essentially a license to speed. The road was (and is) a straight shot, right through southern Maryland into the the then (it was 1989) Murder Capital of the World, Washington, DC. I just needed to make it to Western Avenue, the District line. I lived there.
The tony suburb of Bethesda approached; rather, I approached it. It was with an uncaring sense of fatalism that I saw the flashing lights behind me. I did the drunk walk for an impeccably business-like officer. An unmarked supervisor's car joined the strobed scene. I cannot fathom why, but THEY LET ME GO.
Why? Why did they let me go? I was young and drunk and reckless and clearly in violation of the law. Months later, one of my best friends would be fatally stricken with AIDS. Cam's dog would die. And I would keep drinking, culminating, 11 years later, in painful divorce and rehab. Why did they let me go?
I had a ridiculous bicycle. It was BMX-type, with a suspension system that is popular now on larger bikes--large shock absorbers rather than forks in the front--but the technology, such as it was, had not yet been perfected. For instance, if a sharp turn was attempted, you were likely to get your foot caught on the large springy shocks, resulting in a nasty spill.
Nevertheless, my bike--painted in a harsh primer gray that exhibited a reckless attitude to the opinions of others more concerned with appearances--was a source of screw-you pride. I loved riding around the neighborhood, carefully negotiationg sharp turns, of course, but feeling special for the uniqueness of my conveyance.
But my neighborhood was full of teens and tweens, full of children whose hormones and nurturing mandated they express their dominance, and I was nowhere near the top of the heap, no matter my cycling pretensions. One kid, a couple of years older than me, 13 maybe, exerted a certain bullyish charisma over us all. His name escapes me, but let's call him Mark. Mark had a sweet paper route up and down the boulevard. He recruited me to sub for him for a week, owing to the fact that he had broken his arm. His arm was encased in a heavy cast that had been duly signed by all the local girls in thick black marker.
He gave me his heavy canvas shoulder bag and arranged for me to pick up the papers. I was to deliver the Dayton Daily News, which was the afternoon paper (in those days, 1980, 1981, not sure which, we had a morning paper and an afternoon edition). Besides delivery, I was to make the weekly collection.
I mucked it up somehow; missed deliveries, missed collections. Mark confronted me on Daleview Avenue. He faced me, he astride his bike, I astride mine. He menaced me with harsh words and fixed stare. Suddenly, his casted arm, hard and heavy, swung at me and hit me square in the nose, not quite knocking me out, but stunning me and causing a shocking nosebleed. I let my bike fall to the ground. I stumbled across the street and cut through the neighbor's yard into mine, where I lay and wept, helpless and reeling, not so much from pain as from confusion--what to do? It was, I think, the worst thing that had ever happened to me in my life. At that point.
The street I grew up on, well, it wasn't really a street. It was a boulevard. By the age of 11 or so I had come to realize that "boulevard" had a certain cachet, a kind of European flair, that "street" lacked.
And, indeed, it was no ordinary street; down the middle of Springbrook Boulevard, in Dayton, Ohio, ran the eponymous brook, a quietly burbling little stream through which my friends and I would wade, upsetting rocks and catching crawdads. (In case you're confused, the brook did not literally run down the middle of the street; the roadway was a long oval bisected by a strip of grass and trees, through which the creek ran.)
Unusual people lived along my part of the boulevard. Everyone's neighbors are strange or funny or mysterious to a degree, but my little stretch seemed particularly endowed with odd birds.
Across the street lived the twins, Holly and Heidi, and their mother, whose obsession with Elvis was unsettling.
Down from them lived Mrs. Hough and her son. Mrs. Hough could be relied upon for two things: Little Debbie oatmeal-creme cookies, if you knocked and asked nicely; and, every so often--but without fail--she would back her car out of her driveway, forget to turn the steering wheel, go down the embankment, and into the creek.
Directly next door to my house was Mr. and Mrs. Stover, a nice elderly couple who had a little vegetable garden that was always set upon by rabbits, no matter their efforts to keep them out. Mrs. Stover will never be forgotten for her unabashed snooping; it was highly unusual to be out in the driveway and not find her peering through the blinds, staring fixedly at you. You could make eye contact with her and her gaze would not waver nor her blank expression change.
Anyhow, one day, around 8 or 9 years of age, I was playing with the twins in the creek. It was summer, one of those elemental summer days that seem, when looking back as an adult, to be made of green leaves, blue sky, fluffy white clouds, yellow sun.
I suppose we were looking for crawdads (crayfish, to some of you). We may have been digging up the occasional car part, too; every so often you'd come across a side mirror or bit of tail-light from one of Mrs. Hough's depth-perception errors.
It was getting close to dinnertime. I knew I'd soon have to go in, but I really didn't want to. I wanted to stay out there, feeling my bare feet on the slippery, moss-covered rocks and teasing the twins, whose sole similarity to each other was that they both lisped.
For some time, though, I had really had to pee. But I didn't want to run into my house, worried that my parents would induce me to stay in. I didn't want to go into Holly and Heidi's place, either, because I found their mother rather terrifying, with her enormous hair and makeup so heavy that it seemed to make her face sag. Plus, I knew she'd want to show me some of her latest Elvis kitsch.
The situation was getting truly desperate though. I was at the point where I had to pee so bad that I got that strange tingly feeling in my molars; where I was unconsciously reaching down and squeezing the end of my ding-a-ling to hold it in; where I could think of nothing but peeing; and where, moreover, I was surrounded by the sound of running water.
I could take it no more. I quickly hopped and jumped over to where a tree grew out of the bank, hoping it would provide adequate cover from the girls, and further hoping that they hadn't noticed my distress. I was wearing shorts with an elastic waist. As I started to pull the front down, I furtively looked over to make sure I was unseen; at the same time as I pulled the front of my shorts down with my right hand, I was grabbing onto my dilly-ho-ho with my left hand.
I immediately started peeing all over myself, starting with my face and, more specifically, my nostrils and eyes. So overcome had I been with joy at the prospect of imminent relief that my bladder had preceded my having fully gotten my wee willy winky out and pointed safely away from my body.
Shocked by the sting of urine in my eyes and, believe it or not, my sinuses, I started falling backward, and made quite a splash in every sense of the word. I never fell completely down, but my ruckus had attracted the attention of Heidi and Holly, who stood transfixed as I wrestled with myself, for the flow continued unabated and I still had not fully released my petit jesu from my shorts.
After several hours of this, it finally stopped. The twins, naturally, were howling with laughter. Mrs. Stover had probably gotten an eye-full, too (although not in the same way I had). I clambered up the bank, utterly humiliated and now quite ready to go in. I managed to get inside the house without my parents seeing me and asking me embarrassing questions I did not wish to answer.
January 20, Inauguration Day:
Medieval Times Call for Medieval Weapons
I wish someone with the wherewithal had set up a catapult on a distant building roof in DC to send hurling several tons of manure onto the inaugural motorcade and assorted wingnut celebrants. Oh, well, maybe we can do it if/when Jeb gets elected in 2008.
Five new paintings
"Good Memories Exist"
"I Am Not a Bird"
"Shankly/When We Were Young"
January 4, 2005:
Dear everybody (and especially trust-fund babies):
Well, first of all, I suppose glad tidings for the new year are in order,
so, Happy New Year, etc.
Now, to business. I'm having a sale on all of my art until January 31, 2005,
in order to pay to replace the fading clutch on my 1995 Ford Expire (I mean,
Ford Aspire). A discount of 10% is offered on everything. Much of my work,
for you local folks, will be on view until January 7 at Cafe Luna on P St.,
NW, between 16th and 17th Streets.
I also am the proud father of a new painting tonight, which I've named
"Rumors of the Ovary Chef" (sold already, thankfully).
I hope all is well with each and every one of you.
April 2: Apparently, House Minority Leader Rep. Pelosi agrees with my last post.
March 31: The White House recently agreed to allow the full 9/11 commission to question President Bush, but only with Cheney in there with him at the same time. The administration has done nothing to adequately explain why they must be questioned in tandem. It seems likely that Cheney will be there to hold Bush's hand, keep him on script, and fill in during the long pauses that will undoubtedly follow a question to Bush.
March 17: I have taken Cardiff. Arrived here yesterday with what promises to be a wicked case of jet lag; I got no sleep on the plane nor the coach from Heathrow despite copius pharmaceuticals. My friend Nicola has a lovely little house on what seems to be a prototypical narrow and treeless Welsh street. I love all the new and different packaging in the shops and all the cute little cars that seem so practical and which I would love to see in America, all the little Rovers and Vauxhalls and Fiats and Seats and Citroens. People here dress and look just like people in DC, and until I open my mouth I doubt anyone would guess I'm American. Still no atavistic stirrings in my soul (I've got some Welsh blood, apparently), but maybe that'll have to wait until I'm standing on a windy moor.
March 12: MORE BUSH LIES. Why aren't we hearing more about this in the press? According to this article, the chief Medicare actuary was threatened with termination if he revealed the true cost of the Medicare bill before the vote in Congress. If the true cost had been disclosed, it's highly unlikely the bill would have garnered enough votes to pass.
March 7: John Ashcroft is still in the hospital with a case of pancreatitis. We all wish him a recovery but not, certainly, a speedy one, given the fact that his condition is known to be a very painful one indeed.
The HRC fundraiser yesterday was terrific fun and we raised $1,153 (so far?checks are still dribbling in). Thanks to all who came and thanks especially to Isabel, who has taken to art promotion and event hosting with formidable alacrity.
March 5: Here's my artist statement for the HRC fundraiser/art show I'm having tomorrow. It is refreshingly free of expressions like "interrogating the dialectical manifestations of flatness" and so forth:
Last month, when San Francisco Mayor Gavin Newsom started issuing marriage licenses to gay couples, he set in motion a whole series of events, some predictable (Bush calling for a constitutional amendment ?protecting? marriage) and some unpredictable (the very Catholic Mayor Daley of Chicago coming out in favor of gay marriage).
But beyond the headlines and the politics and the charged rhetoric, one thing has struck me most of all?the sheer joy on the faces of these gay couples finally being allowed to marry. This is not to say that official recognition of a relationship is in and of itself a cause for celebration (a relationship is what it is, whether the county recorder?s seal is pressed upon a piece of paper or not). What induces so much happiness in me is seeing these couples no longer treated as second-class citizens, relegated to the separate and unequal status of domestic partnerships and civil unions (if they were lucky enough to have gotten that far); it?s wonderful to see the burden of exceptionalism lifted from their backs.
Exceptionalism. The thing is, gays and lesbians don?t want special status (I say this as a straight person, so this is really just a presumption). What they want is the same rights as everybody else?the right to get married and move to the suburbs and live a normal, boring life like so many normal, boring heterosexuals. Or not. At least they have the choice.
Gay marriage is coming. Everybody knows it?and I mean everybody, Bush and Ashcroft and Santorum and Robertson and their ilk. It?s just a matter of time.
In the meantime, there?s going to be a battle. One that will ultimately be won, but a battle nonetheless, and groups like Human Rights Campaign are going to need resources. That?s why I?m proud to be playing some small part in getting HRC the funding it needs to wage this fight.
Thanks to everyone for coming and contributing. Thanks especially to Isabel, my generous and kind friend who has opened her home for this event and has been unflagging in her support. More gratitude goes out to Aaron, Ida, Becki, Kate, and all the others who have helped organize this and get the word out about it.
Hope you like the art!
February 27: Click here to make Bush look smarter.
February 24: What with the events of the past several weeks?first the Massachusetts court decision re: gay marriage and then the unending (so far) flood of same-sex marriages taking place in San Francisco?there is no doubt that traditional marriage is under seige. I've been calling all of my married friends to see how they're holding up. My father, who has been married to Joan, my stepmom, for some 19 years, reports that so far they are keeping things together, although he has been tempted lately to go find a nice man to marry, maybe that Tom character down at the tennis club. Jen, an old friend from high school, has been married to Eric for almost a decade now, and they have two lovely kids to show for it. Still, though, the great paradigm shift taking place has caused her to start having an affair with a woman down the street. The clincher: the other woman is married to a man, meaning that two marriages have been put in jeopardy. My other married friends are bearing up fairly well, but the gay marriages taking place in SF are nevertheless making their unions feel fragile and contingent.
Fortunately, President Bush today came to the rescue by proposing an amendment to the U.S. Constitution to ban same-sex marriages. This is only the second time the Constitution has been amended in such a way as to limit freedom rather than expand it (the other time was Prohibition), but clearly this is a ringing good idea.
On another note, I completed a new painting today, entitled "I Just Came All over the Face of: George W. Bush".
February 20: Did Balthus ever license his art, his strange psychodramas, his solipsists and firetenders, to appear on trivets, mugs, and t-shirts?
My friend Rebecca Dunlap is showing her lovely monotype prints at Cafe Luna now?go see them. Please.
Here's a chilling thing to consider, The Constitution Restoration Act of 2004:
(a) IN GENERAL-
(1) AMENDMENT TO TITLE 28- Chapter 81 of title 28, United States Code, is amended by adding at the end the following:
`Sec. 1260. Matters not reviewable
`Notwithstanding any other provision of this chapter, the Supreme Court shall not have jurisdiction to review, by appeal, writ of certiorari, or otherwise, any matter to the extent that relief is sought against an element of Federal, State, or local government, or against an officer of Federal, State, or local government (whether or not acting in official personal capacity), by reason of that element's or officer's acknowledgement of God as the sovereign source of law, liberty, or government.'.
The thoughtful, good-hearted folks in Congress (aka, Tom Delay's pissoir) are quietly making sure that no one can petition the nation's highest court if someone in government claims God?and not the Constitution?as authority for acting wrongfully against the petitioner. Thanks to Eschaton for posting this from the Yurica Report. As Yurica says, "Because the judiciary is 'an element' of the federal, state and local governments, this wording, if it becomes law, may allow any judge to institute biblical punishments without being subject to review by the Supreme Court or the federal court system."
February 14: Happy Valentine's Day to everyone, to all the heartbreakers and curs, the cunts and the runts, the coquettes and the punks, the sweetbreathed girls who never come back, the has-beens and never-weres, to all the dominatrices and vaccilatrices (make up your minds), the bigtits and smalltits and notits, the clueless and the wise, the fearless and the rutted, the old and the young, the foreign and domestic, and especially Happy V's D to the past and to Sophies and Irenes and Carolines and Melissas and Elisas and Arlettes and countless namelesses with whom I've lived happy, unhurried lives in the seclusion of my staggered imagination, and we'll meet one day.
February 4: While I'm very pleased with the Massachusetts court ruling mandating that gays be allowed to marry, it was with a sudden onset of apoplexy that I realized I was going to have to listen for the coming months to pale bigots from the likes of the Family Research Council and the Heritage Foundation advancing the absurd argument that gays being married somehow harms heterosexual marriage (such a paragon of virtue that is?thanks Britney and Fox TV! And so what if I'm divorced?)
So it is that I've decided that March 6 some friends and I are going to have an art show of my work combined with a fundraiser. We'll charge $5.00 to get in and give the money to the Human Rights Campaign (www.hrc.org). Plus, I'll give 20% of any art sales will go to HRC. We'll have drinks and snacks n' stuff. Email me at email@example.com for details.
January 27: I turned 34 (turned, in the way that milk turns)
January 24: Hollis (acrylic on canvas) completed
January 15: CD Warehouse (www.thinkinground.com), the fine music store at 3001 M St., NW in Georgetown, has honored me by giving me resident-artist status. I have my very own corner now in which to display my wares.
January 10: Solo show at Cafe Luna begins