HOW TO DRAW A TURKEY

For those of you who don't get the reference, the title refers to the recent documentary about artist Ray Johnson- HOW TO DRAW A BUNNY. Ray was a bit of wierdo, with an up and down career, plenty of artworld friends, who had nothing to do with anything close to playing by the rules. I didn't know him but he was in the EV while I was there. A few years back he'd had enough, went out to a bridge near his Long island home, and jumped. One of his signature images was a wide eyed rabbit.
Yesterday Christmo the elder, Mother Star and Brother Smokey came across the New England hills to attend our Aunt Bobbie Devine's funeral here in Kerhonkson. I told them i'd attend only if Shewho (who was scheduled for a visit) didn't show. By 11:00 am I found myself teary eyed in the family pew. Funerals are one of the few places where Smokey and i can still be the youngsters in the room. I wasn't that sad, but i find it difficult not to get sucked in when the rest of the room is sobbing. Aunt Bobbie was missed by all. We had some cold cuts, coffee and cake afterward and I went home and fell asleep with a stomach ache. Star called and said Smokey had a queasey gut also. I think it was the ham.
I laid on the couch into the evening, watching TV. At about midnight I went to bed. Then, at 3 am I woke up with a start, the sound of a two stroke ATV whining in my ear. I looked out the window and saw the 10 foot flame of the neighbor's bonfire. The ATV circled it mindlessly. In my half sleep my first thought was to load the gun and pick him off in the fire light. My stomach was turning and my breath smelled like death. Thinking bettter of murder, I called the cops. Now i couldn't get back to sleep. For some reason i thought of Ray Johnson, wishing there was a local bridge high enough to give me some peace. Must've been that funeral.
Recently I've started guitar lessons. I hate it. After playing by ear for 4 years, writing song after song, I'm back at square one, stumbling over the frets and sounding like a 10 year old with his first guitar. It sucks to be reminded just how little you know. I feel worn out, rundown, squeezed through the ringer. Then, just to make it worse, i went on a website- ST911.org.- Scholars for Truth. These eggheads posit the theory that the 911 attacks were planned by our government and even the towers and WTC #7 were rigged with explosive squibs by George Bush's brother's security co. (who just happened to have the WTC contract). I usually don't go in for this kind of conspiracy theory stuff, but....... Could it be? Maybe it wasn't just the ham turning my stomach.
Tomorrow is opening day of turkey season. I have a drawing hanging in my kitchen of a running tom turkey. It's done in crayon on brown paper. I did it in 1963, copied from a hunting magazine, years before i even saw a turkey. How could i have known that turkey hunting would become a passion equal to my art? For the next month I'll get up before dawn, and hit the woods until noon. Over the years an old student of mine- Eddie, has video taped me hunting, holding churches, and talking about my work, documenting my appoach to lifestyle as art. Someday it will become some sort of little documentary about a guy who had plenty of artworld friends, had nothing to do with playing by the rules, was a bit of a wierdo, wrote this blog and lived for turkey season every year. Guess I better go buy some shotgun shells. If nothing's gobbling, the neighbors are fair game.

LA FAMILIA

Despite of what BB felt about my little circle of cohorts, for lack of a better word i considered them friends. I had stopped showing under Christmo but hadn't stopped curating. I'd even curated a group show of my various psuedonyms- Richard Mauwra, Kristan Kohl, and MO David, called HETERONYMIC, at Hallwalls in Buffalo. Cathy Howe, the director was one of my few supporters, and a year later she asked me to curate another show. This time I decided to organize it solely based on friendship. Like PAYOLA, the common denominator was something other than my subjective eye involving artwork. If there was a person whom I considered a friend and they in turn considered themselves an artist, I invited them to participate. I called the show NEPOTISM.
Unlike any other group show I'd ever heard of I paid the artists. I even paid Gary Okie 50 bucks to use his name and head shot, and I did the work. Cathy scored a grant for the show and printed up a catalog. Izzy and Chuck wrote essays and every artist had a picture of themselves in the catalog. Then Cathy invited me to do a church and a Purple Geezus show in Buffalo. Once again the caravan of 70's gas guzzlers left Manhattan for the hinterlands. Today, with the internet, everyone looks the same. Kids get off the bus from Bugfuck, Ohio looking the same as the Brooklyn hipster with a bad junk habit. Back then the Lower East Side musician or artist looked marketly different from the rubes of Buffalo. "Look Ma! MTV people!"
Cathy put us all up at a funky hotel with a bar in the basement. Although i'd included both Shewho and BB in the show, i didn't invite either on the trip. I needed to administer to my flock and could use a break from my mess of a love life. I hung the show and we did the PG gig to a less than enthusiastic crowd. What plays in NY should sometimes stay in NY. The band went looking to score and it being Buffalo and June 1st, it started to snow. By the time the church service was scheduled there was six inches on the ground. The intrepid heroin searchers got lost and ended up at Niagra Falls along with Chuck and all the church programs. The whole thing was a complete disaster. I think four people showed up for church.
Big Nose Julie was from Buffalo and had showed up for the HETERONYMIC opening, ruining that one for me. This time a stranger came up to me and introduced himself. "Don't you remember me?" he asked. I admited I did not. " I was Julie's roommate in SF." This was Julie #1's roommate. He's the one who told me she was now a district attorney in Northern California. There must be some vortex created by the falls that sucks the Julies (or their emissaries) into Buffalo. I kept looking over my shoulder to see if Cookie was going to show up. I called BB and told her I loved her. I called Shewo and told her I loved her. Then I went back to the hotel, watched the band shoot up, packed up the trucks and cars and we all returned to Manhattan. That was the last time I was in Buffalo.

PS- Everyone was pleasantly surprised over Gary Okie's cool little paintings. I had another psuedonym.

THE TAIL OF THE SELF HATING CHRISTIAN

That hellish night in 1989 should have broken BB and I up. In fact it had the opposite effect. We tried to prove to each other that it was an anomoly and we could work it all out. One of the things i did from my end was start seeing Shewho. I couldn't bring myself to break up with Baby-Baby and once again got involved with a woman with a boyfriend. Only this time i knew the boyfriend, making it that much worse. I rationalized my duplicity with hot Shewho sex and by becoming a more solicitous man on the homefront. Maybe this was the way to go. Of course i was kidding myself. I WAS getting really good at that.
One of the members of the congregation was Izzy Stein, the publisher of PAPER magazine. We had become friends and he asked me to write a column for his mag. PAPER was what I would consider a trendy homosexual fashion rag. They covered club kids shenanigans and the downtown NYC scene in all its vacuousness. It wasn't what i would consider a perfect fit for me, but what the hell? It wasn't like any other magazine publisher was inviting me to write. "Write what you want." Izzy said "Maybe a religious column would be good." This guy was crazier than I thought. The 90's were right on the doorstep. For the next ten years i would write a column called THE HOLY CORNER for PAPER. Here's one. I think you'll recognise the style.

GRUNTING INTO THE FUNKIES
Life in the secular world: Banned from teaching for giving LSD to my students, I'm forced to work with my back not my brain. I'm currently building a spiral staircase in a large building- the stairway to Hell. This, combined with the fact that a certain assoc. editor (Chuck) told me last month's column was too long, too subjective, had nothing to do with religion, and even the proof readers didn't know what the fuck I was talking about, has put me in a funk.
Lets change the name of the rest of the century to the Funkies. Funkie-one, Funkie-two, etc. I think I've seen enough to know what's ahead: bosses. Bosses who pay and bosses who don't; bosses who flatter and cajole, exploit and demean and promise one more day on the site...one more day. The Boss of the Funkies has us by the shorthairs.
Life in the religious world: They've ground up the bones of Junnipera Serra and the Catholic church is selling the macabre relics at $200 a bottle. Cooler than a chunk of the Berlin wall and twice as holy. Cardinal O'Connor has verified the exsistence of the Devil in Ozzy Osborne's music and Elizabeth Clare Prophet and her sect are being evicted from their Montana doomsday caves for inadequate plumbing. If the world ends why would you need a toilet?
The Funkies ain't gonna let up. The boss will tell you who's the Devil, who's a saint and who ain't. Well this ectomorphic, caucasian, self-hating Christian biped carpenter calls bullshit. I've never pretended to be scholorly, objective, or even comprehendible for that matter. The pragmatic development of certain skills implicit to my survival in a self-created hostile environment has severely curbed my cerebral development. My brain will never get big enough to figure out its own existence. The first thing I learned is I'm not alone. The last thing I'll learn is I'm totally alone. So if you want to give me a little advice you'll find me on the spiral stair case, five steps below limbo, one step out of Hell. Funky.

*Reprinted without permission from PAPER magazine.

BLACK MONDAY

When the old man's company went public he gave each one of his children 500 shares of stock. This stock did amazingly well throughout the 80's. When things got tight I would sell a few shares or more often put things on my Visa cash reserve account. As long as the stock stayed above a certain point the bill never came due. In 1989 the market crashed. The next day Mr. Margin came calling. My NYSF grant never saw the light of day. The margin call was the exact amount of the grant. By the time I got back to NYC I was completely broke. Easy come, easy go.
BB was having a show at Postmasters gallery when it was on Ave. A. It was a big deal and she looked to me to be the supportive boyfriend. I fell a little short on this front. Even though my efforts had shifted into playing music, i still wanted the acceptance of the the art world and it was not forthcoming. The couple who ran Postmasters had looked at my work and turned up their noses. I, in turn, copped an attitude. My glum mood spilled over into Baby-Baby's opening and subsequently into the after party at my apartment. By the time we went to bed it was down right chilly. I was just being an asshole.
My history of violence had never been a secret between us. She knew all about Honey and even the slap of Big Nose Julie. I had confessed all, not wanting to repeat any of it. A particular tidbit I had told her about Honey tossing cold water on me in my sleep BB had tucked away, recognising it may come in useful at some point. About 2 am, deep in dreamland, a spagetti pot full of ice water hit me in the face. I don't know if I was awake or still asleep, but my arms were working. My fist caught BB square in the eye before the bell even sounded. Furniture went flying. The TV crashed to the floor. Her long fingernails scratched my arms. Her nose was bleeding. I had my girlfriend in a death grip before the cobwebs cleared enough for me to realize what was going on. I wanted to kill her and in the blink of an eye could have snapped her neck and gone right back to sleep. The rage I felt is indescribable.
By morning we lay exhausted on blood encrusted sheets. BB's eyes were swollen shut. She looked like she'd been in a car wreck. We both were so horrified by our actions, neither of us knew what to do. My rage was only equalled by my guilt. The series of events that led up to this seemed so inconsequential, and out of balance with the place we now found ourselves. A crushing sorrow fell over us. All I wanted to do was crawl in a corner and die. If I've learned anything over the years it's just how fragile everything can be. Like a fucking butterfly wing.

THE KNIFE OF THE SAINT

Shewho and I tip-toed around our obvious mutual attraction for a while. She was involved with a friend of mine from back in SF and even though BB and I didn't live together we were definitely trying to build a solid reletionship. For the time being it remained just flirtation. The band had recorded and was shopping a cassette (CDs hadn't been invented). We decided to hold church services only when someone in the congregation died. The buzzards were circling. We wouldn't have to wait long. I'd recieved an NEA grant in 1984 and again in '87. Miamigo, who had landed a teaching job at SFAI, invited me back to Cali to teach. The timing seemed good to get out of town. The EV was getting smaller and smaller.
Even though I'd lectured numerous times at the art institute, I'd never had an official teaching job. Thankfully, the administration turned over enough times to allow me to slip under the radar. They'd forgotten who I was. It didn't take long for me to blow it and get kicked out of The Bunker by allowing my class to paint a mural on the white walls. Not wanting to impose on Miamigo, I rented a room at Bishop McCloud's youth hostel. The room came with a lovely young lady who happened to be the daughter of a the head of the Canadian Hell's Angels, who was currently serving life for killing two Mounties. We hit it off and decided to split the cost of the bed. Rule of thumb was any indescretion over 50 miles outside of town wasn't considered cheating. I was completely innocent. The Bishop looked after the Hell's Angel princess and in turn the HA's kept an eye out for him. He insisted the FBI had him under surviellance, because of his massive blotter acid art collection (which I wrote off as paranoia). Turned out he was right. In the ensuing years he'd be arrested twice and beat it twice. The Bishop had good lawyers in the family.
One night we sat in the living room, listening to vintage SF garage rock and testing the blotter when The Bishop handed me a large knife in an ancient wooden and cloth weave scabbard. "What's this?" I asked. "Junnipera Serra's knife." he said smiling. Father Junnipera Serra was a Spanish missionary who is considered the founder of the old SF mission. I held in my hands the blade of the man who was the emissary of the Pope and Spanish empire in the new world. How much indiginous blood stained the steel? "Where'd you get it?" I asked slipping it from the sheath. The Bishop's eyes twinkled. "I was a student at Santa Clara. We got drunk one night and broke in the museum. Like it?" That was an understatement. "I'll trade you a Kristan Kohl painting." I proposed. I think the thing creeped out The Bishop. He agreed to the trade. The next day I recieved word that I'd been awarded a NYS Foundation grant and bought 12 squares of blotter (6 dosed, 6 plain paper). I had idea for a class project called "Acid Test". Could my students tell which contained the LSD?

DOORMAN

Doorman is one of those jobs particularly germaine to NYC. It probably started with the velvet rope bullshit of Studio 54 and spread from there. Any half way popular club became even more so if you put out the rope. It was all an illusion. Tell the people they can't get in and that's just what they want to do. Chuck was king of the doormen. He worked some of the prime spots in the EV- 8BC, Carmelitas, Underchine, etc. These places actually were fun and hip, but the doorman was mostly window dressing, a glorified ticket taker. I would go to all these places and hang with Chuck. The first night he worked Underchine the manager spied a bunch of us heading for the toney place and leaned into Chuck, advising him "See these guys? These are the types we DON'T want here. OK?" Chuck smiled, nodded to the manager. And gave us the VIP treatment through the door. Friends always got in.
Forget that TV image of the giant LA bruiser with a clipboard on steroids. In the EV those guys were called security. Sometimes there was a whole crowd working the door- a pretty girl with the ubiquitous "guest list", a couple of security men, and the minor celebrity doorman. You couldn't deny the power the doorman held. He could part the crowd like the Red Sea, letting a hot girl (or boy) or a crowd of personal friends in the front door, clutching a mess of free drink tickets in their sweaty palms. My first doorman job was at the club 4D. Some enterprising moneymen wanted to export the scene up to the east 50's. They hired the owners of 8BC to run the place, who in turn hired half the EV to work there. It didn't last long. It was about as hip as The Olive Garden on a Tues. night. Some things you can't export without them spoiling in transit.
The next spot i worked was Hotel Amazon. This was a Friday night hotspot held in an old school on Rivington St. The music was hip hop and the crowd was a mix of white, black and Puerto Rican hipsters carrying box cutters and guns. I worked the inner door with a big security guy by my side. Leonard Abrams (the EV Eye publisher) along with a cokehead name Whazzu rented the place and probably pocketed 10K every week. They even hired Cookie to work one of the many bars. It was boring standing on your feet all night, trying to keep kids from bum rushing, but it was an easy $100, and i did get a bit of the minor celeb. trickle down. When it was slow I could chat up the ladies. One in particular kept showing up, batting her pretty brown eyes.. You may recognise a pattern here. Her name was Shewhocannotbenamed. Trouble was on the horizon.

CHURCH RETREAT

I always had a pretty good built in asshole detector. Living in NYC, it was always turned on. You can't pick your fans or your congregation, so now with a band and a church, a lot of new "friends" had come into the picture. I felt most of them were pretty good folk. Baby-Baby would disagree. Her detector's needle was always in the red at church or PG shows. "You really like those people?" she would ask incredulously. I had to admit I really didn't know most of them, but i was willing to give them all a chance. I reminded her that our Lord had associated with theives and hookers. "Yes, but he tried to save their souls, not join the party." She had a point there.
When the weather turned hot i decided to invite a bunch of my new buds up to Wolf Lake for a weekend party. The band brought their equipment (musical and otherwise). I was driving a 1971 Caddy that we loaded up with amps, drums, guitars, booze, drugs, and freaks. It was a throw back to 1967. A girl name Zoe in a flower bikini, carrying a pink boom box and bottle of tequila nodded in the back seat, as the men folk rolled joints and marveled at trees and roadkill. Baby-Baby sat next to me, quietly steaming. The artist Buddy Orange and his pregnant wife drove a big station wagon filled with more members of the congregation- Sammy Morita, Karen Black, Karen Carpenter, Carolyn Kennedy, Gary Okie and Dave East. Some rode motorcycles or piled in alienist Bond and Ruby Ray's van and headed north. All in all there were over 30 of us sweating and swaying in that 20X20 cabin by night fall. Even little brother Duke showed up. "Here. Eat this." I said handing him a tiny square of paper. I was always taught to share my toys with my siblings.
The hot tub was filled, dominoes laid out, beers cracked, the band set up, the girl with the pink boom box danced, I put the meat on the 'Q and Baby- Baby cleaned up after all of them, acted the perfect hostess and quietly stewed, waiting for it all to be over. Roger Corman would have been impressed at the gathering. Gary Okie took one of the boats out for a little pre-dawn fishing and and tipped it over losing his brand new video camera. I tossed most of the previous night's dinner in the laurel bushes, making a spectacle of myself. Someone scrawled a note on the front door. QUIET PLEASE! MINISTER PUKING. Pregnant Allie Orange bitched and ran Buddy's ass ragged, her hormones raging. She was carrying the future. No one gave a shit.
In retrospect Baby-Baby was right about most of them. They were selfish, self-centered primadonnas who cared only about who was buying the next round. They didn't help with the dishes, left their wet bathing suits laying all over, drank half a beer then opened a fresh one, flushed tampons down the toilet, didn't kick in for the food or gas, spilled wine on the old man's Malcolm Forbes quotation book, and left menstrual blood and cigarette burns all over the sheets. But hell, nobody's perfect. This was the first of many retreat and i for one had a great time. Sure I lost my pants and Allie Orange grated on me as well, but remember - blessed are the forgiving. BB moped the foor in resigned silence, rolling her eyes when I defended the group. It was tough being the Rev.'s girlfriend. I didn't deserve her. Now if I could only find little brother Duke.

FARM PLATES

On this cold rainy Sunday it seems a good time to pull the history train into the station and address the congregation. And, let me just say i agree with a congregant who writes: "No comments? If you had any readers there should be a few..." Where are those folks who used to love to argue amongst each other, regarding my lack of literary skill? Do I have to turn on the Mr. Anonymous button? Come on people. Am I boring you? Too self serving? Too self effacing? Dozing off with my personal history high (low) points? Or is it that I'm just so good at what I do, you read it and and smile to yourself feeling there's nothing you can add? That should get you to hit the buttton.
Recently I've been spending quite a bit of time working on the church. The windows are almost all in. The floor is being patched. On Friday i put the sill in the front door. With the addition of my paintings and objects, the space is transforming into a kind of artsy chapel. A stuffed coyote with a voodoo doll dangling two of my braids between his teeth, leaps from the altar in front of four large colorful collages. The pews are set in their original spots, (discovered when I washed the floor). Ray Gilkey's organ has been polished and plugged in. I'm going to get a sign for out by the road. THE CHURCH OF THE LITTLE GREEN MAN- Baptisms, wedding and funerals. Full cradle to grave service. Book now.
Good neighbor John (not gay neighbor John) drove his truck up the other day to show off the ultimate in rural living status symbol- Farm license plates. As everyone knows i live for these kind of things. I adopted two roads in order to see those signs everyday as i drive by, read the Boy Scout Handbook cover to cover in order to get my hunting guide's license and spent a year in seminary just so i could hang that sheep skin on the wall of my church. I was jealous. GNJ knew this and gloated as his new plates sparkled in the sun. Cheapo insurance, a dollar a year in registration fees and the beautiful simplicity of FARM on the bottom of the plate. Who wouldn't want a set of these?
I've got some asparagus coming up (all that's left of Mrs. Yummy's garden), and Paris and Nicole could count as livestock. The front lawn is more hay than grass, and after my 9000 mile trip the Neon is sounding more like a tractor everyday. So what if I only own an acre of land? If the church can be art why can't this place be considered a farm? GNJ said they didn't even ask how much land he had. Monday I'm going to step in some cat shit, put Ray Gilkey's hat on, put some asparagus in my pocket and go to DMV. Jealous yet?

PAYOLA

The reason Baby-Baby was sitting at that front table all alone was her boyfriend happened to be playing bass in the band up on the stage. I left with her phone number and within a matter of weeks the boyfriend was out of the picture. We had actually met a couple of years earlier. BB was an artist and held down a job as the desk person at one of the more successful galleries- International With Monument. I remembered. She didn't. She had completely blown me off when i came in with my slides under my arm. I didn't hold it against her. I had done the same thing to almost everyone who came in my gallery with the same agenda. I just dealt with it differently.
Being sensitive to any artist looking to show work, I decided to present an option to anyone coming in with slides. It would go something like this- They would ask "Are you considering any new artists?"
I would respond "No. I'm sorry we aren't"
"Can you at least just look at my slides and resume?""No." (It's very uncomfortable to look at someone's work while they are standing in front of you.) "But, I'll tell you what i will do. I'll rent you wall space at $30 per square foot."
Blank stare. Then I would proceed to tell them about a show I was putting together called PAYOLA. For a minimum of $30 you could show a small work in a group show. Want to show a larger painting? Pony up the cash.
"Don't you want to see my slides first?"
"No. That's OK. You can show anything you want."
I made about $3000 that month and got reviewed by the Village Voice. They said it was no worse than any carefully curated group show.
My relationship with BB was a good one on many levels. She was from the same area upstate who, like me, had left to become an artist. Her Italian family ran a florist shop and sold Xmas trees around the holidays. She was a classic beauty, with dark hair and eyes and a good teeth. She also had a prominent nose. BB had a much better show career than I. She was connected and it made me jealous. Even though I was stepping back from that world i still wanted its approval. It was a constant point of contention between us. We didn't live together but rarely spent the night apart. She kept her apartment on E11th and I kept mine on E6th. The band was happening. The church was growing. Summer was coming. I had a new girlfriend. Maybe a Wolf Lake retreat was in order.

BIRTH OF THE LGM

The Church of the Little Green Man was named after The Green Man bar in the movie Wicker Man, which we happened to be watching that day in my apartment. Chuckles and i were the prime functionarys. Chuck made a few calls and we found a place that would host our first service. Gary Okie ran a club called Darinka on First and First. I called Bimmy, Hoss and Horrible Uncle Pee-Pee and we had the church band. We rigged a dollar burning flame, xeroxed a couple of dozen programs and invites, wrote a hymn or two and we were ready to petition the Lord once again.
The last thing I wanted to do was some parody of a church. There was already churches like The Church of the Sub Genius and Performance art ministers like Rev. Billy, who filled that role. I wanted this to be a "real" church...whatever that meant. It was the Xmas holidays by the time we held our first service and judging from the enthusiastic congregation we had hit on something. No one knew what to expect and we had no idea what we were doing, so it seemed like a perfect fit. The money burned. The people filed in and took their seats. The Casio SK 50 was fired up and we took the altar just about the time that acid was kicking in.
BNJulie and i had finally called it a day. She wouldn't leave Rochester and it just didn't seem fair to me, now that I was single. Those pheromones had done a number on me. Whatever you call it- love, lust, need, when it went away I took it hard. The final scene had the two of us standing in the pouring rain on E8th St., after I had discovered Rochester was still in the picture. She was great at turning on the tears when cornered. I wasn't having it and let loose with a bitch slap. That was it. The tears stopped and it would be years before I saw her again. I blamed myself for being too weak to contain my emotions (and right hand). I don't know who she blamed. Probably me, also.
Luckily the distraction of starting a church and a rock band took my mind off of my miserable love life. i still painted Kristan Kohl paintings and Chuck wrote an article for High Times about the discovery of a cache KK paintings found in a bowling alley in Millbrook. She did more work dead than alive. Purple Geezus played all the local venues- CBGBs, The Palladium, The Cat Club, and any number of bars and one night stands that would have us. When the holidays were over, the church went on hiatus. Then, one night playing a small seedy place called The Love Club I met a girl sitting by herself at the front table. "Hi, I'm Christmo." I said sitting down. "Pleased to meet you." she said sticking out her manicured hand. "I'm Baby-Baby."

CHOICES

By the time the New Museum show rolled around MO David,Inc. was out of business. The NM show included Ulay and Marina Abramovitz, Linda Montano, James Lee Byars, Buddy Orange and Kristan Kohl. They showed evey painting KK (I) had done in a two year period. It was my first museum show and a big deal. The disappointment of the gallery closing was tempered by the excitement of the upcoming show. All the Christmos came into the city for this one. Even Milawyer showed up. I blew them all off to get laid. Sorry.
Like the feeling I had at Woodstock in '69, I was sure this was the beginning of something big. And, just like Woodstock, the show CHOICES was essentially the end of me showing within the institution. I had laid it all out- the context of gallery, the content of paintings. It was politely recieved and everyone moved on. The EV art scene was declared dead and galleries began closing at an accelerated rate. A few of the more commercial spaces moved to Broadway, but the spark of the EV had been extinguished by gentrification, and 2 year commercial leases doubling and tripling. Chelsea was still a few years away from becoming a player. It was time to try something new.
The art scene may have been dead but the party was far from over in the EV. I had recieved an eviction notice from the landlord because he had discovered I was subletting Oursler's apartment. I promptly ceased paying rent and waited for the knock at the door. I didn't know it then, but the knock wouldn't come for four years. Without having the burden of rent, I worked sporatically, and began writing songs. After a couple of phone calls i hooked up with a band willing to try my stuff. Two rehearsals later Purple Geezus was formed. BNJulie couldn't decide whether to break up with me or Rochester. Eventually she decided to stay with him and lie to me. I bought it hook, line and sinker. You believe what you want to believe.
I stashed all the KK paintings at my folks' and Bird's place and went back to my empty, free apartment. Cookie forgave me for my cheating ways and we stayed close. I would cry on her shoulder about my suspicions regarding BNJulie and she would tell me it would all work out. When I left, she took two little dolls in her grasp, and stuck pins in their eyeballs. One afternoon a bunch of us were snorting speed, shooting heroin, dropping acid, drinking hard whiskey and watching TV at my apartment when someone had the idea of forming a church. I was the obvious choice for minister. Someone said "We can charge a dollar to get in." Then another voice spoke up. "NO. They can BURN a dollar."

KK 1952-1985

I had succeeded in creating this art dealer persona to the extent that few people in NY had any idea that I was an artist. I had not shown any work in NYC and was feeling the need to switch gears. I made the rounds of the gallerys to no avail. No one had any interest in showing an art dealer from California with a degree in theology and a dead cow. People want to keep things simple. If they know you as one thing they don't want to confuse the issue. My ego was suffering under the strain of chatting up the rich weekenders cruising the EV in search of a bargain. I decided to give myself a show, but not as Christmo. I invented a fictitious artist- Kristan Kohl.
Kristan Kohl was a German woman, painter of the post-pattern abstraction school. Having her be a German would allow me to make excuses for her absence at openings. I ordered some high end stretcher bars and canvas and went to work. I'd never painted before so I had to keep things simple. I made KK a monochrome painter. Then something strange happened. I found that i really enjoyed doing these paintings. I put a circle here, a squiggle there, added another color. Before i knew it KK had some style going on. Her work was maturing.
I told my friend Chuckles the Clown, who happened to be an art critic at the EV EYE, about my ruse and he promised to review the show and not narc me out. I actually sold a small painting. Then I decided to kill KK off. Again, with the help of Chuckles who wrote an obit, I started representing "the estate of KK". I put an ad in Artforum and kept the scam going. KK now being dead, her prices went up. I moved from Brooklyn to Manhattan, scoring Tony Oursler's old pad on E6th and A. BNJulie moved over to E11th and we continued our tryst. Now, she was the only one cheating and i was trying my damndest to remove Rochester boy from the picture. Then, one day i got a call from Marcia Tucker at The New Museum. She wanted to include KK in a show. My cover was blown.

ORGAN DONOR

I've put churches in empty building shells, bars, strip clubs and even churches. In every case you need an organ. Usually the Casio SK 50. Yesterday I put an organ in my church. And not just any organ. Slick bought Ray Gilkey's organ, and not having any place to put it brought it over to the church. Two keyboards, pedals, stops and a whole bunch of colored buttons and levers don this celestial music maker. It's only fitting that I've spent the past week emptying the contents of the church, mopping the floors and putting in windows on the south side, deciding it was time to start using it, not as a church, but as my studio. I hung the large collages, set up coyote and turkey sculptures and readied empty floor space in order to make new work.
For a good amount of time I've resisted using the church for anything other than storage as I picked away at the repairs, planning to someday hold services. But as the years started piling up, and the congregation moved on, I realized maybe using this building for it's original purpose wasn't in the cards. Why shouldn't I utilize this beautiful space for something other than a gathering "for the quickening of mortal souls"? Why not go right back to my artistic roots and set up a traditional studio, a display gallery and still have enough space to do a wedding or funeral if need be? Then, when we plugged in the Ray Gilkey Memorial Organ it all coalesced. Why had I waited so long? Maybe for this very moment.
Light is streaming in from the southern sky, bathing the wood floors that I continue to mop, removing years of grease and dirt layered on the surface. Raw plaster scars, hidden and preserved under crumbling wallpaper, form veined fingers running floor to cieling. Everything glows in the golden light. A couple more windows. A few floor patches. Keep cleaning. I can feel an appreciative sigh emitting from the timbers. I touch the ivorys of the organ and it moans off key. Ray's presence fills the space. Don't worry old timer. I'll take good care of your organ. I press the button marked Bosa Nova. Ray would be pleased.

THE THREE JULIES

There was another girlfriend I didn't mention- Julie number one. We never lived together and it only lasted a few months. In fact she wouldn't even warrent mention if her name hadn't been Julie. J#1 was a radio stringer and law student from LA. She was tall, skinny, and had a big mop of soft curly hair. We were a mismatch from the start. I would tell her of my work and plans to go to seminary and she would either glaze over or go into lawyer mode and cross examine me until I cried. We eventually broke up with no hard feelings. I heard she was a big shot DA in California.
Julie #2 (Cookie) you already know about and Julie #3 (Big Nose Julie) lived over the gallery in NY. It was lust at first sight with BNJulie. I'd never heard of pheromones at the time, but that's what must have been happening. From the first time we swapped spit we couldn't take our hands off each other. She worked for a design firm in Soho, dabbled with the camera and modeled once in a while. I had a girlfriend in Brooklyn. She had a boyfriend in Rochester. A tall, lithe Polish/Mexican mix, she wore her hair close cropped and favored wife beater T-shirts with black bras and of course that beautiful big nose. She'd come down to the gallery around closing, her bra strap would fall off her shoulder and I'd make some excuse about going to an opening, leaving Cookie watching TV in Brooklyn.
I can't say I never cheated before. I'd had one night stand strays before, even as far back as Sweets. But this was my first "affair". Two women. Two birthday cakes. Two Xmas presents. Two storys to keep straight. Same name. At first it was a blast. The EV was wide open. Afterhours clubs, gallery openings, the odd rich person party, drugs and booze everywhere. You almost needed two girlfriends just to keep up. I stopped doing coke and switched to meth. One tiny line of speed did more than a gram of coke. I had to save my penneys. Speed was much more economical. At 32 I was so full of myself I felt I was indestructable.
Then, as anyone whose ever seen Behind the Music knows, the good times never last. Show after show at the gallery flatlined. I'd get a little press, maybe sell one or two pieces, but never made enough to get out of the red. Being a dealer in NYC was a bit different than my let's pretend world of SF. The "real" artworld was a scary place. I showed good artists, some who are very successful today, but back then i couldn't give it away. I hired an assistant- Mr. B. Nickass, who I thought could help with my presentation, and I went back to working carpentry to pay for him. He had his own agenda AND he wouldn't sweep the floor. He's a prof. at Columbia today. Cookie and I broke up after i fell asleep over at BNJ's place and came home at dawn. The cracks were becoming visable.

1984

My one and only role as an actor was as Winston Smith in the high school production of George Orwell's 1984. When the year finally rolled around I looked for similarities of fact with fiction. Of course I had to pay homage to Mr. Orwell in titleing one of my performances 1984. 2 plus 2 is 5. True story.

Cookie and I got a four floor walk up in Brooklyn. Our nut had gone from $200 to $1000 plus with the move east. The pressure was now on to make a buck. My first show was the artist Stelarc. This Australian was known for having himself suspended from hooks passed through his skin, in various spots around the world. I had shown his photos in SF and figured this was a good show to open with in NYC. I was right. I got a blurb in the Village Voice and steady traffic right out of the gate. I didn't sell anything but was confident this would change once I became more established. One Sunday Cookie sat the gallery while i went upstate to attend a bachelor party for a friend from high school. Bird and Itchy now had two little girls- #1 and #2. It was great to be home.
We spent the day drinking and playing volley ball. When it got dark I was ill prepared for how cold it got. I borrowed a pair of brown overalls and Bird and I went in search of a bar. When we pulled into Montgomery we noticed a big crowd spilling out of Clare's (our favorite teenage drinking spot). I was impressed that Montgomery had become such a party town. It looked like Daytona Beach on Spring Break. I cinched up my baggy overalls and with visions of wet T-shirt contests headed for the front door. Before I knew it a uniformed police officer stepped in my path. "Where do you think you're going?" He asked in that cop way. The question took me by surprise. "To get a drink." I said. "Let's see some ID." he commanded. So this is what the world had come to? Big Brother was now asking to see your papers a block before the bar. Times HAD changed. I was incensed. "I don't have to give you any fucking ID." I responded indignantly. Well sir, we'll just have to see about that.
I was slammed to the ground and handcuffed by a half dozen burly men in Izod shirts and wind breakers. The cop stood by and watched as they stuffed me in the back of a squad car. The cuffs were too tight and I was too drunk to stay quiet. I launched into tirade, pointing out just how unfair it was to stop a citizen bar patron a mile outside the bar and ask for papers when all i wanted was a cold fucking beer, you cocksucking, squirrely dicked, piece of shit, mutherfucking...... Out of the corner of my eye I spied Bird talking solemnly to a cop. "Who's that asshole?" the officer asked. "That's my brother, Christmo." Bird answered shaking his head. "Can't pick your family." the cop said putting his hand sympathetically on my bro's shoulder.
The squad car drove me a full block to the old Academy building and deposited me where I had attended elementary school and helped my grandfather clean those shitty toilets. The cell they put me in was where I had cleaned the erasers. All these fond memories came flooding back. Then i remembered I was in jail. I could hear Bird pleading with the cops to release me. "I know." he agreed "He's an asshole. I know." What the...? I was willing to stay in protest just to prove my point. What would Martin Luther King do? It just wasn't right. What had happened to this town since I'd been gone? Power to the people- esp. the drinking public.
Then Officer MIlo (the guy who asked for my ID) strode up to the bars. "You're lucky you have such a good brother. There was a bomb threat and we'd be within our rights to search you for that bomb....if you get my drift." I didn't say a word. A bomb threat? Huh. Well I guess I really didn't have to stay in jail as as a form of protest against the totalitarian Montgomery police state. Officer Milo unlocked the bars and released me into my brother's custody. I was thirsty and a bit worked up over the whole incident. "We gonna go to Clare's?" I asked innocently. Bird didn't say a word the whole ride back to his house. #1 and #2 were sound asleep. "You know that cell is where we used to clean eraser with Gramp?" I said trying to lighten the mood. Talk to the hand. 2 plus 2 is five.

LAST YEAR I HAD A HEADACHE. BUT I'M ALRIGHT NOW.

Every denomination had their little quirks. The Franciscans were all hairshirt, flowers and Birkenstocks. The Jesuits were dry eggheads. The Baptists were bloody fire and brimstone and the Presbyterians huggy, covered dish and hot tub folks. I fit in as best i could with everyone and every time I presented a paper i looked upon it as an opportunity to do a little performance. For Hindu class i brought in a goldfish swimming in his bowl, that I carried in a bowling ball bag. I removed the bowl, lit a cigar and launched into a critical diatribe against following gurus. I got a C in that class. I wanted to get a lion and chain him up in the commons, but it would've cost $1000 to rent one from the local lion safari park and I DID want to graduate.
In June of 1983 I decided one year in Seminary was enough. I took my CTS and bolted. The SF gallery was becoming boring and i was searching for something to inspire me. During my period on Holy Hill I had adopted a boy from the Christian Children's Fund. This piece was only about me sending money to the kid and recieving letters, none of the one on one, like with Darrell. After I graduated I stopped sending the money. The period in Seminary dictated the amount of time I would send the checks. Cookie and I had settled into a calm domestic pattern but I wasn't mature enough to appreciate it. I longed for those late night visits to the emergency room and make up sex. I needed a vacation from myself.
In the Fall we flew back east to visit the folks and check out the NYC art scene. I'd heard through the grapevine that NYC artists were establishing a new gallery district in the East Village. When i saw the funky little storefronts bordering Tompkin's Sq. Park I knew this was the place for me. I hustled some funds from an old friend in Woodstock and sent Cookie back to SF to pack up. By the time I'd rented a storefront on E9th and Ave. A and set up shop, the money person got cold feet and left me hanging. Luckily the old man's company had gone public in the 80's and he had the cash to save my ass. By Jan. 1984 MO DAVID, INC.- NYC was open to the public. By luck I'd hit another scene smack on the tip.

PETITION THE LORD

I applied to Seminary school with my MFA, steaks from my dead cow, the mud from my boot and the blood of seven people. I was honestly surprised when they rejected me, stateing that it seemed to them that far from being a Christian I was anti-Christian. What the....? When I had first climbed Holy Hill in Berkeley and checked into attending Pacific School of Religion, the admissions office lady informed me that with my graduate degree and the tuition I was a shoe-in. So what was the problem?
I called the school to complain. I chose my words carefully. "What the fuck is this all about?" I asked nicely. "You Goddamn people said I was more than qualified. This is complete bullshit. Yes. Yes. Alright. I'll do that." CLICK. I think it was the first time any perspective seminary student had ever kicked up such a fuss. The poor woman in the office informed me that there was an appeals process and that I was more than welcome to make my case in writing. "God bless you, sir." she said fearfully and hung up.
So I did appeal, and to my even greater surprise they now accepted me with a full scholarship into a one year program called a CTS (Certificate for Theological Studies). This would allow me to study in any one of the ten seminaries under the auspices of The Graduate Theological Union. It would also be my choice which level of study i chose. I could hang with the new post-grads. in Old Testament class at PSR or trade up to study Advaita Vedanta Hinduism with the Doc. Divs. at the Jesuit School. It was perfect for me. Because i was basically doing this as a performance, a year was a good section of time and after that i could decide whether or not to continue on for a M.Div or D.Div.
Every day i took the BART from SF to Berkeley and went to class. I read the Bible, stopped smoking pot (in order to retain a little of it), wrote long papers and talked God. I dug it. Although I enjoyed my time in grad. school at SFAI it quickly ceased being a challenge academically. I hadn't been to a "real" school since UT Knoxville. I wanted to see if I could cut it. PSR was a real test for all those brain cells doing the work of their fried brothers. I struggled to keep a B average in order to retain my scholarship. If the subject ever came up I would always state that neither was I Christian nor Anti-Christian. I was a free agent. Take your best shot.

SF CONFIDENTIAL

It didn't take long before Cookie had moved into the basement with me. She was a college student at State, well read, smart, pretty, with a husky voice and a ready giggle. I was a lucky man. But most importantly, Cookie was mellow. We didn't even argue, let alone get in screw driver throwing fist fights. She went to class. I picked up carpentry jobs and scheduled shows in the gallery. She wanted a tattoo, so i had the cow's brand tattooed on her leg. True to her name , she got a job selling cookies downtown and then quit and got a better job at The Condor Club as a cocktail waitresss.
The Condor was a strip club at the corner Broadway and Columbus. They hired a lot of students to strip and wait tables, but the real star was Carol Doda (and her giant breasts). Carol was a silicone pioneer and the whole place was built around her tourist friendly fake tits and sequined piano burlesque act. The manager was a guy named The Beard, a surly MF who would constantly harangue Cookie to "Stand up straight. Stick 'em out! Ya got a great pair. Show 'em to that folks!" I told her he was just trying to improve her posture. She DID have a great pair!
Like the local woman who kidnapped a corpse, whom she fell in love with and drove across the country , staying in motels, having nightly sex with the decaying snatched body, the story of The Beard's demise is classic SF Confidential. After a frantic call from Cookie, I drove my little MG over to North Beach to pick her up and the place was swarming with cops. Seems the Beard had talked one of the younger strippers onto Carol's shiny piano after closing the night before. The piano was rigged to decend from the cieling with Carol swinging her famous mammeries. The Beard had mounted the girl and the piano and must have accidentally hit the switch and was either too drunk or too high to notice as the baby grand made it's ascent. His big head got caught between the ivorys and cieling. The poor girl got caught under The Beard until the fire department came in with the jaws of life.
Cookie gave her notice that night and never went back. We were doing OK financially and now she could afford to concentrate on school. I had applied to Seminary in Berkeley and was awaiting their descision. I realized just how ignorant i was about theology and also wanted to have a credential of sorts, if I was to continue with the religious themes in my work. We pulled into the driveway in front of the gallery and Cookie climbed out of the MG, a bit slumped. I didn't miss a beat. "Stand up straight. Stick 'em out! YA GOT A GREAT PAIR! COME ON SHOW 'EM TO THE FOLKS!" Cookie just smiled and shot me the middle finger. If she'd only argue with me a little she'd be the perfect woman.

50 %

There was no such thing as an artist run commercial gallery in SF in 1980. Aritists of my generation came of age during the heyday of the so called alternative space. Places like 80 Langton, A.R.E., and La Mamelle recieved NEA grants and were run by granolafied committee. They did not sell art like the chic downtown spots and these downtown galleries did not handle any of the younger generation. In fact the whole idea of selling work was poo-pooed by the SF Conceptualists and us younger Fashionists and Contextualists went along with this mindset. We were happy to have our yearly show at one of the Alt. spaces and produce work outside of the system. What was missing was a bit of glamour for the youngsters.
Once again, a little gold leaf on the front window and a half way decent mailing list and i was open for business. I had monthly shows and openings then let the place sit, open only by appointment. I wrote a couple more articles for the LA magazine High Performance under the name MO David and enjoyed my new role as art dealer. To my surprise i actually sold a few things. I found it easier to talk up someone else's work. All I had to do was put my ego on hold and take my 50% off the other end. My monthly nut was less than $200 for my apartment AND my gallery. I didn't have to sell much to stay in business. I could put the sharkskin suit on and talk the talk.
About the time I was finally getting over Honey, ( I pine for even the worst of them.) I met a long legged, pink haired 19 year old in spike heels and party dress. El Estudiente and i were out of school about a year and one night we both went after this girl after one of MO David's openings. The three of us ended up back at his place above Terminal Fun (by the bus station), doing thick lines and 'gnac. Mi Amigo poured some Corvousier in her shoe and drained it. She was impressed. I held back and made my move around dawn. I proposed marraige and we called my family back east with the good news, high, drunk and giggling. I nicknamed her Cookie as we hit the street, leaving Mi Amigo pacing the floor and hitting the heavy bag. The little birds were chirping and the sky was blue by the time I got back to the gallery with my new fiancee. I can still hear the rustle of crinolin as that 50's party dress hit the floor.

ITCHY PALM SUNDAY

As the readers of this blog can tell, I'm winding down. From here on I'll be giving you the chronological account of my life, until we end up right where we started. Forget the happy endings or resolutions. Right now I'm just trying to fill in the blanks. Forgive me if I repeat myself, or if you know me well enough to already be way too familiar with many of these years. In order to cleanse the pallet a bit, let me catch you up with what's been happening recently around the Ponderosa.
The TV has barely been shut off since i got that satellite screwed to the front of the house. One of the side benefits of this is that when the phone rings I can see who's calling displayed on the screen. My mish mash of rotary phone, lap top and now satellite dish is becoming more and more efficient. I no longer have to use the tin can and string.
The production of my CD- Lucky 13 is sort of dead in the water. Greg is MIA. Jail? Dead? Shaking with the sugars? Who knows? Slick (my recording engineer/producer) broke up with the super model and is preparing to go to Argentina to visit some rock star friend and get bikini waxed. On Palm Sunday eve he called to invite GNJohn and I to go out to dinner at some new local spot with a big group. I don't usually go in for this sort of thing. It's always a let down- bad food, small portions and too expensive. Plus Kung Fu Hustle was on. But, Slick made it sound like fun and i felt obliged to accept. He said he'd pick GNJ and I up at 8. At 8:45 GNJ called to inform me that Slick had forgotten us and was now at the restaurant apologizing and begging us out. GNJ was pissed, ego bruised, and his elbows went akimbo. No way was he gonna go now. I was relieved, engrossed in Kung Fu Hustle, and farting loudly on the couch. I was also surprised at my reaction to being stood up. Is this what they call enlightenment? Phone call after phone call followed. The TV told me I had no reason to pick up.
The next day Slick emailed me with the story, and explanation of why he acted so badly. "I'm sorry i forgot you guys. I was just getting ready to go when Spanky (my rich neighbor and Carlito's boss) showed up in his big silver Mercedes. He had my friend Dave the dentist and the guy from Scarface in the car with him- the actor who played Manolito in the movie. They wanted to play guitar and Dave told them to check out the studio. So we smoked a couple of joints and ended up playing Dylan covers until I was late. I rushed around (stoned) and headed to the restaurant, forgetting all about picking up you guys. Sorry."
You see, there's absolutely no reason to leave the couch or turn off the TV. Life is swirling around outside, but I could give a shit. Poor GNJ took it hard and didn't sleep well. I clued him into my enlightened state (and rolled a joint) and he felt much better. Spanky's big silver Mercedes is kicking up dust as it climbs the road up to his mansion across the road. Carlito blows the horn as he drives by in his truck. The Gormley brothers dropped off a stringer of trout. My gaseous enlightened state is bothering no one and SCARFACE is on this afternoon. THE WORLD IS YOURS. I can see you calling.

FASHIONISM

The dictionary definition of missionary is "the spreader of good news". Of course dictionarys were written by church friendly scribes. I'm sure a few natives would argue just how good that news was. The metaphor I used in my appropriation of the word was one of institutional representation, informing "the natives" of the word. In this case the word was ART. Like Rev. Dicks preaching to that white artsy crowd, my fervor was directed at that passerby in front of the department store window or the Monroes or even tattooist Lyle Tuttle, who never looked at those bandages as being anything more than a way to stave off infection, tossing them in the garbage. My role was to show the way.
Eventually i realized this pretentious attitude had to be tempered with something akin to an opposite. A year after THE CHURCH I set up a similar one night performance. This time instead of a minister i would hire a prostitute and set up a different kind of institution. Honey and I were still together, but not for much longer. David Ireland had bought another house in the mission, a big old victorian on South Van Ness and 20th St. He offered me the filthy basement apt. and garage for cheap. A month of gutting and painting and I had my pad. I sat down at my IBM and wrote up my perspective of the SF scene under the pen name MO David and sent it off to a NY magazine called COVER. To my surprise they published it under the title SF FASHIONISM.
My time in Berkeley had been productive. Along with the tattoos I also decided to put my mark on a cow. I registered a simple brand design with the state of CA, bought a cow and branded her as part of a spoken word piece at an alternative space. When the cow broke through her fence and got hit by a truck, I salted and preserved the steaks as objects. Typical of any of my breakups I went into a deep funk. This time I went to Europe instead of the shrink. I made a pilgrimage to Duseldorf, Germany to meet Joseph Beuys. He was in NY. I went to Paris and in an Arab hotel, drunk on cognac, came a little too close to cashing in. By the time i got back to my SF basement I knew what I wanted to do. I would open a commercial gallery in the garage. Once again the context would be my content. The gallery would be my art. I called it MO DAVID.

COME AS A CHEF

My choice of career and subsequent path I was taking in establishing myself as an artist led me to investigate the institutions of both art and religion. What was a gallery or a church or good or evil? The times of the Jonestown suicides and the Moscone/Milk murders falling so closely to each other, as well as my personal situation being fueled by coke and domestic violence all played into the work I would do during this period.
I was on a roll. I hadn't yet ventured into music but my visual and word oriented pieces were beginning to pile up and mutate. I did pornographic newspaper collages, curated shows in places like abandoned department store windows and "performed" in punk clubs and alternative spaces. I started using the information i gathered in pieces like Missionary in order to build a sparse narrative that i could perform in public. In a genre later called "spoken word" I laid out the larger peices I was working on in a kind of sing-song, prop infused personal play. Then, once again, the morning paper led me to another approach. A black minister, Rev. Willie Dicks had himself nailed to a cross in an Oakland park in protest over the recent mess in Guyana. He delivered a message of fire and brimstone to a predominently black congregation gathered to witness this crucifixion. He chatised his community for following Jim Jones so willingly. I called him up.
My idea was to establish a church for one night with the Rev. Dicks as the man on the pulpit. David Ireland and I were working on a property that he had purchased at 65 Capp St. It was a little one story salt box shack that would be perfect for what i wanted to do. He agreed to let me take it over for that night. I rented some pews, got an organ player from the New Wave band The Units, lit the place with candles and had the front window stenciled in gold leaf with the words THE CHURCH. I left the message to Rev.Dicks. A one page program was printed up with a short explanation of what was to take place. I didn't have a clue.
I stayed in the background, merely the architect of the evening. The congregation was now predominently white so Willie switched gears. His sermon ebbed and flowed, stitched together with messages of love and responsibility as it got darker and darker in the space. The candles twinkled on the rafters overhead as the artsy crowd tried to figure out what the hell they were doing sitting in these pews. You could hear a pin drop as the good Rev. paced back and forth building to a crescendo. Then, as the organ swelled Willie summed it up with this apocalyptic message: "In the great barbeque to come, it's better to come as a chef than a rib." Amen.

HONEY' S TAT

I was still in grad. school when I began recruiting people to have my designs tattooed on their person, recieving the "bloodprint" as my object. Tattoos were not accepted into pop culture, like they are today. Sailors, criminals, and some adventurous hippies with butterflies and dragons on their butts, were about all you saw of ink. Lyle Tuttle was one of the few tattoo artists in the city. He also had a little museum filled with flashes and crazy prison machines collected over his career. I got him to do my two small tattoos and we hit it off. When I started bringing him other customers he promised to teach me how to tattoo.
Honey was a student in a class I TA'd at the art institute. She was 5''5" and 110lbs of exotic beauty. I'd been single less than a year, but in twentysomething years it seemed like a lifetime. New Wave was rearing it's chicky yellow head. The times were mutating into a kind of punk-lite. At 25 I felt old and out of step with hair cuts and fashion. Honey took care of that. In no time she'd dyed my hair and got me a thrift store sharkskin suit and pointy boots. Honey worked at a trendy Berkeley boutique filled with "Sinbad pants" and slutty dresses. I was her passive manikin, standing still while she dressed me up like Tom Waits on a three day bender.
It seemed only right that Honey recieved one of my tattoos. I'd tried doing a tattoo myself, but found i didn't have the touch. My hand shook and I couldn't tell how deep I was digging into the skin. Thank goodness my subject was a bit of a masochist, who didn't seem to mind the pain. Lyle did Honey's circular tattoo on her smooth shoulder, as I readied the big sheet of rice paper for the print. By the dawn of the 80's I was about half way through the project and was now out of school, working carpentry, dealing a little coke and living in Berkeley. Dan White and Jim Jones were household names and that sharkskin suit was in need of a good drycleaning. LOOK OUT! Here comes that left hook.

ART= GOD

Everything up until this moment, the one where I wondered if the mere act of getting to know someone could be art, was foreplay. I sat here on that ratty couch, Ray staring at me, the smell of little girl urine filling the room, a bunch of strangers trying to figure my motives for being there amongst them, and I figured it out. Art = God, pure and simple. I wasn't religious, never had been. But, right then and there I realized I could have no higher calling than this. Little did I know it came with a vow of poverty.
For the next three months i took this kid fishing, horse back riding, kept in touch on the phone and through letters and tried not come off like a creep. I tried to explain to him what i was doing was my "art". He stared blankly at me and wondered where we we going next? I bought him ice cream and a pair of sunglasses. Ray eventually begged off and we were on our own. Eventually little objects began to reveal themselves: a chunk of mud from my boots, a stick fishing pole that resembled a cross, a pencil from Candlestick Park. (Darrell got to throw the first ball in at a game. Vida Blue pitched. The Giants lost.) I took some pictures from horseback and started a diary.

5-22-78 NEW SUNGLASSES. DARRELL ENJOYED THE SOAPBOX DERBY- THIS IS THE FIRST TIME- I FEEL....I'M LESS ENTHUSIASTIC ABOUT THIS OUTING. MAYBE BECAUSE WE DIDN'T SEEM TO PRODUCE ANY RELICS- BUT IT'S STILL TOO EARLY TO TELL. SOMETHING COULD POP UP.

A few days after the soapbox derby i developed some sort of poison ivy on my thumb.

5-25-78 THUMB IS SORE AND ITCHY- I'VE BEEN PUTTING GAUZE AND ADHESIVE TAPE ON IT WHILE AT WORK. TODAY WHILE HEALPING DAVID (IRELAND) PUT IN A DOOR- A DOVE FLEW IN THE OPENING CUT IN THE WALL AND PERCHED ON THE LADDER.

I saw this as some sort of sign. Hokey as it all was, it seemed to make a great deal of sense at the time. The dove was injured and flew into the back yard where one of the client's cats caught it and ripped it to shreads. I still have a feather and that chunk of mud from my boot. One day I called the Sunnyside and an unfamiliar voice answered the phone. The Monroes had left with no forwarding address. That was the last I saw of Darrell. I had a heart and (fishing pole/cross) tattooed on my left shoulder and the dove and hand tattooed on my forearm. When I pulled the tattoo bandage off the tattoo there was a perfect reverse image printed on the paper. This would be the inspiration for my next piece- 12 tattoos on 12 different people.

MISSIONARY (THE EXTENDED FAMILY AS SCULPTURE)

I'd been in the Bay Area three years and moved four times. When Luscious and I broke up I moved from our tiny Mill Valley apt. back into SF. I rented a cold, spooky collection of rooms in the American Can Co. building down on Third St. It had been the Doctor's office and looked like something out of a Nazi death camp movie. I didn't last long there. Luckily El Estudiente and his girlfriend were also looking for a place. I came on board and we found a big, cheap loft on Florida St. in the Mission.
I'd only had two girlfriends, and married one of them. Now that I was single again I should of taken advantage of this status to get a little. Instead I threw myself into my work. This became a pattern in my life. Coming off the high of the Motel Tapes and discovering for the first time, artists like Joseph Beuys and Yves Klein, I realized this was the direction I wanted to take my art. Sitting in the studio staring at blank walls in order to come up with a painting or object did not appeal to me. In a field with no rules this was just too boring. My direction was delivered in the morning paper.
A 12 year old boy by the name of Darrell Monroe had been stumbled across by a reporter looking for a human interest story. The kid was sweeping Night Train and Ripple bottles from Minna Alley in an area of town known for its homelessness and SRO hotels. The reporter's slant was that the boy, who lived with his family in the Sunnyside Hotel, was a good samaritan, taking the clean up job on himself just because "Someone has to do it." The beautiful simplicity of the act caught my attention. It also caught the attention of the local media outlets, and the mayor's office. I called the hotel and set up a meet with Darrell and his folks.
There was nothing sunny about the Sunnyside. Junkies, drunks and SSI geezers rented rooms by the week. Jim Monroe, Darrell's father managed the place. I sat in their little office and chatted up the fam. They were used to the attention by now. Darell had been on the evening news and the mayor had given him a good citizen commendation. They thought I was just another reporter. The kid was quiet and had a chubby smile. There was also another guy there- Ray. Ray was the self-appointed muscle in the Sunnyside, a friend who didn't want to see anyone taken advantage of. He eyeballed me suspisciously. Like a scene out of the Exorcist, Darrell's little sister stood there like a statue and peed on the floor. What the hell was I doing here?
I had no idea what I was doing talking to these people. I had some vague idea of collaborating with the boy sweeping up the alley. Beuy's concept of "Social Sculpture" and "Everyone an Artist" had inspired me, but I hadn't gotten any further than setting up the meet and greet. Then, just as I was about to make my escape i had an epipheny. What if I made the process of getting to know the boy the rubric of the piece? Could that be art?

THE MOTEL TAPES- THE BIRTH OF CONTEXTUALISM

As I said, in these days there was no such thing as consumer availability of video cameras. Neither were there VHS, BETA or any other type of decks on the market. So of course there no Block Busters down the street. What we had in class was a couple of reel to reel B&W portapacks and a "studio" camera (also B&W) and 3/4 deck. With this crude, bulky equipment we made tapes that were part home movie, part art film and part confessional diary. Even though it wasn't a medium I was immediately comfortable with, the idea of being on "TV" fascinated me....even if that TV just sat in a dark art class.
Another thing that was not readily available to the general public, to be viewed within the confines of their homes, was pornographic movies. These were the post-Deep Throat days of the Mitchell Brothers and Larry Flynt. It was still considered unusual and trendy just to go to a porno, let alone have a private screening. But, one venue that DID exist to see porn in private was the Adult Motel. These motels had internal cable systems that ran to each room and a couple of big 3/4 inch decks in the office. You could rent a room, pick from a menu of porn flicks, and have your own private party. I saw this as perfect territory for my video art.
The Caravan Lodge in SF had a pool, a bar and an internal video system. I ran my idea of producing short artist tapes by three of my fellow students and told them of the motel context. They were on board. Then I booked some free studio time at a Marin County community cable station and in one day we had produced four short COLOR videos. I had contacted the Caravan, telling them my idea of inserting the artist videos between the porn. They were suspicious, but because they sometimes had to rewind the porn, they agreed to play our tapes in the "rewind time". They also agreed to give us one room and the use of the bar and pool for the opening. Punks, students, and even the SF conceptual heavy weights showed.
I wasn't the first or by any means the last artist to show work outside of the gallery or museum context, but this piece more than any other I'd done up until then, took advantage of an existing system and put fine art before the public outside of the art context. Everyone liked this piece. This would inform the way i worked for years to come. The content was not, by any means, the most important aspect of the art work. It was all about context. Anything would work given the proper setting.

SCHOOL DAZE

I was four years out of college, married and getting set to be divorced before I returned to art school. This four years did more to prepare me for the life of an artist than any time I spent going to class. When I decided to go back it was for all the right reasons. No longer was I avoiding the draft, chasing girlfriends or escaping from the tar mop. This time I was buying myself time to refine my chops as an artist. Luscious had met someone at Jr. college, who paid a lot more attention to her than I did. I used this as an excuse to call an end to it. Of course when it did end I was a mess. I went to a shrink to help get over the hump, who happened to know of an agency that would pay for my classes at The San Francisco Art Institute. It was called Vocational Rehabilitation.
Voc. Rehab. was set up to help G.I.s coming back to "the World" with training for things like truck drivers and air conditioning installers. There was nothing that said they couldn't pay for art school. So it was in 1977 I matriculated at SFAI sucking on the government teat. They paid my tuition and gave me a stipend for art supplies. All I had to do was keep seeing the shrink and not flunk out. After a while I just mailed in my pay vouchers to the psychiatrist who cashed them without ever seeing me. We both felt I was cured. I got the money for my "art supplies"out of the school store by standing in front of the door and offering to put Marin County house wives' expensive paints and canvas onto my account in return for their cash. This was the beginning of my conceptual career. My art was becoming invisable.
After being too late for Woodstock and Haight-Ashbury, I finally hit a scene right on the tip. SF in '77 was in the throes of its punk rock hey day. It wasn't unusal to see the Dils playing in some drawing class or The Mutants crashing around in the SFAI auditorium. A healthy cross pollination existed between artists and musicians. We all stole off each other. Long hair got spiked and dyed. Clubs sprang up everywhere with names like Valencia Tool and Die, The Deaf Club, A-Hole, Mabuhay, Club Foot and Temple Beautiful.
In class I met El Prof. (then El Estudiante) Karen Finley, Debora Iyall (Romeo Void), Sally Webster (The Mutants) as well as visiting artists like Chris Burden, Bill Wegman, Linda Montano, David Ireland, David Ross, etc. The driving force behind the class was artist Howard Fried, an enigmatic, bearded video/conceptualist who sometimes just sat in a chair and stared at the wall as we blew joints and entertained each other. After a year they let me in graduate school without a degree. The divorce was final and I was finally producing mature work. I bought a hot IBM selectric typewriter and began to write and do video tapes. It would still be a few years before video cameras became available to consumers. My first tape was called "School Days"- a grainy B&W piece shot with a bulky port-a-pack. I give it half a star.

HANG UP YOUR TAMBOURINE

Luscious and I spent two winters in a little cabin in Bearsville, NY. We heated by wood, had a cat named Axel, Shawna the lab, a black and white TV, a rotary phone and a record player. I worked as a carpenter's helper and Luscious got a job as a salesgirl/seamstress in Woodstock. We thought of having a kid but instead got an insane Irish setter named Kelly from my brother Bird. I taught stone lithography at the local art association in town and didn't do much in the way of expanding my own work. Luscious was 19 and I was 22. We were too busy playing house and figuring out ways to pay the monthly nut to enjoy being young freespirits in paisley shirts and bell bottoms. We did have a little time to drop some acid and screw alot. It wasn't all like our parent's life.
Vietnam was winding down. Nixon had been ousted by Watergate. Paul Butterfield and Albert Grossman were neighbors. Lee Marvin walked around town with a hawk on his shoulder. Gas lines were forming. Shag haircuts and glitter rock were becoming all the rage and i still had an itch to to see the Pacific. Woodstock seemed old fashion to me. I was realizing that we were late to the scene. Gasoline was 50 cents per gallon and we thought if it went any higher we wouldn't be able to eat. Even with these extreme prices we decided to load up our brand new, shiny red, 1975 pickup truck, give away the crazy irish setter and head for SF. Surprise! We were late to that scene also.
At 22 I thought it was all over. Glassy eyed vets, wounded either physically or mentally came home, buried their uniforms in the bottom of trunks and tried to get jobs in a shitty economy. The hippies were gone. Long hair was no longer a sign of anything more than good folicles. We landed in Haight/Ashbury amongst Hell's Angels, burnouts, and a few enterprising gays painting the Victorian houses bright colors. Where were those babes in peasant blouses playing tambourines? Luscious and I began to look at each other like strangers. The little incident of her screwing my best friend was still stuck in my craw. I guess I wasn't quite mature enough to let it go. She got bored and enrolled in junior college night classes in Marin. I got a studio in an old ship building warehouse in Sausalito and when i wasn't picking up the odd carpentry job, I spent long days staring at blank walls. So this was what an artist did. The beret didn't quite fit.

THE FOOLS OF APRIL

Sweets may have had something about her seasonal break up theory. With the lady bugs, horsefly swarms and no-see-ums, brought on by the warming days of early spring, come the emails and phone calls from people i don't hear from all winter. These are the folks that don't have the time or inclination to read this blog, so I don't get cut off mid sentence, half way through a anecdote, with "I read that on your blog." That's one of the draw backs of blabbing every day in this format. I don't have much to talk about. The first one to call was my old boss Mr. Asser. After the obligatory "How's the wife and kids?" he got down to the real reason for the call. "Christmo. It's been a tough couple of months for me friend- wise. They're dropping like flies." Having gone through a similar fall, I could relate. But then he laid out how they were dying.
Mr. Asser is from PA, so he went down to Pittsburgh to attend a Super Bowl party with a good buddy. His host was the life of the party, a man with a wife and two kids, a good job, house and by all accounts every reason to live. When the Steelers won everyone went nuts with joy. The next day, as this man's wife went to the store to buy a few last minute items for a trip they we departing on in a couple of hours, he pulled down his granfather's antique pistol from the shelf, stuck it in his mouth and pulled the trigger. No note. No reason. Just like that. What would he have done if the Steelers lost?
Another friend of Mr. A's had a heart attack and a third pulled over on a bridge to help a woman change her tire. An 18 wheeler full of office furniture clipped him as he bent over to loosen the lug nuts. "I gotta tell you." My old boss continued, "If my dog dies you move to the top of the list." Maybe that's a list I'd rather not be on.
The next one to contact me was Bimmy, my old bass player from Purple Geezus. He lives in Haiwai. He also used to work for Mr. Asser. I told him about the death list and our old friend desert rat Horrible Uncle Pee-Pee (Jerry Williams). Bimmy loves to talk and so do I. As we were both overlapping each other's conversation, the line clicked and went dead. He called back. "We're tapped. The wife is doing a lot of protest work involving Army recruitment. We're starting to peek above the radar." I think the FBI just got bored hearing us talk over each other's sentences and pulled the plug. I told him about my Nashville experience and we both had a good laugh. "Well." Bimmy said "If you don't make it when you're young and pretty, you have to wait until you're old and venerable. No one wants middle age ugly. It's that or pull grandpa's gun off the shelf." It's funny 'cause it's true.This stuff always comes in threes. Trout season opened yesterday. It's only a matter of days before Art Gormley shows up with the stocking truck. You remember Art? NOW THAT'S A FOOL!