MIX 2001

NYC Experimental Film Festival

Thursday November 15, 2001

I'd been submitting to the MIX NYC Gay/Lesbian Experimental Film Video festival for a few years now. Things got off to a great start in 1998 with G*I*J*O. It got a plumb screening slot and it was very well received. The next year I submitted VoyEx. It got a less prominent screening slot (5PM on a Saturday), which didn't give it the recognition I thought it deserved. In 2000 I submitted Gay Marriage. They were kind enough to accept it, but this time I was remanded to an installation in the basement along with dozens of other videos. I don't know if anyone saw it at all. I was a bit discouraged with the trend I found myself on with MIX.

But all that changed in 2001. I submitted Pee Wee's Sodomy House. It was an animated spoof of the Pee Wee's Playhouse show. I had high expectations for this, since animation is always popular at these festivals, and it was pretty fucking funny if I did say so myself. I was not disappointed. They put me in the closing night gala, which is about the most high-profile slot of the entire festival. I was back in the spotlight, and I was way psyched to attend.

The MIX festival has been the epicenter of my video production exposure since I started submitting to festivals. All my MIX screenings are the world premiers of my work. I'd been there four times in the past (thrice as a showing filmmaker), I know the people, I know the venue, and I generally know what to expect. It's comfortable and familiar. By stark contrast, I had attended the New York Independent International Film Festival in September of 2001. I didn't know anyone there, the venue was inconveniently located, and my video, VoyEx, was very much a fish out of water and not well received by the heterosexual audience. I found it to be a stressful and unpleasant experience. Going back to MIX, however, was like going home again. I couldn't wait for the festival.

I usually took the bus when I traveled to NYC. It was pretty hassle-free. But it was also a bit costly, and very time-consuming with long stops in Binghamton and Monticello. There was also the matter of an old Mac Performa that the jag wanted to give me for free. I could transport it back home much more easily if I drove my own car than if I tried to stash it in the cargo hold of a bus. I decided to take the plunge and drive.

It had been a while since I'd made a road trip of any significant distance. In years past I'd had no choice but to drive whatever old junker I happened to own at the time. Whenever I made a long journey, there was always the stress of not truly knowing if my car would make it there and back or not. This time I had a nice (relatively) new VW Beetle that I had every expectation of being completely trouble-free. It also promised to be a most apt urban assault vehicle. It was small and quick and comfortable. It also had little amenities like a trunk-mounted 6 CD changer.

This is not to say, however, that the trip would be entirely stress-free. I had never driven in NYC before. I had every reason to believe that my considerable driving skills would be more than adequate for the task, but there was still considerable anxiety associated with the prospect. Manhattan is laid out in a pretty logical grid, but the jungle of expressways, bridges, and tunnels that surround the island like a thorny crown is more than a little daunting. Beyond that, most of the anxiety didn't have to do so much with the driving as it did with the parking. If I couldn't find a spot on the densely crowded island then I'd be fucked. A garage would cost way more than the bus ticket would have.

Finally the day came, and despite some lingering trepidation I got in my car and drove off. The trip started off without a hitch. I took 81 South into Pennsylvania, slipped down 380 to 80 East, which took me through New Jersey and directly to the George Washington Bridge. Except for a 15 minute lunch break and a half-hour nap, I'd made great time.

The closer I got to the bridge, however, the more stressed I became. Traffic was getting more dense, and I was seeing signs about construction delays. I also remembered hearing stories about no single-occupant vehicles being allowed across some bridges and tunnels since the September 11 bombings. I recalled that as being only during rush hour, and it was now about 3:30 in the afternoon, but it still gave me one more thing to worry about.

I had selected a Henry Rollins "spoken word" CD to listen to during this leg of the journey. Hearing him talk about terminating thousands of white mice and lab rats in an NIH facility seemed somehow apropos for a drive across NJ. It was all wrong for my state of mind at that time, however. When I noticed that my white-knuckled death-grip on the steering wheel had caused my skin to adhere to its surface, I decided to play something a bit more soothing. I went with Pink Floyd "The Division Bell."

It didn't take me long to get to the bridge. All the construction complications pertained only to the "local" portions of I80. I had stayed on the express, and was duly whisked right along. I had one last jolt of adrenaline as I approached the toll plaza and had to make sure that I didn't accidentally get into an EZ-Pass lane. I got up to the gate, paid my $6.00 toll, and was onto the bridge. It was a big and impressive bridge at that. The Golden Gate Bridge is heralded for its size and grace, largely because it stands by itself. It's a little-known fact that there are bridges in the greater New York area are equal to or greater in size.

As I passed the apex of the bridge, my thoughts turned to the route I was supposed to pick up once on the island. It was told it was the Henry Hudson expressway, "or something like that." From the map I had glanced at it was right on the very West shore of the island, so I got in the far right lane in anticipation of an abrupt exit. As I neared the end of the bridge, the exit was plainly labeled, and it was indeed the Henry Hudson expressway (also marked as "Route 9A"). I exited cleanly and was soon zooming South at 65MPH. That was the first time in my life I'd been behind the wheel of an automobile inside the New York City limits. It was fun.

Traffic moved very quickly as the expressway was largely an elevated, limited access highway. But when we got to mid-town we came back down to the surface and had to contend with traffic lights. Lots of traffic lights. We totally ground to a halt. As I crept along my hatred of mid-town really began to congeal. Harlem is fine. The village is fine. But mid-town just plain sucks.

Once below the mid-town area, we started moving along again. It wasn't like the 65MPH expressway up-town, but it still wasn't bad. Now I had to think about when to head inland. Once the street signs got below the teens I took the next available left-turn lane. This was now driving in NYC proper. Far from stressful, things once again ground to a halt. I was disoriented by the fact that all the streets and avenues had names instead of numbers, but I knew I was heading East and that sooner or later things would start making sense. The festival venue was the Anthology Film Archives on the corner of 2nd Street and 2nd Avenue. It couldn't be that hard to find.

Before long I found myself directly in the heart of Greenwich Village. As soon as I caught a numbered street sign I adjusted my trajectory and got on a direct course for the venue. Within minutes I was there. My heart swelled with a great sense of accomplishment. But I still had the matter of finding a parking space. By now it was just after 4PM. I was hoping that people would still be at work and that there would be a few spots open here and there. That didn't turn out to be the case. I decided to traverse the streets in a highly ordered pattern heading North between 2nd Ave and Avenue C. After a few blocks I did manage to find a little spot that didn't already have a car in it. I checked the parking signs. It was a valid spot, but there was no parking between 10AM and 12:30PM Fridays and Tuesdays. That meant that I'd have to move it the next morning, but a bird in the hand was worth an awful lot at that moment. I backed into the space. It was bit tight, but it was no problem for my Beetle. I shut off the key and chilled out for a minute.

My car had now transformed from a transportation device to a one-room apartment. Safe and sound in a legal parking space I was in no hurry to go anywhere. It was still pretty early. I decided to eat a candy bar and just hang out for a while. There was a woman loitering on the sidewalk just a few feet from my car, though, and she made it hard to relax. People seem to do a lot of standing around in NYC. There are the people who seem to always be in a hurry to get somewhere, and the people who seem to have nowhere to go at all. This woman was just standing there. She didn't look particularly sketchy, but it was still discomforting. After I wolfed down my candy bar I decided to leave her company and walk to the venue.

I got out of the car and pulled on my motorcycle jacket. Once I stood up I realized how weak my knees were. Despite the fact that the trip had been entirely uneventful, my system was still saturated with adrenaline. I locked my car, made a note of where it was parked, and walked off in the general direction of the venue. All the stress, or more accurately the relief of having survived all that stress, made me want a cigarette. I had quit smoking just a couple months before. But MAN did I want a fucking cigarette right then. I hadn't wanted one so bad since I'd quit. It was almost insurmountable. Just when I started putting it out of my mind, I walked past a pub with a "Guinness" sign in the window. I had also quit drinking on the same day I quit smoking. Now all I could think about was a nice stout pint and a pack of Marlboro Lights. It was more or less the same sensation as when you're holding your breath and all you can think about is gasping for air. I did my best to put it out of my mind.

In just a few minutes I was at the venue. I pulled on the door but it was locked. Hmm. It was still pretty early. The screenings didn't begin for another couple hours. Just as I turned away the door opened and I was let in. It turned out to be the festival director, a nice young man named Ioannis (pronounced "yahn-us"). Although I hadn't remembered meeting him he recognized me and knew me by name. The festival coordinator Yvette was behind the registration table and she handed me my badge without me having to identify myself. This was why I liked MIX. Rather than being treated like an anonymous filmmaker, I was treated like an old friend. Yvette also handed me the bag of goodies they gave to each filmmaker. I went off to sit down and go through it.

The bag consisted mostly of complimentary magazines and post cards advertising parties and film-related services. With nothing better to do I sat there and skimmed through the stuff. I made note of the fact that there was an "Industry Mixer" that evening at the Starlight Bar and Lounge on Avenue A. I also went through the festival program. It was all interesting, but I was too keyed up to sit still. I said goodbye to the festival staff and headed out. By this time it was almost dark.

On the way back to my car my cell phone rang. It was HowieJ. He said that he and Keith were meeting at Odessa for dinner at 7:30, but that he wasn't sure what time he'd be able to leave work. I told him to call me back when he was on his way out the door. I wasn't sure exactly which restaurant Odessa was, but I knew it was one of a number of places we frequented around Tompkins Square Park.

Once I dropped my festival bag in the car I decided to just walk around the East Village for a while. I'd never really done much wandering on my own. I was usually either going some place specific or I had someone I was following like a puppy. I wound up on 7th Street heading West. Before long I found myself in Astor Place. I knew Astor Place, but I didn't realize I knew how to get there. I decided to see if I could make my way to the Antique Boutique. I'm not much for clothes shopping, but I remembered them having some pretty cool stuff in there. I headed off in the direction of where I remembered it being. On the way I passed two Starbucks that were only a block away from each other.

I went around the corner, and there it was. Once inside I discovered that it was 100% 2nd-hand retro stuff. I had remembered there being a dash of new products too, but in this case there were none. Still I wandered around for quite a while checking their wares. One thing I did find was a great selection of polyester leisure suits. I had been recently lamenting the fact that you can't find leisure suits in the Salvation Army any more. Now I knew where I could get one. It wasn't a priority at the moment, however.

I saw a rack of motorcycle jackets. While I had grown rather fond of mine, I could see replacing it with an authentic Hein Gericke (of which mine was a cheap knockoff). Alas, they were all the same brand out of Canada. I decided to go downstairs to check out the denim and military clothes. While I already have all the denim I need, and I wasn't particularly in the market for any military gear, they did have some nice camouflage t-shirts. I grabbed the smallest size they had and headed for the stairs. I was stopped by the sales girl.

"Were you looking for a leather jacket?" she asked.

I was a bit perplexed as to how she knew this, unless she had seen me upstairs. "I was looking for a Hein Gericke, but I didn't see any."

"What's that?" she asked. I've come to appreciate that ignorance truly is bliss, as she was blithely bemused by the challenge of these new and strange words.

"It's a name brand," I said. She giggled and shrugged her shoulders. "I didn't see any on the rack," I continued.

"Well then I guess we don't have any."

I thanked her for all her "help" and continued up to the cash register.

There were three people behind the counter, one of which was busy ringing up a customer. The other two were talking. I went over to them.

"Oh, she can help you," they said, pointing to the young woman who was busy with someone else. Normally it would have bothered me to have two idle customer service workers make me wait for no apparent reason. Frankly this kind of thing generally spawns an ire in me verging on rage. But I had settled into a cool NYC groove and was able to go with the flow (when in Rome...). In another minute the young woman rang me up and swiped my credit card. She went to wrap the flimsy garment up in fancy, colored tissue paper.

"You might as well not bother," I told her. "I'm gonna toss it on as soon as I step out of the building anyway."

"Oh, okay," she said. "Then would you like me to remove the tags too?"

"Sure," I said. She snipped off those annoying paper tags held on by those thin wisps of plastic filament that seem all but indestructible when you don't have a pair of scissors with you.

Once outside I decided not to don it immediately, but to make my way back to my car and put on my combat boots at the same time. Back at the car I got my boots out of the hatch back and sat down in the passenger seat. The loitering lady was now gone, and I felt I could relax a bit more. I turned on the radio as I changed into my boots and cammo t-shirt. It was now around 6:30. I still had a lot of time to kill. I thought about the Industry Mixer event. I checked the schedule and saw that it started at 7:00. I decided I'd go to that, even if it made me late for dinner. It would be very nice to mix it up with people who are actually in the industry.

I walked up to Avenue A. I quickly found Odessa, which was right on the avenue. I continued walking North. My phone rang. It was Howard saying he was leaving work. I told him I was on my way to the industry mixer. He said that was fine because dinner had been moved off to 8:00 anyway. I said I'd see him and Keith at Odessa at 8:00.

I had a street address for the party, but didn't know how far up the avenue it was. It didn't take long to find. It was only a few blocks up from Odessa. The place didn't even look like it was open yet. I figured they were probably setting up. I didn't want to get there too early, so I kept walking around. I went into a "thrift shop" that had the same stuff that was in the Antique Boutique, but only a fraction of the variety and all crammed into a tiny space. Further up I saw a cool skate shop. There was a video of skate borders playing on a TV in the store window. I lingered for a bit, but the skate kid out front was looking at me like, "What are you doing here?" I felt a little odd so I kept walking. I went all the way up to the end of Avenue A, wandered about just a bit, and then started heading back down again. By the time I got to the bar it was just after 7:00 so I went in.

I think they were still setting up, because I went up to the bar and no one looked at all interested in selling me a drink. I wandered around the space a bit. A couple guys were walking around wearing black polo shirts and carrying black satchels over their shoulders. The shirts and satchels each bore the Lucky Strike cigarette logo. The satchels were packed with cartons of Lucky Strike cigarettes that they were desperately trying to give away.

The only guy whom I recognized from MIX was a nice-looking fellow named Jonathon. I think he was the festival coordinator the year I showed VoyEx. When he went up to the bar I caught his eye and he came over and said hello. I went up to the bar with him. He explained that Vodka drinks were free at this event. Just what I needed. Here I was trying to overcome dire urges to smoke and drink, and I went to a party where they were giving away free cigarettes and pouring free Vodka drinks. I ordered a coke. Jonathon and I chatted a bit, but he had to get back to the person for whom he'd just gotten a drink.

With no one else to talk to I went up to the guys trying to give away Lucky Strikes. We kept each other company for a while. I took a pack of smokes, put a cigarette behind my ear, and placed the pack in my jacket pocket. They were also giving away disposable cameras. Having left all my still cameras at home I gladly snatched one.

With little potential for conversation, I said, "So Lucky Strike sponsors Jacques Villeneuve, right?"

They were like, "Huh?"

"So then you're not employees of Lucky Strike, then, are you?"

It turned out they were actors who occasionally got hired to do these promotional events. Figures. At this "industry mixer" the only people remotely in the "industry" were the guys pushing smokes. Still, it was better than nothing. I started asking them about how they went about getting work. It turned out they worked for the "Barbizon" agency.

"Hmm," I said. "I remember seeing ads for the Barbizon School of Modeling when I was a kid watching 'I Dream of Jeanie' re-runs on WPIX. Their motto was, 'Be a model or just look like one.'"

"Gee," one of them said. "That's still their motto today."

I didn't know which was more pathetic, that the only work these two so-called actors could get from the Barbizon modeling school was to pawn off smokes at an industry-free mixer, or that I was standing there talking to them. I excused myself to go talk to the guy Jonathon had gotten a drink for.

He was a rather big and brawny fellow and had been chatting with a shorter stout guy. I interrupted their conversation to introduce myself. The big guy was named Wolfgang. He was German. The stout guy was named Mark. Mark was a volunteer with the festival. I don't know what Wolfgang's angle was. He asked me about my video, but he knew nothing about Pee Wee's Playhouse, so the conversation didn't go much of anywhere. I talked more with Mark. The conversation wasn't very industry-related, though. Actually about the only thing that stuck in my mind was Mark saying he didn't walk around listening to a WalkMan any more because muggers tend to target such people because they can't hear them coming.

I kept staring at my watch until it was about time to meet Howard and Keith for dinner. I left fifteen minutes early for a five minute walk.

I made a bee line for Odessa and proceeded to stand around waiting. Frankly there are worse things to do than to hang out on a street corner in the East Village. I had lots of fun people-watching while I waited. There are lots of interesting artist types in the East Village.

After a while Keith wandered along. We talked for a little while until Howard showed up, and we went in to eat. The agenda for the night was to attend the Gong Show at 10:00. It's a silly little event where people submit videos on the spot, and "celebrity" judges either gong them or score them. The winner receives some ridiculous prize. Still, I look forward to the Gong Show every year almost as much as I do to my formal festival screening. This was the 6th year they'd done the Gong Show, and I'd submitted to all but the first year, which was before I even attended MIX. I wanted to get there way early because I had learned that they play the tapes in the order they're submitted. The previous year I got there late, and my video never wound up getting screened at all. We had plenty of time.

Howard and Keith and I had a relaxed dinner. As we were finishing our meals Howard began trumpeting the chocolate cheese cake they had there. I'm usually not much for dessert, but this sounded pretty good. When the waitress came to clear our plates I ordered a slice.

"Oh, I'm sorry. We're out of that."

I said I'd go without, and after she left I gave Howard the raspberries.

We left Odessa and walked briskly to the venue where the jag was waiting for us. We were plenty early. It was too early even to submit my tape. Having gone to a lot of effort the previous year to produce a tape specially for the Gong Show only to get stiffed, I didn't go to a lot of effort this year. I grabbed a copy of Skin Shot, which was like a two minute experimental thing I knocked off on a Saturday evening sampling images and sounds from TV and stitching them together on my iMac. I didn't expect it to do well. But after 4 years of trying to win and being shut down every time, I didn't care any more.

While we were standing around I chatted with Ioannis a bit. Raj was milling about too. He had been the festival director in years past. He was still on the MIX Board of Directors, but his only active role during the festival at this time was to M.C. the Gong Show. He originally came up with the idea, and he still liked to run it every year. Ioannis asked Raj if he knew me. Raj and I smiled and said that we'd known each other for a few years.

Waiting for the Gong Show to start in my new cammo shirt

Eventually we went in and they got the show started. The celebrities were in rare form. Linda Richmond and Michael Musto were really going at each other. Unfortunately the videos weren't all that great. Mine was gonged after less than 30 seconds. Linda's sidekick Chita pointed out that my previous video was all come shots. Oddly the video that followed mine featured the exact same disembodied rubber torso. It was a wild coincidence, not only to be in the same program, but to immediately follow mine. When Linda introduced the next video she said, "I wonder if it'll have that same guy in it..."

The piece that won was a spoof of an underarm deodorant commercial. It wasn't bad, but was not as good as winners in years past. The first place prize was a Quinceañera dress. Second prize was a bottle of cheap Tequila. Third prize was a carton of Lucky Strikes. I don't even remember the videos that took second and third place. After the screening I went up to Chita to thank her for remembering my previous video. She said she remembered all my previous videos, and proceeded to recount each one. I was impressed and flattered. I told her I'd see her at the after party.

Once outside the building, Keith decided to head home. Howard, the jag, and I headed off to the after party at Bar 13. It was a short walk. Once inside I realized it was in the exact same space that the Gong Show after party had been held the previous year. I immediately had flashbacks of that embarrassing night a year prior when I got drunk off my ass, got a blow job in the men's room, lost one of my all-time favorite shirts, and went home with a guy I didn't know. That binge left me so chronically hung-over that I was unable to enjoy the entire rest of the festival that year. This year I had been fighting an insurmountable urge to go in a bar and get a drink just hours earlier, but memories of the previous year actually made me feel relieved to be sober at this point and not have to deal with all the inessential insanity. It was a powerful motivator.

I got a $4 bottle of water and stood around milking it. I tried to enjoy myself but there just wasn't a particularly energetic vibe going on. I saw a cute boy I'd noticed working the registration table back at the venue. I wanted to introduce myself, but he always seemed to be in conversation with other people.

The jag spotted someone walking around who looked familiar. Finally he recognized him to be DJ Johnny Dynell. I was as clueless as an ignorant upstate bumpkin. The jag explained that he was a legendary downtown DJ who, along with this wife Chi Chi Valenti, was responsible for the long-running nightclub called Mother that hosted the world-renowned party Jackie 60. I could sense that I was supposed to be impressed, but with an utter lack of context the guy just seemed like any old NYC hipster to me.

Eventually he walked over to us. The jag asked him if he was Johnny Dynell. The guy said yes, and proved to be entirely unpretentious and actually quite friendly. He even confessed that in his youth he was an upstate bumpkin himself. He told the jag all about his latest party Jack Your Body. He also spoke enthusiastically about the book "Last Night a DJ Saved My Life" which was available through the Amazon link on his web page. He and the jag actually talked for quite a while. After he left, the jag remained somewhat star-struck, and chided me for not being more impressed than I was.

By this time Linda Richmond, Chita, and their little entourage had arrived. I reminisced with Linda a bit about the first Gong Show I attended, which was held in The Knitting Factory. She had almost forgotten that it had once been held at that venue. Our chat didn't last long, and I never got a chance to talk to Chita before they left. But Chita did smile and wink at me as she walked past on her way out.

After they left I'd had about enough of the party. I told the guys that I was about ready to head out. It turned out they were equally ready to roll. The jag said he was going to pop into work briefly the next day and then go to the gym, run errands, etc., and probably wouldn't see us until the 8:00 screening the next day. Howard and I said good night to him and headed back to his place to crash. We had to go back to my car first to pick up my stuff. It wasn't until I grabbed my bags and locked the car that I realized that I'd parked just around the corner from Howard's place. It couldn't have worked out better if I had the space reserved weeks in advance.

We went in and got his futon set up for me to sleep in. I took my clothes off and crashed. It was around 2AM.

Friday November 16, 2001

I was awake ridiculously early that morning. In addition to the fact that my body tends to wake up at the same time no matter what time I went to bed the night before, I was fretting about moving my car. I had noted the parking restriction started at 10AM, but I was now paranoid that I'd remembered wrong. Howard had taken the day off, so I knew he wouldn't be stirring any time soon. I managed to get back to sleep, but it was a spotty, disturbed, unrestful sleep.

I woke back up again for good about 10 minutes before my watch alarm went off to tell me it was time to move the car. Howard was still asleep. I threw on some clothes, grabbed his spare set of apartment keys, and headed out.

After I got the car fired up I searched the radio stations for Howard Stern. I thought it would be fun to listen to him considering it was all happening live only a few miles away. Eventually I found it and headed out. I did a semi-logical search pattern, remaining in the same general area.

Scrutinizing the parking signs intently, I realized at one point that I was on a street where the no parking period was just coming to an end. The curb was already full of cars. That clued me into the fact that I had to be back early if I wanted to get my old spot back.

After a little more searching I found a spot on the South-East corner of Tompkins Square Park, only a couple blocks from Howard's. As soon as I started walking away, however, I realized I needed a special faculty permit to park there. I got back in and kept driving.

Two things kept vexing me in my search. One was fire hydrant zones. You can't see the hydrant until you were right up on it, so you'd think you'd found a space only to discover that it was no good. The other was metered parking. I kept seeing empty spots, but when I got close I realized that they had parking meters on them. Finally I realized that I could put it in metered parking for the time that my old spot was off limits, and bring it back early enough to get my old spot back. It was a great plan. I pulled into the next metered spot I saw and dropped $2 in quarters into the meter.

As I walked back to Howard's very proud of myself, I realized that I could have found metered parking only a block away from my old spot, instead of the half-dozen blocks I now had to walk. Oh well. Live and learn.

On the way back to Howard's place I grabbed a bagel from the local bodega, as my stomach was already rumbling and I knew it would be quite a while before we sat down to a proper breakfast.

When I got back to the apartment Howard was already ambling about. I ate a couple bites from my bagel, lay on the futon for a while, and eventually got back up and took a shower. Taking a shower in Howard's place is kind of like standing under a drippy faucet.

By the time we were both dressed and ready to leave it was about time to get my car anyway. We walked up to where I left it and drove directly back to where I had it before. I was early enough that there were lots and lots of spaces available. I parked it in almost exactly the same spot, except a tad closer even to the corner. I was so early, in fact, that I decided to wait around a bit and make sure that some meter maid didn't come by and slap a ticket on me. But a lot of other people had already parked.

When a guy in an old VW camper parked in the spot behind me, I decided to get out and compliment him on his cool vehicle. He was perhaps in his late 40's, but handsome and in pretty good shape.

"Nice camper," I said as he climbed out and locked the door.

"Uhhh, thanks..." he said hesitantly.

"That's a pretty old one, isn't it?" I continued innocently.

"Yeah, '69," he said as he scurried away.

Howard had to explain to me that I wasn't upstate any more, and that people in the city don't generally chat with people they don't know. I thought our VW simpatico would overcome that, but apparently I was wrong.

Howard and I wandered off to get some breakfast. I was back in the mode where I just follow the knowledgeable person around like a puppy dog. I wasn't sure which diner we went into, but it had pretty decent food and cute waiters.

We had a light agenda for the day. I had heard on Fresh Air™ a few weeks back about a photo exhibit in a SoHo gallery. Photographer Joel Meyerowitz had a studio with a stunning view of downtown, and over the course of twenty years he had taken numerous pictures of the skyline, which prominently featured the twin towers. He had been planning to exhibit many of these photos long before September 11th. He decided to go ahead with the exhibit, and it would be in progress while I was in town. I really wanted to see it.

I won't go into my feelings of the events of September 11th, except to say that despite the tragic loss of life, I really lamented the loss of the buildings themselves. I have been interested in architecture all my life. People come and go, but buildings persist. The step pyramid of Sakkra was the first example of monumental architecture, and millennia after the death of Zoser and Imhotep, the pyramid lives on. The monumental Gothic cathedrals of the middle ages took hundreds of years to construct. Those who designed such buildings knew from the start that they would not live to see their completion. Whenever I'm in the presence of such architecture, I'm filled with awe, and a sense of pride that our species has the ingenuity and sheer will to achieve such greatness.

While the World Trade Center was in practice a pragmatic office building, it's sheer scale was monumental, and it had long been a favorite of mine. The presence of the twin towers on the skyline as a whole was striking and significant in that they counter-balanced the jungle of sky-scrapers clustered around mid-town, but their true beauty was better appreciated from a closer vantage point. They were so incredibly tall that they could be seen from virtually any spot in lower Manhattan. Since I spent most of my time in the village, I grew accustomed to seeing them wherever I went. They became permanent objects in the sky, providing a point of reference and a sense of comfort and security, like a man-made North Star.

The Empire State Building, by contrast, was juxtaposed against the Chrysler Building, the Pan Am Building, and a forest of other mid-town behemoths. The twin towers so overtopped every other building in the area that they had the sky to themselves. Yet their peerless domination was tempered by the fact that there were two of them. Rather than an individual titan dominating all that surrounded it, the twin towers shared the sky between them. They were celestial sisters, posed side be side -- an eternal monument to symmetry and balance.

The architectural critics who praised the buildings after their demise were largely the same ones who bitterly criticized them when they were new. The twin towers were almost universally panned as being nothing more than simple rectangular boxes. I never shared this view. I thought that they were perfect examples of understated grace. The Sears Tower in Chicago, in my opinion, is a plain glass box (and I mean "plain" in the pejorative sense). As far as I'm concerned, its flagrant disregard of the basic sensibilities of symmetry broaches on the ugly. It looks like a stack of Lego blocks created by a kid who didn't have enough to complete the job. Beyond that, the exterior surfaces had no texture or ornamentation of any kind. It was simply covered in vast monolithic sheets of glass. While the twin towers were admittedly simple rectangular forms, they were so much more than that. Each face was covered in regularly spaced, delicate white flutes that stretched uninterrupted the entire height of the structure. At the base of the tower, trinities of flutes gathered together, naturally forming Gothic arches to top the wider spaces that bore the many entrances to the building. While this design was indeed very simple, I thought it was uncompromisingly beautiful. To enhance the already considerable state of grace these towers created, they were not placed side-by-side, but offset corner to corner. This small design element had a major impact on those standing at the base, those gazing out the windows from within, and those seeing the towers from a distance at any angle. To me, they were the epitome of uncluttered beauty.

I had done a web search and found the Ariel-Meyerowitz gallery to be only a few blocks from the festival venue. Howard explained that it was a little farther than it looked like on the map, but it was still within walking distance. After we finished breakfast we hiked to Broadway. After initially walking directly past the appropriate building, we figured out which one it was. We took the elevator to the top floor and walked in.

The space was smaller than I expected, but the photographs were huge. Meyerowitz had shot them all on an old-fashioned "view camera" which exposes an 8" by 10" negative (as opposed to a 35mm negative). This creates photographs that have incredible vibrancy and clarity, even when enlarged to great proportions. It was quite amazing to see such photographic prints close up.

I found the photographs to be more about the sky than the twin towers. The latter was actually used more as a frame for the former. The sky-scapes that Meyerowitz captured were really quite amazing, though. There were sunsets, cloud formations, and massive storms. We hung out for a while and then moved on.

Our next stop was the nearby Leslie-Lohman Gay Art Foundation to see the 10th Gay & Lesbian Photo Annual, subtitled "Body Language: Explicit/Implicit." It was pretty interesting, and more than a little erotic. It was enough to give me a little wood in my jeans. At first I wanted to hide it, but I decided I totally didn't care. I wound up walking around with a huge bulge in my pants the rest of the time. After a while we left and hiked back to Howard's where we both took naps.

I set the alarm on my watch to get me up in time to get to the Stonewall to meet Angel and Robert. They were a couple of guys who had found me on the web a while back. Angel had done a Lycose image search for "BEACH+BOY" and found a picture of me naked and erect on a San Francisco nude beach. After delving into my site he emailed me. Long story short I told him I'd be in NYC in a couple weeks and we made plans to meet at the Stonewall.

I hiked up to 9th Street and took that all the way across town. On my way I was seeing signs to Route 9A, which I remembered as being the official designation for the Henry Hudson Expressway. I now knew what my escape route would be Monday morning.

I got to the Stonewall a little early, so I milled about in a nearby souvenir shop for a while. I wound up buying a postcard to send home to my folks. It was an aerial view of the Greenwich Village area. It was pretty cool, actually.

I headed back up to the Stonewall. I had been by it many times but had never gone in, until now. Despite it's legendary status, it was just a bar. It was a little too dark and the music was a little too loud. I got a $3.00 glass of Coke. Angel and Robert wouldn't send me a pic of themselves. They said they didn't have one to send. In this day and age I find it hard to believe that no one has even one digitized photo to send around. I usually suspect that excuse to be a euphemism for, "I don't want you to know what I look like." Either way, the onus was off me from peering around the bar trying to identify the guys I was supposed to meet. I got a table and sat down.

It didn't take a minute before a guy came over and introduced himself. It was Angel. He was about two tables over from me. I picked up my drink and moved over to his table. In a minute his boyfriend Robert came over. My theory about them not sending a pic seemed to be out the window. They weren't movie stars, but they looked quite nice to me. They were maybe in their early to mid 40's. For some reason I had pictured them as being in their 50's. I'm not sure why. Maybe it was residual suspicion from them not sending a pic.

We went through that initial uncomfortable stage where no one really knew what to talk about. We made some pointless chit chat for a while until Robert kind of hunkered down and asked if he could ask me some more personal questions.

"You can ask me anything you want," I said.

He then tried to formulate his question. Actually it was more one of those, let-me-tell-you-a-question questions. Actually it didn't turn out to really be a question at all, but rather a semi-inquisitive observation. He said something like, "You have all these pictures of yourself, right down to childhood and Halloween costumes, and you have all these stories about your life and your interests, even down to the level of detail of James Bond and Planet of the Apes."

I was like, "Yeah?"

He said, "Well... what's up with that?"

I took a breath to respond, but Robert went on some more.

"I mean, like, it's so universal. I like Planet of the Apes too. I think we all do." He went on to tell the story of the first time he saw the original Planet of the Apes movie. Every time he paused I took a breath to reply, but every time I was about to utter a sound he'd continue on again. Eventually I just folded my hands in my lap and waited for him to actually stop and give me a chance to say something.

When he finally did hand me the conch I told the story about how back in Jr. High School I got an assignment to write an autobiography, and I was inexplicably driven to write intensely personal things. Later on in college I took a writing course and also found a compulsion to write profoundly from the heart about myself, my feelings, and my experiences. I went on to explain that as far as my web site went, the autobiographical essays started as something to counter-balance the pictures, so that the site wasn't so entirely vain as to simply be picture after picture of myself.

We continued talking for a while. Although it had been Angel who originally contacted me, Robert seemed to be the more talkative. Or, more accurately, he was more aggressive in taking control of the conversation. I was enjoying myself, but it was just too loud in the Stonewall. I asked them if the wanted to grab a bite to eat. We wound up going around the corner to the Garage.

We went upstairs and had a nice meal. I started asking them more about themselves, like how them met and stuff. We settled into pretty normal dinner conversation. They hazed me for ordering a glass of milk with dinner. Everyone does. As the meal wound down I got to talking about the festival, my video that was playing, and other videos and other festivals.

Robert and Angel at dinner

I was to meet Howard and Keith for the 8:00 screening, so I began to make overtures towards leaving. I got the impression that Angel and Robert were about ready to head home anyway. They had each come directly from work to meet me at the Stonewall. I made a token effort to chip in on the bill, but Angel graciously picked it up. They invited me to come over to their place for dinner the following night. I said that it wasn't likely, as my schedule was pretty full, but that I'd call them and let them know for sure.

We said goodbye as we parted outside the restaurant and I headed East. I realized I hadn't taken a cab or a subway train since I'd been in town. I decided to keep my record clean and hike the whole way. I had plenty of time, but I was a little bored. I walked past a fenced-in basketball court across from a McDonalds. It reminded me of the time years ago when my then boyfriend Darnell took me to NYC. We sat in that very McDonalds and watched buys playing in that very basketball court. Back then I was considerably metrophobic, and was in truth a bit of a basket case while we were there.

Realizing I had my cell phone in my pocket, I figured I'd give Darnell a call to keep me company while I walked. I rang him up, and much to my surprise he was actually home. It was great talking to him again. He had just taken a job as the assistant registrar at a law school. Having thoroughly enjoyed working in higher education for over ten years, I asked him how he was liking it himself. He said it was good, but he had to get used to the lower standards of professionalism. I had accurately predicted that this would be a considerable adjustment for him. For the first two weeks he wore a suit and tie to work, until he got sick of people asking him if he had an interview or something.

We were still talking away when I got back to the venue. We talked just a bit more, but I did have to get in to make the screening. I said goodbye and went inside. Ioannis was hobnobbing in the lobby. He came up to me and asked how I was liking the festival. He asked what screenings I'd been to.

"Well," I said sheepishly. "I have to confess that I've only been to the Gong Show so far. But I'm very excited about the ten o'clock screening!"

I wasn't just being polite. The film was called "The Law Of Enclosures" and it was a John Greyson adaptation of the Dale Peck novel. I hadn't actually seen any of John Greyson's work, but I knew a little bit about "Zero Patience." It was a lively and light-hearted romp about the advent of the AIDS epidemic. I was impressed that he could take a subject that heavy and infuse it with such levity. I was very anxious to see his latest film.

I caught up with Howard and Keith. There was still some time before the screening, but there was no sign of the jag, so I stepped outside to call him. He said that going into work that day was a big mistake. It was hours before he could get back out again. He was running way behind in his preparations for his performance at the Lusty Loft party that night. He had to skip the 8:00 screening and said he'd meet us at the party no later than 11:30.

Howard and Keith and I went in and sat down for the screening. There was a brief introduction where Ioannis stated that John Greyson couldn't be there, but they were honored to have the author Dale Peck in attendance. There was a round of applause, but when I looked around the theater, Mr. Peck wasn't standing or otherwise identifying himself.

The lights went down and the film began. It opened by setting a rather stark, dour mood. It wasn't at all what I was expecting. There was one unbelievably cute boy in it (Howard later recognized him as the guy who played the younger, more aggressive thug in MTVs portrayal of the Matthew Shepherd story). The film proved to be well done technically, and essentially well executed from a thematic standpoint, but I found it to be the opposite of up lifting. It was about a couple who married too young and essentially hated each other the rest of their lives. Frankly it was a little on the depressing side. And just when it looked like things were going to turn around, there was a tragic surprise ending.

After the film Howard and Keith wanted to get a bite to eat. I was still pretty full from the dinner I'd had only a couple hours before. I was actually very excited to get to the Lusty Loft party. It was in an area of Brooklyn called DUMBO, which I had learned as being acronymous for Down Under Manhattan Bridge Overpass. There was an artist's collective that lived in the area who called themselves DUMBA. There were two stories regarding their name. One was that it was a feminized version of the masculine DUMBO, and the other was that the "A" stood for "anarchist." Frankly it was all moot to me. All I cared about was the fact that it was going to be a sex party. The jag had spoken of it briefly. It was a mixed crowd: gay, straight, male, female. There was one "sex room" that was being web-cast around the space and around the world. The actual amount of sexual activity was largely dependent on the party mood and group dynamic. I was entirely ready to do my part to make the mood a lusty one.

After a while Keith and Howard were ready to go. By this time it was already past 11:00. We swung by Howard's apartment so I could get my video equipment to tape the jag's performance. We got on the F train and took it all the way into Brooklyn. That was a first for me. I'd been in the Bronx once or twice, and even in Queens many years ago. But never Brooklyn. Until that night. Our destination was only the second stop across the river, so it was not a very long ride. We came up to the street, and the view was about what I expected. It was a rather depressing mélange of warehouses and other run-down buildings, with a gargantuan bridge overpass looming up in the night sky. I would have been a little bugged-out if the streets weren't entirely deserted.

We had the street address of the party, and we could see the number of the building we came up next to, but we didn't know in which direction the numbers went up and in which they went down. Howard led us off in one direction. After about a block and a half we came upon a building with a small crowd out in front and music blaring from within. It looked like the place. It was $10 to get in.

Immediately inside I was surprised to find the space much more cramped and limited than what I had expected for a "loft." I'm not sure why I was surprised. By now you'd think I'd have learned that there are no expansive spaces anywhere in NYC. We inched in a little further and found the jag right away. He was in his leather shorts and not much else. He said that there was no clothes check. I wasn't too comfortable with that. I'd come in a white unitard under my street clothes, but I wasn't too keen on leaving my stuff lying around. For the time being I took off my motorcycle jacket and walked around with it in my hand. I squeezed my way past the dance room and into the back part of the space where the sex room was. There were two webcams inside the sex room that were broadcasting images to the computer just outside (where I was standing), and around the world. The problem was that the picture quality was really terrible. I was staring at it trying to determine what it was I was seeing. Finally I said fuck it and just pulled the curtain back and peeked in the room itself. There were some people in there, but it didn't look like there was any sex going on. At least not yet.

I squeezed back up to the dance room and stood around in there. They were projecting films onto the wall. I was feeling a little pent up and short-tempered. I was rather anxious about my potential participation in any public sexual activity, I was also a bit stressed about the responsibility to tape the jag's performance, and the dense crowd and loud music exacerbated my already fading mood. Suddenly, however, I had an inexplicable change of heart. I literally told myself to get over it and start enjoying myself. That's usually utterly ineffective, but in this instance it seemed to work. I made my way to the side of the dance room where there was a little stage set up. I stripped down to my unitard and combat boots. I pulled my video camera out of my backpack and stuffed my clothes in. I then put my leather jacket around the backpack as if it was a mannequin torso. I put the whole assemblage under one of the projector stands. I then walked back out to the dance floor and danced a little bit. Over the past couple years I've slowly been losing my aversion to dancing. What happened was I finally stopped giving a fuck if I looked like I knew how to dance or not. So I just stood on the crowded dance floor and bopped to the music a bit. I started watching the people a little closer. It was an interesting crowd. Most people were in regular clothes, but there were some interesting outfits. One kid was running around stark naked.

It actually wasn't long before the jag came through saying he was going to get set up for his performance. He had two assistants with him whom I'd met once before. I wasn't even sure what his performance was going to be, except that it involved bondage. His assistants began securing his arms to a pole that hung horizontally overhead above the little stage on the side of the dance room. They then started tying him up with rope. It all looked pretty cool, but it took a long time to do. Finally they ran out of rope. But then they reached in their bag and pulled out more rope. When that ran out of that they pulled out even more rope. The rope work was actually quite intricate, and they re-did certain sections. Frankly it was taking a pretty long time to do. It wasn't that I minded waiting, but my mood had been totally transformed by the fact that I was now in nothing but a sheer unitard, and I wanted to start enjoying the party. More people were running around in sexy outfits, and it looked like some action was starting up in the sex room.

On a couple of occasions an assistant asked me to go get the jag some water. I went to the kitchen area, and one of the DUMBA insiders poured me a little coffee cup of tap water. Getting back across the dance floor wasn't as challenging as doing so without spilling any of the water. The assistants were still in the process of tying up the jag, so I wondered off into the back area for a bit. There was now some sex going on in the sex room. There was some oral and some jerking off. Nothing major, but it was still hot. I went back to the dance area to see how the jag was coming.

By the time I got back they had a hood over the jag's head and they were putting the finishing touches on the ropes. I got the camera ready. In a few minutes they were ready to start. One of the assistants got off the stage and the other one took control. The performance consisted mostly of smacking the jag on his balls and cock with a riding crop and/or flogging him with a leather whip. I was all over the place with the camera. The projectionist came over and asked if he could suck the jag's dick. "As far as I'm concerned..." I said. He started sucking away and I got it on tape.

This all went on for some time. When the jag's body language indicated that his cock and balls had been tortured enough, the assistant would tug on the tit clamps. Then he'd go back to torturing the cock and balls again. I wasn't sure how much footage the jag wanted, but after waiting all that time I decided to just let it roll for about as long as the performance lasted. I played around with some picture effects, but mostly just got the action from as many angles as I could.

After a while the assistant asked me if I wanted to tape a come shot. "Works for me," I said. He got some lube on the jag's dick and started stroking it hard. But after a while he stopped. Then I heard the jag say something like, "Actually I think that's about it." The assistant pulled the hood off. When he removed the tit clamps I saw a serious expression of pain on the jag's face. When the crowd realized the performance was effectively over they gave him a round of applause. I carefully put the camera back in my bag and bundled the leather jacket back up around it again. By the time I'd done that they had the jag pretty much untied. I got up in front of the whole dance floor and made out with him and stroked his dick, which got totally hard again.

After a little bit of that I got back down off the stage and walked into the back to peek into the sex room. There was more sex going on now. One guy was totally hard and was stroking himself. The stark naked boy was near me. Some people were putting their hands on him and even stroking his dick a little. Somehow he remained soft. I realized that I was getting a bit of a boner myself. In the sheer unitard I was wearing there was no way to hide it. I was actually a little hesitant about it. One reason was that this was a mixed crowd. My exhibitionism occurred exclusively in places frequented strictly by gay men. This was a little new for me. The other thing was that the only boners I'd seen that night had been in the designated sex rooms or on stage. I wasn't sure how my vulgar display would be received while strolling about amongst the general population. I decided to just let it go and be seen with a hard-on no matter what. It was actually very exciting. Exhibitionism had become rather routine and had lost it's edge with me. This moment brought back the kind of dangerous exhilaration that it used to hold for me. That very excitement made me totally stiff.

I turned and walked back to the dance area. My boner was totally pushing out the front of my sheer unitard. It was entirely obscene. I got back on the dance floor and danced around a little. I saw a couple of young men I hadn't noticed before. They looked like they might even be High School age, and they were totally cute. I knew I couldn't make any assumptions about anyone's sexuality at this event, and figured they were probably straight. If that was so, however, they didn't seem to mind dancing with each other. One of them had some really good moves, too. I continued mingling around a bit. My boner had deflated to the state of merely being "chubby" at this point. I made my way over to the kitchen and scarfed some cookies. I was kind of hungry.

I went over to the bottleneck that connected the kitchen area, the dance room, and the hallway to the back area. I saw the cute High School boys. There was a larger group of them than I had originally noticed. And they were definitely gay. They were interacting in a most randy manner, actually. I was simultaneously totally turned on and endeared to the fact that in this day and age gay High School boys had places like this they could go. When I was that age the only gay scenes I knew about were rehearsals for the community theater musical productions. I positioned myself in the bottleneck so that when anyone went by they'd have to brush past me and my protruding bulge.

After a bit of this I decided to return to the back area and get myself back up to raging boner status again. The action really wasn't all that hot, but seeing a stiff dick inside the sex room was still enough to get me hard again. This time I got a bit of a pre-cum stain on my unitard.

I walked back up to the dance area. I instantly saw a guy who totally caught my attention. He was naked except for a pair of white briefs. He had good proportions, a very nice build, and a Mohawk haircut. I'm a total sucker for Mohawks. But what was even more interesting was that his hair color was strawberry blonde. I'm also a total sucker for strawberry blonde. In fact that's my 100% absolute favorite hair color. This was the first time I'd ever seen the two combined. He was talking with some girl. Once again, I knew that I couldn't make any assumptions about anyone's sexual orientation. I figured that with my luck he was probably straight. I milled about a bit, and as I moved by him I saw that he was now talking with the jag. The jag introduced us. The guy's name was Tigger. We exchanged pleasantries and I continued moving past.

There was some breathing room in back at one end of the little stage where the DJ table was set up, so I went back and hung out there. In a moment or two Tigger was back there very near me. He definitely seemed to be cruising me. I'm always really pathetic in those situations. I don't know what it is with me, but I always regress back to being a timid little 17-year-old. I just started dancing a little bit. Tigger did the same. We caught each other's gaze from time to time, but I was too shy to commit. But when I noticed that his dick was now pretty much hard, it brought me out of my shell (so to speak). I changed the orientation of my dick so that it was pointing straight up, and stroked it a bit through my unitard to get it harder. We danced ever closer, inch by inch.

Finally we both gave in and just started kissing each other. It was way hot. Our hands were everywhere. I totally ran my fingers through his strawberry blonde Mohawk. We were touching each other's nipples and rubbing our dicks against each other. All the while we were in total view of the entire dance floor. As far as I know we were the only action outside of the sex rooms.

The one problem with my unitard was that it made access all but impossible. I pulled my arms out of the shoulder straps and pulled the garment down to my waist. I wanted to just rip it off, but also wanted to preserve the tease factor. Tigger stuck his hand inside. I stuck my hand inside his shorts. We stroked each other as we continued to kiss madly. It wasn't long before he yanked the unitard down and started sucking me off. Man did it feel good. I kept playing with his Mohawk hair as his head was in my groin. He came back up and planted another one on my mouth. I really love kissing guys immediately after they've been sucking my dick. Pretty quickly I pulled down his shorts and was down there sucking him. His dick wasn't as big as mine, but was a good, straight cock that was nicely shaped, very decent in size, and totally hard. I was really getting off sucking him. Some dicks I like to suck and some I don't. This one I liked. I liked it a lot.

We went back and forth, kissing, touching, and sucking. It went on for some time in total view of the whole party. Some hot guys had gotten up on the stage and were using the jag's equipment to do their own Goth/S&M show. Tigger and I were right at their feet. When I wasn't kissing or sucking Tigger, he was sucking me, and I'd look back up at this sexy show that was going on right in front of us. My mind and body were swirling with Tigger's wet mouth on my stiff cock and strong fingers clenching my butt. My own fingers were pinching hard on my tender nipples, and the sight of these totally hot guys grinding and whipping each other was before my very eyes. All the while I was being watched by an entire dance floor full of horny, half-naked people. In this time of sobriety, my only mind-altering opportunities were hot, wet, stiff, steamy, drippy experiences like this one. And frankly, this scene had me in a higher state of euphoria than any drug could have.

It wasn't long at all before I was totally ready to come. I was a little unsure about that, though. I mean, when I come it tends to get all over the place. I was concerned about hitting an innocent bystander, getting it in someone's food or drink, or generally just leaving a huge oil slick on the dance floor. I leaned over and asked Tigger, "What's the policy on coming here?"

He looked back at me a bit perplexed. "I think it's perfectly fine," he said.

"Well then I'm about ready," I said.

He stepped up his efforts. He sucked me good to get my dick all wet and slippery, and then started pounding me hard with his hand. That's exactly what I require to get off. I big tool like mine doesn't respond to gentle stroking. You need to pump it like a pit crew jacking up a race car. I gave my nipples another hard pinch and instantly started coming all over the place. I don't think Tigger was prepared for the cascade of come I produced. About 15 or 20 seconds later I was done.

I immediately turned my attention to Tigger. I sucked him good and started stroking him like crazy. I had been facing out towards the dance floor, but he was aiming right for the DJ table. Within a minute or two he started coming. I had planned on blocking it with my body, but one spurt got through. I think it landed in someone's drink. The next spurt hit me right in the stomach, and the rest dribbled onto the floor.

That was hot. It was one of the hottest sessions I'd had in a long time. We kissed a little more and then pulled our "clothes" back on. I left my unitard at my waist to remain bare-chested. We walked around a bit arm-in-arm. I had the jag snap a picture of us.

Tigger 'n' Toaph

At this point I was totally drained. It was very late at night, and I was on borrowed time to begin with. Now that I had ejaculated, I just wanted to lie down on the spot. The jag was basically ready to leave, but the Goth boys were still using his equipment. Howard was pretty much ready to go, but he had to find Keith and see if he was staying or not. Tigger wanted to play more. I wanted to sleep. All I wanted to do was sleep.

Finally the jag got his equipment back and Howard found Keith. I got my stuff from under the projector and got properly dressed. I told Tigger that I'd like to see him again while I was still in town. I wasn't sure about the following day, but at the very least I wanted him to accompany me to my screening on Sunday as my guest. He said that sounded great. I got a black marker out of my bag and wrote Tigger's number on my arm. He then wrote my number on his arm. It was oddly sexy. Tigger stayed behind, but the rest of us bundled up and headed out. The jag's assistants left with us.

It was a quick walk to the subway station but a long wait for a train. I got out the camcorder, rewound it, and played the video for the jag and his assistants on the LCD panel while we waited. They found it way cool to be able to watch the very scene they'd just performed.

Finally a train came. As we rode along I was fake smoking an unlit cigarette. Some sketchy black guy saw me and asked if he could have one. I think he was drunk. I didn't really mind giving him one. I still had all twenty. But when I gave the guy the cigarette he actually lit it on the subway! I couldn't believe it.

Soon we were back on Manhattan Island. Howard and I got off in the village and everyone else continued up-town. We dragged our asses back up to the apartment and collapsed in bed. It was a little before 4:30AM.

Saturday November 17, 2001

Howard and I slept in pretty late that morning. By the time we were up and ready to face the world it was almost noon. We both wanted to go to a panel discussion at 1PM on web-based video distribution after the dot-bomb. That left us precious little time to get ourselves fed. But Howard assured me that we could go to Odessa and get in and out in time to make the discussion. To hedge our bets we ate at the counter. I got eggs Benedict, and although I doubt the Hollandaise sauce was terribly authentic, it hit the spot.

We indeed got to the theater well before the panel discussion began. While chatting with Ioannis I said that I'd been at Lusty Loft the night before, and that I got some video footage of the jag's performance. Ioannis was very interested in this. Actually, he proposed that they screen some excerpts as part of the festival. I said that it sounded great to me, and unless the jag had any objections that it would be way cool.

Howard and I entered the space where the panel discussion was being held. We were a bit surprised to find it almost empty. There were six people on the panel, and three people in the audience, including Howard and me. One other person came in just as the discussion was beginning. Frankly I was perfectly happy to have these small numbers, because I had a lot of things I wanted to discuss with this panel, and the small turnout would greatly facilitate this.

The panelists were:

• Simon Assaad Partner, Heavy.com
• Tammy Rae Carland Founder, Mr.Lady.com
• Christa Erickson, Web-based artist and Assistant Professor, SUNY Stony Brook
• Rachel Melman, Project Coordinator, Artstream.org
• Don Thompson President and CEO, nextPix.com
• Kerry Weldon, Independent Feature Project [moderator]

No sooner did the discussion begin than my cell phone rang. It totally echoed throughout the space, and everyone stared right at me. I apologized for not remembering to turn it off before the session began as I uncomfortably waited for it to stop ringing (I had no intention of answering it). Everyone else realized that they hadn't turned their phones off either. The whole panel proceeded to pull out their cell phones and punch buttons. When mine stopped ringing I shut it off and put it back in my pocket.

The discussion was very interesting. Kerry began by citing a two-year-old list of the advantages of web-distributed film and video. The bullet that I really connected with was the democratization of the distribution process. She then asked the panel if these advantages were still valid after the dot-com balloon burst. The consensus was yes. On a conceptual level the web was still viable as a delivery and distribution medium for small-scale independent film and video. The dot-bomb mostly affected shaky businesses that were more interested in issuing IPOs than in truly providing a useful service. If anything, the dot-bomb might improve the situation because a lot of the clutter was falling by the wayside.

The biggest issue facing the web, with respect to it being a video distribution medium, was the state of the technology at this time. No one really wants to sit at his or her computer and watch a movie on a screen the size of a post-it note. Don Thompson spoke of the AOL/Time-Warner merger, and the possibilities that it could foster. He mentioned AOL-TV, and how exciting it was.

Discussion then went on to regard the audience for web-delivered video. Simon Assaad spoke in some detail about the success of heavy.com. They were a subscriber service, and he said that subscriptions were going strong. He then went on to espouse the internet as a means of people getting their work into the hands of companies like heavy.com who could feature it. He told lots of stories about the many ways that content came his way, and how successful it could be on his site.

Finally they opened up discussion to the "audience." This was the time I had been waiting for. I said that I was a small-time independent video producer, and that I really wanted to use the web to deliver my product, but that I wasn't sure how to go about it. Rachel Melman plugged her company artstream.org as an affordable solution for video streaming. I wasn't able to stream video myself, and I was excited about the possibilities that artstream could provide.

I also went on to ask about how, in an ocean of content, I can get my stuff noticed and build an audience. I was looking for a magic bullet, but the panel confirmed my fear that there are no easy answers. I really needed to roll up my sleeves and do some hard work. The web is the ultimate collaborative medium, but it's up to the artist to make connections and build community.

There were a couple more questions, but that was pretty much it for the discussion. I was very glad I went. I left totally jazzed to get busy in my efforts to organize the queer microcinema community.

I checked the cell phone message that came in right at the start of the discussion. As I had suspected it was the jag. He was going to LeatherFest at the New York City Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender Community Center. I kind of wanted to check out the scene, plus it would be a good time to ask him about screening some of the previous night's footage at the festival. The center was clear across town, so we hoofed it up to 14th Street and caught a cross-town subway train. The center was about a block away from the subway station where we emerged.

It was like $10 each to get in. That was a little steep, considering we were only staying for a few minutes, but I guess it went to charity or something. The jag was just inside the door. He gave me a copy of the GMSMA newsletter that had the article he was writing the whole weekend when I was visiting in September. I asked him about putting the Lusty Loft footage in the festival, and as expected he thought it was a great idea.

Howard and I wandered around a bit. There really wasn't a lot there. About the only thing I was interested in was a collar. The one I had was really a slave collar, and I wasn't always comfortable wearing that (primarily because it gave other people permission to treat me in a domineering manner whenever I wore it). There was one booth that had some interesting stuff. I stepped in, and the lady who was running it started talking to me. She was rather dogmatic. I guess that's not exactly uncommon in the leather community. She didn't really have what I wanted so I described more of what I was looking for. She said she could custom make one for me, but it wouldn't be as cheap as the stuff she was selling, because it was all made in *gasp* Pakistan. At first I thought she would be able to make something up for me on the spot, but she was talking about writing down the specs, making it up at her shop later, and shipping it to me. Eventually I took her card and walked away. The jag wound up buying a beautiful red and black leather whip from her.

There was one totally hot guy who had a booth of piercing jewelry set up. I wasn't really interested in any jewelry, but he was so hot I had to talk to him for a while. He had tattoos all over his body, and lots of facial piercings. We chatted for a while, but I was totally not listening to anything he was saying.

We wandered back around to where we'd come in. There was some fat guy with a barrel full of things to fit around your cock and balls. The sign said "3 for $10." That was a pretty good bargain, so I rummaged around. I actually only found one thing I was interested in. I picked it up and walked over to the fat guy.

"Your sign says 3 for $10?" I asked.

"Yep."

"How much for just this one?" I asked, holding up the item I wanted.

"Well, errr," he stammered, inexplicably perplexed. "I'm not really doin' that," he said. "It's just 3 for $10."

I stood there staring at him in disbelief for a minute. Finally I shrugged my shoulders. "As you wish," I said as I tossed the item back in the barrel and walked away. I couldn't believe that he would turn away a sale like that, but I didn't want the item badly enough to beg him.

Time was running short for Howard and me to get back to the theater for the 4:00 screening. It was a queer youth program, and neither Howard nor I wanted to miss it (both being unrepentant chicken hawks). The jag was hanging out at LeatherFest a little longer, so we said goodbye and headed out. Time was so short, actually, that we decided to take a cab. It was my first time in a cab the whole visit so far.

We got back to the theater with some time to spare. The lobby was really crowded, but I saw Ioannis and told him that the jag was cool with the idea of showing some of the video.

Ioannis said, "Yeah, well the only problem is finding time in a program to screen it." He seemed somewhat reluctant.

I wasn't sure what to say. "Well," I said, "this was your suggestion. If you're able to do it then let's do it. If not then say so and I'll forget about it."

Ioannis said he'd talk to the other festival coordinators and have an answer for me by the time the 4:00 screening was out.

Howard and I made our way up to the theater. Someone with a video camera was hanging out in the lobby shooting tape as people walked by. We weren't sure what that was all about. We went up stairs and sat down. The theater was very full. There was video playing on the screen. After a few moments we realized it was footage from the lobby downstairs. We figured that was what the camera we'd seen was all about. We weren't sure if it was a live feed, or if someone was sneaker-netting tapes up to the projection room every so often. In about five minutes we saw ourselves on screen walking into the lobby, so it was pretty obviously not a live feed. In a while the program was ready to begin. The theater was totally full. It was one of the best attended programs I'd ever seen at MIX.

The first video was an 11 minute short by a white girl. Her parents divorced, and it was pretty much an exercise in "woe is me" teen angst. It would have been better if it had been trimmed down to 2-3 minutes.

The second video was a documentary about the shutting out of queer teens of color from the Christopher Street pier. I learned that it had been the only safe space for gay and lesbian black and Hispanic youth to congregate and spend time together. Developers moved in and fenced them out, leaving no alternative space for them to use. It was quite well done, and in my opinion exactly what queer youth filmmaking should be about.

The third video was another "woe is me" teen angst thing, this time by a white boy. It, too, would have been better trimmed to 2-3 minutes.

The final video was another documentary. This one was about Green Chimneys Gramercy Residence, a group home for gay and lesbian adolescents. I learned that it was one of the only group homes in existence specifically designated for queer youth. The piece was a little short on message, largely being a bunch of kids goofing around with video cameras, but I found it very entertaining to watch. These kids who should be destitute and socially repressed displayed remarkable energy and humor. It could have been trimmed down somewhat from its 25 minute running time, but I still gave it thumbs up.

After the show the kids from the Christopher St. Pier video got up to answer questions. It was interesting for a while, but it went on for a long time. The kids were clearly enjoying being the center of attention, and it was hard to get them to quit. The guy who introduced the program was actively trying to get them to wrap it up, but it just kept going. The kids weren't being defiant or anything. They just got into one of those "...just one more thing..." loops and it was hard to cut them off. Finally they brought it to a close by announcing the after-party.

Howard and I went down to the lobby and found the jag sitting there. I found Ioannis and asked him about the video. He apologized and said that the festival committee just couldn't find anywhere in the festival to squeeze it in. Frankly I was just as happy, because it meant that I didn't have to try to get a tape ready. It would not have been fun editing something by dubbing it from my camera to Howard's VCR. Ioannis was very apologetic for getting my hopes up, but I assured him that it was no big deal.

Howard hung out to meet Keith for the 6:00 "Fuck Logic" program. The jag and I went off to get some dinner. We wound up at Stingy Lulu's off Tompkins Square Park. We had plenty of time, so it turned into a nice, relaxed meal.

I asked the jag what he knew of Tigger. The jag said that he'd seen Tigger at the Hustlers' Ball at The LURE. Tigger did a dance number apparently honoring the fire fighters in the wake of the September 11th tragedy. The jag said it was an interesting performance, except for an unexplained white powder at the end of it. Considering this was at the height of the Anthrax scare, it was a questionable element of the whole concept.

"Do you know what else he does for a living?" I asked.

"I don't know," the jag responded. "But it was the 'hustlers'' ball."

We also discussed how I was going to get the computer out of his apartment. I said that I could drive up to his place Sunday night, stay over, and leave from there Monday morning. I was uncertain about that, though, because I didn't know if I'd be able to find a parking space on his street. The alternative was to leave the car where it was and buzz by on my way out of town Monday, assuming that I could get to his place before he left for his office. He didn't seem to like either of those alternatives.

"I was hoping you would stay over tonight..." he said.

"Well," I countered, "just because I'm not picking up the computer doesn't mean I can't stay over anyway." It was agreed that I would sleep at his place that night.

While Stingy Lulu's was one of our favorite spots, the service wasn't great that night. The jag ordered a pasta dish, and the waitress brought him a pizza. Then we had to get ourselves our own ketchup because she didn't hear us ask for it. Then when we were done we couldn't find her to get the check. She didn't get a very generous tip from us.

We went back to the theater to watch the 8:00 screening. It was called "Heavy Petting" and was billed to "delve into our collective beastly subconscious." We didn't know what to expect, but it sure sounded interesting. Both Howard and Keith were there. We asked them how "Fuck Logic" was. They said that it was an aptly named program, but didn't elaborate much. We went upstairs and sat down for the 8:00 program.

The program proved to be quite eclectic. The first film was a semi-animated piece called "Spiders In Love." I wasn't sure what to make of it, but it was fast-paced and over in 3 minutes, so I deemed it to be adequately entertaining.

The next video, "Eels," was nothing more than MIX insider Patty Chang lying on her back while an assistant put live eels into her shirt. She squirmed and screeched the whole time. It sounds stupid, but I feel that this is exactly what performance art should be. It was laugh-out-loud funny. It also ended before it overstayed its welcome.

The next video, "G-Sprout," didn't really know what kind of a video it wanted to be. It started out about the difficulties vegans had finding love. We weren't really sure if it was sincere or a spoof. I couldn't relate, being a total carnivore, but it was interesting hearing them talk about what it's like being intimate with people who have animal juices emanating out their pores and stuff. But then they threw in a lot of really heavy footage they got from PETA about animals being horribly abused. That totally didn't fit with the rest of the piece.

The next video was called "Transanimals." It was a total spoof about cats born in dogs bodies and vice versa. It was very clever, but after the first minute or two we all got the joke and had to sit through the remaining time. There was a good laugh from time to time throughout the 12 minute video, but there was a lot of lag time between. It would have been better if it was cut way, way down.

Then there was a short film called "A Toetally Solefull Feeture Pedsintation". It was by the same person who did the first animated piece, and it was in much the same style. This time instead of it being a bunch of spiders it was a bunch of feet. Again, because it was fast-paced and short in duration, I thought it was good despite the fact that I didn't really get it.

Next was a 35mm animated film called "The Traveling Eye of the Blue Cat." It was 15 minutes long, but it seemed more like 45 minutes. There was no dialogue, and the visual symbology was impossible to follow. I was lost a minute into it, and the rest of the time I just had to sit there and wonder what the fuck was going on while I waited for it to end. It represented a lot of hard work, but it was all so esoteric and perplexing that I couldn't say I liked it.

The final video was called "Plushies & Furries." We weren't really certain if it was a spoof or if it was real. It was a documentary (mocumentary?) about people who have fetishes about dressing up in fuzzy animal costumes to have sex. It followed an 18-year-old guy who went by the name Yote (short for Coyote), who discovered like-minded people on the internet and got into the whole "fuzzy" subculture. He went to a ConFURence where lots of other people were walking around in fuzzy animal costumes. He "came out" to his mother, who was perplexed and flabbergasted. Either she was a very good actress, or it was a legitimate piece, because her exasperation with the preposterous nature of the whole matter was entirely convincing.

After we left the screening we continued to debate whether this was for real or not. The video was quite convincing, but I was certain that if this subculture existed that we would have heard about it. Still we were not 100% sure one way or the other. After I got home, however, I saw a promo for MTV's 10-Spot that featured the very same video. I've also since discovered the official website for the ConFURence, so I guess it's for real.

We walked around a bit while we waited for the 10:00 screening to begin. The program was "Scared Stiff III." I had been to at least one of the previous Scared Stiff programs in years past and found it interesting. It was all horror-themed stuff with a queer twist. But the real reason I wanted to watch this program was because it had Shawn Durr's latest film. Last year I had been blown away by his feature-length video "Fucked in the Face." In addition to being impressed by him as a filmmaker, I was also rather smitten with him as a person. He was tall, young, cute, and talented. That's quite a combination for me. I had exchanged some emails with him after MIX 2000, and I was very excited to see his new work.

The first film in the program, "Marcilla," was pretty forgettable. It looked beautiful, in richly textured black and white film, but there was no way to follow the plot. The second film was so trippy I didn't know what to make of it. It was a behind the scenes look at the making of "Dandy Dust," a German tranny/splatter/sci-fi movie. The movie itself looked like one of the most entirely fucked up productions in the history of film. And I've seen a lot of fucked up movies. This piece was essentially a prolonged trailer. I would rather have seen the movie itself.

Next came Shawn's film, "Chopstick, Bloody Chopstick." I'm not really sure what to say. I wanted to like it so badly. But it was kind of like comparing John Waters' "Cry Baby" to his earlier "Desperate Living." They were two entirely different things. Technically it was rather interesting, displaying multiple shots in multiple panels on screen simultaneously. But in practice that made it rather hard to follow. Shawn appeared on camera this time, and was the only one with any dialogue. It was difficult to make out what he was saying, though, because of the poor acoustics in the theater (a problem I had had with most of the films I'd seen all weekend). The line that got the biggest laugh was unintelligible to me. Like I said, I really wanted to like it, but I can't say I did.

The final film appeared normal, but by virtue of the fact that all the voices sounded like mini mouse, I figured that the film speed had been accelerated. This was supported by the fact that it seemed to end much sooner than the posted 22 minute running time. This was fine with me, because I really just wanted to get out of there at this point.

The jag and I said goodbye to Howard and Keith. We didn't even consider the subway, but rather caught a cab up-town. The driver took the East Side Expressway. It was interesting comparing it to the West Side Expressway I'd come down two days prior. The only conclusion I came to, really, was that this driver was much more insane than I. He was totally all over the place, missing other cars and cement barriers by inches. We got off the expressway and headed up one of the avenues. The traffic lights were all sequenced so that we could ride a wave of lights that turned green just as we got to them. The only problem was that he was driving just a little faster than the speed the lights were programmed for, so we kept hitting each one just before it turned green. If someone driving cross-town had tried to make the yellow light we'd have been fucked.

Alas, we made it to the jag's street without getting in an accident. Having been at the jag's a few times before, I figured that there would be no food in the apartment. The jag confirmed this assumption. I needed at least something to put in my stomach if I had any hope of getting to sleep, so we popped into a local store. The shelves were practically bare. All I could think about was the movie "Half Baked" where the chief character explained that this was indicative of a store that was only a front for marijuana dealers. While I was perusing the meager wares on hand, some lady came up to the jag and said she and her mother needed some help. The jag just ignored her, which sent the woman into a bit of a rage. I wanted to at least find out what kind of help she needed, but I deferred to the jag's judgment. I wound up getting a corn muffin and we high-tailed it back to his building.

Soon we were safely in his apartment. I wolfed down my corn muffin. We pulled out his bed and took off our clothes. He lit some candles and we had some long, slow, intense sex. When it was over I fell dead asleep.

Sunday November 18, 2001

I woke up that morning feeling pretty horny. Granted I wake up pretty much ever morning feeling horny, but this time the jag was right there with me. He must have been feeling pretty horny too, because we wound up getting it on. Knowing that I was going to be getting together with Tigger that night I wanted to hold off on coming. But I was just to damned turned on that I couldn't help myself. I wound up blowing a major load.

After a while I got up and took a shower. The jag had a full day ahead of him, so I took off right away. On the way out he gave me a article on "Extreme Elvis" to read on the subway. When I stepped out of the jag's building I realized that it was a beautiful sunny day. When I noticed that the sun was shining directly on the jag's building I decided to stop and snap off a pic.

I went down into the subway and waited on the platform. Then I remembered the article that the jag had given me. It was quite bizarre. It was about this San Francisco performance artist who did an Elvis impression. But as part of the show he did things like piss on his audience (literally), and move his bowels right on stage. The first time he did stuff like that he got thrown out of the club. But when word caught on, promoters actually started asking him to perform.

Soon a train came along and I hopped on. I transferred to the cross-town train that brought me up around 14th street. I decided to walk down Avenue A to check out that skate shop I'd seen Thursday night. As I walked inside I made a conscious effort not to behave like an aging man desperately trying to cling to his own rapidly vanishing youth by feigning interest in a youth culture activity he knew virtually nothing about. Instead I acted as if I totally belonged there. The two kids working there took little notice of me.

I decided I wanted to buy something, if only as a souvenir. Most of their wares were skate board parts and equipment. That wasn't going to do me any good. They also had some clothing. I checked that out, but there wasn't anything that wouldn't make me look like an aging man desperately trying to cling to his rapidly vanishing youth by masquerading in the apparel of a youth culture activity he knew virtually nothing about. In the display case in the back of the store was a variety of video tapes. Just as I was checking them out one of the two kids said to the other, "Did you see in that CKY2K video when they were throwing dog shit at each other? Those mother fuckers are crazy!"

I remembered seeing CKY2K on a couple web pages when I did a search on Jackass regular Bam Margera. I figured that the tape was the kind of Jackass mayhem that was too extreme to show even on MTV. "Do you have any CKY2K videos for sale?" I asked the guy.

"Uhhhh..." he said. He fumbled around and found one. "This is the last one I have," he said as he held out a tape. "I can let it go for 15 bucks because it's already been opened."

"Sounds great to me," I said. I put it on my credit card and walked away with the souvenir I was looking for.

Once I got down to Tompkins Square Park I moved over to Avenue B. I popped in a local deli and got myself a fat ham sandwich and a pint of milk. Then it was back up to Howard's apartment. He was gone, so I made myself at home. I was starving, so I wolfed down the sandwich and chugged the milk. Afterwards I called Tigger. It wound up being a voice mail number. I left a message saying that if he wanted to meet me for dinner before my screening to be at the theater at 6PM.

I remembered Howard saying that he had taped an episode of the new Star Trek series "Enterprise." I was very interested in this show. I had the idea years ago of making a Star Trek prequel. I thought that it would bring a lot of the old excitement back to the show. Unfortunately "Enterprise" didn't air in Ithaca. I couldn't even get it on my DirectTV mini dish. It was almost as if UPN was making a deliberate attempt to limit its audience as much as possible. If I could find Howard's tape it would be a very rare opportunity to watch one of the episodes.

I fumbled with his VCR but couldn't figure out how to get it to play on his TV. Finally I called his beeper and left my cell phone number. A couple minutes later his phone rang. I picked it up. It was Howard. He said he assumed it was me because whoever beeped him didn't leave a number. I've never been good with beepers. I caught him just before a screening began. I asked about the VCR, and he explained that I had to flip the A/B switch dangling on the side of the TV. I thanked him and let him get back to his screening.

I watched the episode intently. I was rather disappointed. I felt that it failed to take advantage of the whole prequel angle. Except for a couple of details that were essentially irrelevant to the story, it might as well have been a TNG or Voyager episode. After the show was over I decided to take a nap.

I awoke from what wound up being a rather deep sleep. When I finally got my ass out of bed and checked the time I realized that I had just enough time to make the 4:00 program. I got dressed in my "filmmaker outfit" which consisted of my skin-tight black Speedo shirt and black Levis. I threw on my motorcycle jacket and ran out the door. After I'd gone two blocks I realized that I neglected to bring my festival badge with me. I needed that to get free entrance to the screenings. I ran back to the apartment to fetch it.

Once back on the street I was hoofing it at high speed to the theater. While I was walking my cell phone rang. It was Tigger. He said that dinner sounded great and that he'd see me at 6:00.

I actually got to the theater a few minutes before the 4:00 show started. Howard was hanging out in the lobby. We went in and sat down. The program was called "Stealing To Subvert" and was a response to a suit by the Disney Corporation against an experimental filmmaker who used some Disney footage in his piece without permission.

The first video was what turned out to be my favorite of the entire festival. It was a 5 minute short called "Porno-Tubbies." It was footage from actual Tele-Tubbies episodes. Of course, Tinky Winky was the gay one. Through subtitles, the other Tele-Tubbies were saying things like "Faggots burn in Hell!" and other epithetical proclamations. It was quite hilarious. In the end Tinky Winky cast a spell making everything pink, and all the other Tele-Tubbies realized they were wrong and that homosexuality was good.

There was one other video that caught my eye. About half the footage was from a Japanese sitcom called "We're Always Making Trouble." It was apparently set in a high school. It was very risqué by American standards. A group of adolescent boys kept getting erections in embarrassing situations and discussed topics like how far their ejaculate would spurt. What caught my eye, however, was that these clips were interspersed with footage from an episode of Pee Wee's Playhouse. It was an odd coincidence that this was in the same festival as my animated spoof of the same show. But what was even more coincidental was that the episode from which the filmmaker took clips was the exact same episode from which I had sampled some audio. Combined with the coincidence of the disembodied rubber torso appearing in another video at the Gong Show, it was almost spooky.

After the screening was over I went down to the lobby to look for Tigger. There was no sign of him by the time the next screening started, so Howard left me to watch it. I picked up a magazine and began to flip through it. In a couple minutes my cell phone rang. It was Tigger calling to say he was on his way. I kept reading as I waited. My only concern was that we'd be able to get to a restaurant, have dinner, and get back in time for my program to begin.

A few minutes later Tigger showed up. He was as hot as I had remembered him. I was very curious as to how he'd be dressed. He had on a pair of bright orange jeans, a black t-shirt, and a glittery gold jacket. He asked where I wanted to eat. I told him that it was entirely up to him, citing my concerns that we be back on time. He suggested a small restaurant just across 2nd Avenue. It was a quaint little place with dark stained wood and a floor of small hexagonal tiles.

The place was almost empty. At first we weren't sure if they were even serving yet. We were seated and immediately looked at the menus. There wasn't a lot there that interested me. I finally decided to take a chance with the fried pasta. The waitress came by and took our orders.

With the menus no longer there to hide behind, we were left with no choice but to converse with one another. It was an odd moment. The only other time we'd been together we were having hot sex in front of a crowd. Now here we were. I fumbled for conversation. I was the star of the evening, with my screening and moment in the spot light that very evening. Tigger was my escort -- the exotic man I wanted on my arm to enhance my image as the intriguing filmmaker. Yet I felt like a shy school boy, anxious to please my date and fearful of disappointing him or embarrassing myself. I don't know what was going through Tigger's mind, but it seemed as if he felt similarly. Here we were, each of us was a handsome, self-confident individual, mutually assured in our respective artisthoods, acting like two teenagers on their first date.

Finally I asked Tigger about his work. Not only was it a good way to get the conversation started, I was indeed quite curious. He said that he was a burlesque and strip dancer. There was no mention of hustling. I almost think I was disappointed.

I asked him to go into more detail about the burlesque performances. Strip dancing I understood, but the whole concept of burlesque in 2001 was quite mysterious to me. He described some of the performances. By coincidence he told me of the same fire fighter performance that the jag had seen. He mentioned that it culminated in the spreading of ashes as both endemic of the fire fighter trade, and an homage to those who had died in the line of duty. That explained the whole Anthrax thing. I encouraged him to continue telling stores. He told me about the time he went to New Orleans to be part of an episode of Michael Moore's "The Awful Truth." It was an amazing and highly entertaining story.

Our meal arrived and we began eating. The enigmatic "fried pasta" dish proved to be quite tasty. Tigger asked me about my video productions. I told him my history with MIX. When I mentioned G*I*J*O he said that he believed he'd heard of it before. Someone who'd seen it must have described it to him. That was one of those rare moments when I felt almost famous, in that someone I'd never met was actually familiar with my work.

The dinner conversation continued to be stimulating and entertaining. I found Tigger to be as expressive and well-spoken as I expected him to be. We were done in plenty of time for the screening. Tigger attempted to chip in, but since I had invited him I had none of it. A quick trot across 2nd Avenue and we were back at the theater.

There was a fair crowd in the lobby. Howard and the jag were there. I got the complimentary tickets for myself and my guest. I got back to Tigger to find him chatting with Raj. It turned out that Tigger knew a lot of the MIX people. In fact he probably knew a lot more of them than I did. He asked Raj if he knew me. Raj and I smiled again, and said that yes, we knew each other.

I was a bit anxious for the show to start. I'm always nervous before my screenings. I'm not sure why, considering that everything is out of my hands, and there isn't really much that can go wrong anyway. Over the years I'd come to learn that this is generally universal among filmmakers. I was actually less nervous than usual this time. Either it was because I had a high level of confidence in my piece or that it was all just becoming a bit more routine for me.

Ioannis came over to say hello. Making small talk I asked him if the filmmakers were going to be asked to speak before the screening. He said that he didn't think so, but that if I wanted to speak I should talk to Murry Hill who was hosting the event.

Soon it was time to go in and sit down. Normally I would have wanted to sit on the aisle in case they wanted me to get up and speak, but Ioannis didn't give me any reason to expect this to happen. We sat in about the middle of a row of seats. The theater wasn't quite as crowded as I expected, considering I had been told that the closing night gala is usually the hottest screening of the whole festival. But people continued to file in as we sat and waited for the show to start. By the time Murry Hill was dallying around the front of the theater a pretty good sized crowd had built up.

Murry got up and announced that (s)he would be embarrassing some of the filmmakers before the show began. So much for getting an aisle seat. (S)he called up the first filmmaker, C.B. Cooke. Mine was the second film in the program, so I assumed that I would be the second filmmaker called up. Rather than pay attention to how Murry was abusing C.B. Cooke I got my camera ready to hand off to Howard to capture my interview. I hit record, made sure it was actually recording, and dumped it off on Howard. A minute later Murry called me up.

The way that my skin-tight Speedo shirt accentuated my physique must have caught Murry's attention. She was like, "Whoah," as I was stepping up onto the stage. Her first question was, "Where do you work out?"

That caught me a little by surprise. I didn't know what to say. I wanted to be light-hearted and entertaining, but I knew that if I hesitated that (s)he would pounce on me. I figured that the truth was actually rather interesting. "I work out at Cornell University," I said, flexing one arm, "with all the collegiate athletes."

"What a fuckin' buzz-kill," Murry slammed back. "We're all very impressed that you're in academia." I thought (s)he slammed me pretty hard, but I played along and smiled. (S)he then dropped her attack and went on to my work. "Your film has a very provocative title. Would you care to tell us anything about it?"

This part I had rehearsed in my head while (s)he was still interviewing C.B. Cooke. "I just wanted to do something that would give Pee Wee's Playhouse the level of perversion and depravity it deservers." That got a round of applause from the audience.

Murry then moved on to her next victim. I was mostly concentrating on how to stand in front of an audience and not look like a dork. Putting your hands in your pockets, or crossing your arms over your chest are both bad form. As awkward as it felt to stand there with my arms dangling like an ape, I made sure I did just that.

I also started thinking about how I needed to be better at thinking on my feet in these situations. Spontaneity is a skill that must be developed and honed like athletic ability. The best way to deal with people like Murry is to go on the offensive early and knock them back on their heels. The best defense is a good offense. I started thinking of all the ways I could have responded. When (s)he opened by asking me about my physical fitness, I could easily have ripped on him/her for his/her portly stature. Alas, it was too late.

After Murry berated and belittled the rest of the filmmakers in the name of entertainment, (s)he let us go back to our seats. Tigger gave me a big kiss as soon as I sat back down. Soon they were ready to start the program.

C.B. Cooke's piece was called "Billy Gilman: Country Singer." It was heavily experimentalized footage of some kid being interviewed in a mainstream news program. I knew nothing of Billy Gilman at the time, but later came to learn that he was a pip-squeak country singer with a "skyrocketing musical career" after "exploding on the country scene." The interview as-is was a perfect self-parody. The audience was laughing and hooting at the "serious" interview. The kid was taking himself and his "art" way too seriously, and the interviewer was either similarly deluded or was happy to give him all the rope he wanted. At two minutes it was short and sweet and a very good video.

My piece was very well received. The video intentionally started off slowly, but still it was getting a good amount of giggles and chuckles. When it got into full swing the laughs flowed generously. One thing caught me by surprise, though. Whenever anyone in the video said the secret word, the live audience screamed along. It never dawned on me that that might happen. There were a couple of scenes where the whole playhouse was pictured engaged in funny behavior. I intentionally let those scenes play long because I knew there would be a lot of laughter. There was, but the nature of it was not what I expected. Rather than one long sustained laugh, it rather ebbed and flowed as people noticed new things in the scene to laugh at. There was an inside joke towards the end. After the first season of Pee Wee's Playhouse, King Cartoon was played by the same actor who played Dr. Richard Daystrom in the original Star Trek series episode, "The Ultimate Computer." I tossed in a line from that episode, but I think it went over everyone's head. When the credits rolled I got a big round of applause and Tigger gave me another big kiss.

The rest of the pieces ranged from not bad to pretty good. The "blockbuster" of the program was "Behind The True Biography: Björk." Björk was played by a height-challenged woman who either wore a corset or had a body abnormality that caused her chest to stick out about a mile. She was the ultimate choice for a Björk parody, but the director didn't take advantage of it. All the first shots were of her alone, and it was difficult to detect her distinctly short stature. Even when she interacted with others, shots of her were generally of her alone, again failing to take visual advantage of her situation. Beyond that the piece was pretty well-written and witty. The bulk of the story was "behind the scenes" footage of the making of "Dancer In The Dark." It was very funny, but it went on a long time, and a lot of the same gags got repeated many times. At 25 minutes, I felt it could have been trimmed down some.

The final piece was by MIX insiders Lynne Chan and Yvette Choy. It was a faux interview of Anne Heche by Bob Walters (played by Murry Hill). It had a public access look and feel, but it was pretty funny. At 10 minutes it wrapped up before it began to drag.

After the screening we all pretty much headed to the after party at The Slipper Room. As soon as we left the building I got a picture of my "posse."

Howard, the jag, Tigger, and Toaph

It was a short walk to The Slipper Room. Tigger was even more at home here because he performed there regularly. It was pretty quiet when we first walked in, but it filled up quickly. There were guys handing out Lucky Strike cigarettes again. One of them was the same guy I met on Thursday night. I still had 19 cigarettes left in my pack. The only one missing was the one I gave to the sketchy black guy on the subway coming back from DUMBA. They were also giving away more of the disposable cameras.

As more people showed up, Tigger started promoting his upcoming Thanksgiving burlesque show.

Later on I was chatting with someone, and Raj wandered over. The person asked Raj if he knew me.

A bit flabbergasted by the number of people who continually introduced us throughout the weekend, he blurted out, "YES! I know him! I DISCOVERED him!" I think Raj had had a few cocktails. He ranted on a bit about G*I*J*O, and how he was astute enough to see it for what it was and put it in his program, and all the work I'd done since. Feeling a modicum of simpatico, and a desire to finish off my roll of film, I gave my disposable camera to the person to take a picture of us. Raj gave me a big kiss on the forehead.

I saw in the front of the space that they had a video camera and some really bright lights pointed at some girl in a booth wearing a prom dress. I wondered what it was all about. I found out pretty soon, because someone came up to me, said they were interviewing filmmakers, and would I be willing to be interviewed? I said I'd be delighted.

I slid into the booth and answered the young woman's questions. It was actually way cool. I think it was the first time I'd ever been interviewed. I concentrated more on being vivacious than witty, but I was pretty relaxed so it all went well. The only time I froze was when she asked me to do some of the playhouse character voices. Suddenly I couldn't think of a single thing that one of the characters might say. Finally I just quoted a line that Randy says in the video.

After the interview was done I wandered around on an emotional high. I bumped into Tigger and we chatted a bit more. He as drinking Manhattans, and I think he was getting a bit tipsy. We reminisced about the Lusty Loft party. In a few minutes we were making out right in the middle of this party. A few people ran over with their disposable cameras and took pictures.

A little later I saw the cute young man that I'd been noticing all weekend at the festival registration table. Having missed my opportunity at the Gong Show after party to talk to him in a social setting, I was determined to introduce myself this time. He was again engaged in conversation, but the moment I saw a lapse I jumped in.

I tapped him on the shoulder. "Hi," I said. "I've been seeing you all weekend but haven't had the chance to say hello." He turned and shook my hand. "I'm Christopher Westfall."

"Oh, I know who you are!" he said. It blew me away. "G*I*J*O was quite a video. Was that your cock?"

That question floored me. I nearly fell on my ass. I mean, not only was it unbelievably forward, but who else's cock could it have been??? But finally I realized he'd asked me if that was my "cat."

"Yes, that was my cat," I said. "That was the first time she appeared in one of my videos. She later had a starring role in 'Eating Pussy.' So what's your name?" I asked.

"Lucas," he said.

Again, I was a bit floored. Lucas Westfall was my mythological fraternity alter-ego. I'd never met anyone who actually was named Lucas before. I had someone take a picture of us.

I was having a pretty good time, but it was starting to get late. I really wanted to go back to Howard's and crash. I knew Howard had to get up and work the next morning too. I found Tigger and told him I was heading out soon. As I expected, Tigger was hoping to get it on with me that night. If I hadn't blown my wad that morning I probably would have gone home with him. But as it was I was sexually and physically drained, and all my stuff was in Howard's apartment anyway.

Still, Tigger wasn't going to let me get away that easily. He took me downstairs to the bathroom. We went in together and locked the door behind us. We then proceeded to drop our pants and start sucking each other's dicks. I wasn't too drained to get it up, but then I'm never too drained to get it up. We went back and forth on each other for a while in the cramped little bathroom as people occasionally knocked on the door. Fortunately we were in one of two bathrooms, and each was designated as unisex, so anyone in need could still use the other one.

This went on for a little while. I was enjoying it, largely in that it was so dirty. My "romantic" image of NYC bars was dirty holes with dirty things going on in their dirty bathrooms. And here I was living out that fantasy.

The problem was that, as much as I was enjoying this, I knew there was no way I could come. Tigger could have sucked on me until my skin was raw and I still wouldn't have come. Finally I told him that I'd already come once that day, and it didn't look like I was going to be able to muster up another money shot. He wasn't too happy about it, but he accepted it. After a little more sucking for good measure he jerked himself off and came in the sink. We put our dicks away and walked out. I was a tad self-conscious coming out of a bathroom with another guy, but I was pretty sure that this was not an uncommon occurrence.

Howard and I said our final goodbye's and took off. I was fairly hungry and thought a slice of pizza would really hit the spot. What was directly across the street but a pizza joint! I went in and got a slice and started inhaling it.

On the walk home we passed a club that had some sort of situation going on. There was a big crowd of people out front, all of whom were black, and a couple of uniformed police officers were present. There didn't seem to really be anything going on, but there was a lot of tension. The only way this really impacted Howard and me was that it was difficult to worm our way through the crowd. I was concerned that a couple of white boys like us pushing their way through might cause the tensions to bubble over. But in a minute we'd gotten past.

Soon we were back up in Howard's apartment. As I was undressing he started grinding up some coffee.

"Don't tell me you're going to have a cup of coffee now???"

"No," he said. "I just don't want to wake you up in the morning when I'm getting ready for work."

"Oh. That reminds me," I said. "How am I going to get your keys back to you after you leave for work."

Howard looked a little perplexed. "Well... I thought you were going to leave when I did."

"Oh," I said. Now it was my turn to be perplexed. "That's fine, but then why do you care if you wake me up or not?"

It turned out that Howard took a really long time to get ready in the mornings (coffee being the first priority once his feet hit the ground), and he wanted to let me sleep as long as possible.

Soon the lights were out and I was dead asleep.

Monday November 19, 2001

I woke up that morning to the sound of Howard getting ready for work. His coffee strategy must have worked, because he had managed to get through most of his morning routine without waking me. I lay around for a while, but I really wanted to get going myself, so I got up, got dressed, and got my stuff together.

I was ready to leave at just about the same time that Howard was. We walked out of the building, Howard headed off to his subway, and I went around the corner to my car.

As I started loading up my stuff I decided to fold the back seat down and make room for the jag's computer so I wouldn't have to fuck with it when I had the big, heavy, bulky unit in my hands. At this point I *really* just wanted to get on the road without the detour into Harlem. I had my route all planned out to between where I was and the Henry Hudson Expressway. I could just zip across the George Washington Bridge and be on my way, but I had committed to taking this computer away. In fact it was one of the reasons I drove the car instead of taking the bus. Truth be told I did want to take possession of the computer anyway.

As I got in the driver seat, strapped myself in, I reminded myself how glad I was I had this trusty, reliable, almost-new car to travel in. I started it up, put it in gear, and as soon as I pulled away from the curb the engine temperature warning light came on. That was the first time I'd ever seen it illuminated in this car.

A shock of adrenaline went through my system as I contemplated what to do. My first thought was that the engine was still stone cold, and there was no way it could be overheating after having just been started up. I felt like I should be hearing Scottie in The Naked Time saying, "I cannot change the laws of physics!" It was probably just a malfunction in the sensor. But even still I had AAA and a special VW emergency service number I could call just in case. I decided to pull over to the curb and make sure that the radiator wasn't somehow bubbling over.

I drove to the end of the street and pulled to the curb. By that time the engine temperature light was back off again. I knew it was a crazy, idiosyncratic bug, but it still filled me with doubt and anxiety when I had a considerable travel distance ahead of me.

My pre-planned route back to the Henry Hudson the was panning out nicely. As before, my NYC driving experience wound up being 99% waiting for red lights. The few times I was in motion I had behaved like the locals and constantly changed lanes in a never-ending quest to get to point B a few seconds more quickly. Some times it paid off. Some times it didn't. At one point I dodged into the right lane. I was behind a van. Everyone was waiting for a red light, but then it looked as if the van might not continue moving with traffic. I looked up, and the van was directly beside a "No Standing" sign. But as traffic started moving again, doors opened and workmen started getting out of the van. I was pissed. I was so pissed, in fact, that I violated my own doctrine. I'm always complaining that drivers in NYC use their horns to express their emotions rather than for any practical purpose, as they're constantly being sounded in situations where they'll have absolutely no impact on the particular circumstances. Well, I figured I'd act like a typical New Yorker and I let my horn blast for a couple seconds before finally getting past him.

I was quickly back on the Henry Hudson Expressway heading North. The congestion at mid-town was nothing like it was on Thursday afternoon. Before long I was on the elevated section moving at highway speeds.

I wasn't sure where to get off to get to the jag's apartment on 119th Street. I saw an exit for 95th street, but decided to see if I couldn't get a little closer. I drove on for some time, but the next sign I saw was for 125th. I took the exit and emerged onto surface streets. I looked around quickly to see if it was evident how to get back on the expressway. I didn't see any on ramps. Hmm.

I crossed over a couple of avenues and then started heading South. Soon I was in the right range of street numbers. I had chosen exactly the correct avenue to go down, because any more to the West and it would not have directly intersected with the jag's street. It would have been better if I had gone a couple more to the East, as 119th was one-way going the wrong way. But I just darted down 118th a couple of blocks and headed back on 119th.

To my amazement there was a parking space available directly in front of the jag's building. I ran to the door and buzzed him. It was actually a nice sunny day. I didn't even need to wear a coat. Actually the weather the entire weekend had been very mild, even warm. Although I was enjoying the sunshine, it was taking the jag an unusually long amount of time to respond to the buzzer. I began to fear that there was some mix-up and I'd made this detour in vain. But eventually his voice came over the intercom, saying, "Be right down..." He emerged with his face totally covered in shaving cream.

I ran up to his apartment and grabbed as much of the old Mac Performa as I could. He picked up the remaining stray items like the keyboard and mouse. We ran back down and loaded it up no problem. I ran back up to the apartment for one last visit to the bathroom before I got on the road in earnest. I gave the jag a kiss goodbye (wiping the shaving cream off my face), and was off. Since I didn't see any on ramps at 125th I decided to go back downtown to the 95th street interchange with the expressway. It was a bit of a drive, but it was all along Central Park West on this fine sunny day. I got to 95th and the access to the Henry Hudson was clearly marked.

As expected, the transition from the Henry Hudson Expressway onto the George Washington Bridge was a breeze. There wasn't even a toll in the outbound lanes! I literally got out of town scott free. Once over the bridge I started flying West on Route 80 at a high rate of speed. There was a massive line of cars crawling the other direction, waiting endlessly to get into Manhattan. With the stress of the city behind me I decided to play the Henry Rawlins monologue that I didn't have the constitution to listen to on the way in.

Soon I decided to get off the highway and fill up at that time, even though I still had almost half a tank, just so that I could get it off my mind. I managed to choose an exit with a gas station just a few yards from the ramp. The only thing was that I forgot that self-service fill-ups are not allowed in New Jersey. I have no idea why, but it had been that way since I used to ride my motorcycle from Washington DC to visit my old college friend in East Rutherford.

As I stepped up to the pump the attendant yelled, "I'll be right with you sir," from across the lot. "There's no self-serve in Jersey." Suddenly it all came flooding back to me. I used the delay as an opportunity to change the CDs in the trunk-mounted changer.

Once I got back on the road I continued non-stop all the way back to my house. I was getting some cramps in my legs by the time I got close. When I finally pulled in my driveway and got out of the car I could barely walk.

It was still fairly early in the day, but I decided to lay down and take a snooze. As I drifted off to sleep I reflected on another wonderful trip to the MIX festival.

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