In two days it will be exactly 25 years since my first real love took his own life. There’s been a lot of water under that particular bridge, since then. Almost seems like another lifetime ago. 15 years ago I was still haunted by that dark event in my young life. Ten years ago I exorcised those demons by writing a play about the incident. Five years ago, I decided to stage it and a year later, Rain Damage made it’s premiere at Soul Invictus, in Phoenix.

It all seems so remote now. I face this anniversary with much less angst than previous milestones. There’s a tiny bit of melancholy at the thought, but nothing debilitating. I went through all that anger and recrimination years ago. I realize now that I am no more responsible for his actions than I am for the movement of the clouds across the arched windows before me. It took a while to get here. I’m glad I didn’t follow him into that dark place. Just think of all that I would have missed. ‘Nuff said on that topic.

Life continues to be challenging in a very good way, down at the theatre. Still putting in long days and even longer weeks. Making a lot of headway. The rewards are subtle, but hardly insignificant. The new season is coming along beautifully. My dreams of having a real green room, instead of the half-assed storeroom/holding pen the theatre now has, are beginning to come to fruition. The new partnership with the local community college will be adding much-needed support staff in just weeks. It’s all good.

I suppose it comes along with the territory, but somehow, in the process of trying to find two minutes of relaxation time, I’ve managed to re-immerse myself in the world of music. First, I was thrilled to discover that The Cliks have finally released their sophomore album, Dirty King, which I promptly ordered from Amazon and put into heavy rotation the minute it arrived via U.S. post. I have a fantasy about luring them down from Canada for a show at the RGT. Long shot, but we’ll see…

I also discovered, quite by accident, a group from Germany that has been around for twenty years, called Corvus Corax. Never heard of them until I stumbled upon one of their albums in a box of cds at the theatre. These guys are HOT! And though their music isn’t necessarily for every taste, I’m completely smitten. Who knew bagpipes could be so damned sexy? Seriously. This video was included on the cd I found, which cinched the deal for me.



Still salivating at the prospect of picking up the latest from Namoli Brennet, who will be playing the RGT next month. It’ll be good to spend time with her again. Haven’t actually seen her since moving from Phoenix. She’ll be playing songs from the new album and I’ll score a copy at the same time. Life will be good. Very, very good. Add to that the possibility of bringing Daniel Cartier to town in the Fall and Matt Alber in the Spring it just keeps getting better and better.

My recent phone conversation with Daniel made it sound very promising. His new album should be completed in October and he really wants to get out of Nashville for a while. Fingers are crossed. Matt has been e-mailing with Donny and it sounds like he’s very interested, too. That’s a WHOLE lot of Queer Music for this little town. They’ll never know what hit ‘em. Literally, if I play my cards right. It’s shaping up to be a very interesting season.

Now, if I can just find a little time to catch up on much-needed rest. That, in and of itself, would be fantastic.

I’ve come to love my Sundays, despite the routines of laundry, cleaning and shopping that inevitably occupy large chunks of time. It’s my only day off, now, and, thus, my only day of rest. Or what passes for rest. I don’t mind the routines, because it makes me feel like I’m actually accomplishing something here. Like I’m not a stranger in my own home, which is how I tend to feel the other six days of the week. I’m no longer working 14 to 16 hour days, but it’s rare when I get home in under 10. 12 is usually the norm. Long days, but fulfilling. I have no complaints.

And, as I said, I have my Sundays, which are magical in their simplicity. Donny sleeps in, because of his schedule, so I tend to have the entire morning to myself. Between loads of laundry and pushing papers around (real cleaning is not my thing and usually only happens when I can’t stand it anymore, or someone is coming to visit. Like today.), I listen to music I want to hear, sip on exotic teas, putter in my secret garden and generally begin plotting my week.

If I’m lucky, and the muse is paying attention, I’ll get a little writing done, though nothing like the bad ol’ days when ink ran in my veins and the only way to keep the multitude of voices from sending me over the edge was to crank out pages of prose. I have to admit, I miss those days. I miss the creative angst and the need that was less desire and more necessity: A drive to explore every possibility of a situation, or vivisect the emotional rollercoaster through introspection and displacement. Yeah, those were the days.

One reason for the change is that I’m more at peace now than ever before. Content. I haven’t been back in New Mexico for a full year yet, but there are times when I feel as though I never left. My sense of place is complete. I’m home. And as challenging as it can be to start a new relationship (we’ve only technically been living together for 8 ½ months), I’m happier in this one than any the last three decades produced. If I could see my son more often and have Deb, Jess and Scotty near enough to pass idle time in familiar comfort, it would be very close to perfect.

But I digress. I was extolling the virtues of Sundays. My day of regeneration, if not rest. Today I’ve got contracts to look over and sign, so I can drop them in the mail on Monday. This evening I’ll create an ad for the Symphony program. Easy sneezy. The routine allows for such intrusions. I have all morning. When Donny finally rolls out of bed, usually around noon, I’ll begin preparing a late lunch. I love to cook and Sundays seem to be the only time I get to do so, anymore. We usually eat around 2:30 or 3:00. By 3:30 he’s dressed in his work clothes and heading out the door.

The larder is pretty bare, so I’ve got to do some grocery shopping. Maybe I’ll call my mother, or my son, for a quick check in. Tonight’s routine will be disrupted by the late arrival of Donny’s friend Jim, who is passing through on his way home in Texas. It’ll be odd. I don’t really know him and with Donny’s schedule, they won’t get much of a chance to connect. I don’t know what time Jim is leaving tomorrow, but Donny will probably sleep in. Which means I’ve got to entertain tonight and tomorrow morning.

Which means, I’d better wrap this up so I can do some real cleaning. Gods, I would love a mimosa right about now. That would make the day—THIS day—complete. Hmmm…




It’s not much of a garden, but it’ll do…

I promised myself I wouldn’t cry. I told myself that it wasn’t the way she would want to be remembered. I almost made it, too. Then I read the article a friend posted from last week’s Phoenix newspaper and there they were. The tears. Honestly, I’m not sure if I’m crying for the loss of a wonderful and influential personality from my past, or the reminder of a mortality that eventually catches up with everyone. There’s always a time in every person’s life when they believe themselves, and those around them, to be immortal. Of all the amazing souls I’ve encountered during my journeys, she was one I believed would live forever.

Tonight, in downtown Phoenix, where a small group of artists helped raise a dying city up out of the ashes two decades ago, those same artists are gathering to hold a memorial service for one of its own: Rose Johnson. Artist. Free spirit. Friend. I can’t be there, because of a full schedule and the realities of a life in transit. It’s always been that way. I was never fully a part of the “scene.” I knew the people and had my part in its history, but my path always seemed to take me in directions outside of the “circle.” Even so, there were those who impacted my life greatly and she was one of those.

Rose was one of the first creative people I met when I moved to Phoenix, way back in 1989. The meeting was unexpected and uneventful. Or so it seemed at the time. She was selling t-shirts emblazoned with her own artwork from a booth at the Tempe Art Show, off Mill Avenue. She was thin as a rail, then, with a blonde Mohawk and smiling blue eyes. It would have been easy to dismiss her. But when those inquisitive eyes locked with mine and she spoke in that cultured British accent, I knew she was special. And I never forgot her.

Two years later, I would “meet” Rose in a more official capacity. As the representative of the Faux Café artist enclave, I was one of nine original members of the group that created what would eventually become the now insanely popular First Friday Artwalk. Rose was one of us. It was a different time then. The inner city was mostly boarded up and empty after 5pm, when those still working in the few establishments left downtown went home for the day. Though so much time had passed, Rose remembered me. Or maybe she just recognized the shirt I was wearing that day. It was the one I had purchased from her two years earlier. Her eyes sparkled with amusement. A friendship was born at that moment.

Yes, she was an indelible part of that “burgeoning” Phoenix artscene everyone likes to talk about, these days. But she was more than that. She was my friend. We would work together several times over the next few years, on various projects. She illustrated for a couple of the magazines I edited. We worked together and played together. We would laugh together, party together, hang out together. She would date one of my best friends for a while. And though my own personal path led me further astray of the downtown area, she was always happy to see me when we ran into one another, in a grocery store or a neighborhood bar.

At some point, I bought one of her paintings. Not just because I loved the image, of a suffocating city rising into a claustrophobic sky, but because she needed the money to pay her rent. It’s still one of my favorites. Both the painting and the memory of her smiling eyes when I handed her the two hundred dollars that would sustain her for a little while longer. It occurs to me, from time to time, that the transaction was probably one of the best “investments” I’ve ever made. Toward the end of my tenure in Phoenix, when people saw that I had a Rose Johnson original hanging on my wall, they would suddenly become curious about my “art collection.” My answer was always the same, “Everything I own is something I like by someone I know.”

As the years dragged by and downtown Phoenix rose like the mythical bird it was named for, our paths diverged further. We lost track of one another when Rose moved to Bisbee, though I saw her every once in a while, at various art shows around town and we always talked about my coming out to visit, but it never happened. I knew she was there. Her exploits were legendary and always being related by this friend or that common acquaintance. And, once again, I would say, “someday I need to drive down to Bisbee and catch up with her.” Then life would get in the way, as it often does, and the notion would fade again.

I guess I just thought she’d always be there. Whether in Phoenix, or Bisbee, or Bali, where she suddenly found herself drawn, she would always be out there: a free spirit, creating art spontaneously and giving unconditionally. Her fame would continue to grow and with it, my “investment.” When I looked up at that painting, which has always occupied a prominent spot on the wall of whatever living space I found myself in, I always felt like there was a piece of Rose still with me. A reminder of a friendship I treasured and an influence I could never properly put into words.

That piece is all that I have left of her now. That and a few scattered memories. A picture or two. Postcards from shows dating back some 20 years. A pdf copy of a newspaper article about her final days. Not much else. And tonight friends gather in Phoenix to mourn her loss, to celebrate her life and to send her spirit on its way to wherever the journey may take it next. Wherever that is, I’m sure she’ll charm the hell out of the spirits she meets there, brightly inquisitive blue eyes smiling all the while. She escaped that suffocating city long ago. Now the escape is complete. Thanks for the memories, Rosie. Thanks for being a part of my life.

http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/2009-06-18/news/rose-johnson-the-phoenix-arts-community-mourns-one-of-its-pioneers/1




Bye, bye, Rosie. I’ll miss you…

Hate 'em. I do, however, love clever advertising. That in and of itself is a conundrum, because I think commercials are the devil's work and have led to our society becoming a consumerist nightmare hell, the likes of which even Dante Alighieri could never have dreamed up. Unfortunately for the damned (that would be us), they are a fact of life. So, that said, if I have to be subjected to them, I'd much rather they be entertaining, clever and make some attempt at artistic expression. Either that or just make me smile on a heinous Monday morning...

We’re back from our whirlwind roadtrip to Northern New Mexico. Didn’t get much sleep, so we’re both pretty exhausted. Donny has to work tonight, poor boy, but at least he’s still young. Me, I’m already fading and it’s only after 4pm as I start this. So much to process, still, but I’m pretty scattered. I’d like to be able to get it all down on paper, while it’s still relatively fresh, but I’m afraid I’d just end up babbling. Kind of like I’m doing now. Maybe I’ll just hit the high points. Let’s see…

Made good time on our trip up to Santa Fe on Monday, getting to our destination at around 3:30, which is awesome, considering we left at 11:30, after Donny rolled out of bed (yeah, his schedule still sucks) and despite the fact that Google Maps suck and we ended up getting lost in Santa Fe because, apparently, there are TWO Paseo del Peralta streets. They’re about a mile apart. They also run parallel. That’s fine city planning, if you ask me, and yet one more reason to dislike Santa Fe. If it weren’t for the fact that we were there at the invitation of my oldest and dearest friend, Tammy, I would normally avoid the diet art capital of New Mexico, like I did Scottsdale in Arizona. Sure, it’s got some great history on prominent display, but so does Las Cruces and every other little town in the state. Fewer tourists elsewhere, too. ‘Nuff said…

Met Ian and Tammy for drinks at a bar called the San Francisco Bar & Grill, off the old town plaza, then wandered around a bit. There were huge crowds milling around on the plaza and we soon found out why. The Gumball 3000 Rally was passing through town, even as we stood there. We didn’t stick around long, though, because it was crowded and once you’ve seen one souped up race car trundling its way through clueless milling crowds, you’ve seen ‘em all. I think Donny was a little disappointed that it wasn’t more like the movie, but reality seldom is. If the cars had been going at breakneck speed, there would have been dead tourists splattered all over the place. No big loss and it would have afforded some AWESOME photo opps, but, again and alas, the reality was nowhere near as interesting.

Wanting to get the hell out of the area and feeling a bit puckish, we went in search of a restaurant that wasn’t a) overpriced and b) geared toward Midwestern palates. Tammy had come all the way from California to have “good” New Mexican food and, since their arrival on Saturday, had absolutely no luck. She was convinced that it didn’t exist in Santa Fe. My philosophy has always been, if you want to find the best places to eat, ask a resident. So, I asked a woman who was handing out flyers to her massage center and she pointed us in the direction of a place called La Choza, out near the Railyard Park & Plaza. The food, as expected, was excellent! We ooohed, ahhhhed and mmmmmed our way through some of the best Southwestern cuisine I’ve had in a long time. And that’s saying something, considering where I now live.

Completely sated and in good spirits, we returned to the resort, where Tammy and Ian had their suite. Nice place, even if she did consider it a “shithole.” I guess we just have different expectations. Any place with a separate living room and fully-stocked kitchen, flat-screen TVs in both the master bedroom and the living room and a nice little deck for after-dinner bakage, is a-okay in my book. Made all the better when Ian broke out the scotch and a dvd of “declassified” atomic bomb film footage that he picked up in Los Alamos, the day before. Very cool atomic bomb shit. We giggled and snarked our way through the entire disc before we realized that it was ACTUALLY in color, not black and white and, after Donny figured out how to switch the jacks to make it work, we watched it again, before heading to bed.

Next day, after a fitful sleep on a hideaway bed that wasn’t very comfortable (are they ever?), we wandered the plaza with Tammy and Ian, taking pics of the Basilica and Loretto Chapel, where the “miracle staircase” is housed. Did lots of window shopping, handled a few goods and even scored a bargain or two. Hungry again, we stopped and had lunch at a place called Catamount, which was off the beaten track a bit, had a nice selection of beers and good pub food. The second best meal T&I had while there. What would they do without me? Heh We wandered some more, took more pics, and finally rolled out of town around 5pm. I, for one, was happy to see Santa Fe diminishing in the rear view mirror. The second leg of our journey had begun.

Met Juli at the San Francisco Brewing Company, outside of town, and followed her home to Shanti Community, outside Madrid, where we found that we would be staying the night in Shelly’s latest project: a vintage 1946 school bus that is being renovated into guest quarters. Cool is the operative word, here. Back at the main Yurt, Juli made a lovely vegetarian Cinco de Mayo dinner consisting of “ficken” fajitas (that’s fake chicken for the uninitiated), beans and home made quacamole. Yum! Spent the rest of the evening chatting by the wood stove and laughing like a loon as Donny grilled the girls on the finer points of foreplay and oral sex. Shelly, with her dreadlocks and butch “frontier hippie” attire, just shakes her head and laughs, then tries to answer the questions as best she can. It’s quite a sight to see and yet one more reason why I adore that boy. He’s fearless, filterless and has three more questions for every one question answered.

It was late when we finally made our way out to the bus, but the moon was close to full, so the property was lit up like a magical desert faerie land. Temperatures were only in the high 40s all night and, if not for the fact that we didn’t realize we’d left two windows open, we would have been nice and snug all night. As it was, we huddled together for warmth and slept fitfully. The next morning, after a short walk we had a wonderful breakfast of eggs, salmon and corn tortillas, courtesy of the third resident of Shanti Community, Terry. Then, Shelly and Terry, who lives in a camper on the property, treated us to a jam session before we had to head out. About as far from corporate America as one can get, out on Shanti property. Maybe that’s why we like it so much. One final stop in Madrid proper, to pick up gallery information and make some very cool purchases, and we were off on to the final leg of our journey, where…

…I finally met my old friend Jamie Joy. We’ve “known” each other, via the internet, for close to ten years now. She was one of my writers when I was still doing Blue Food and is a celebrated erotica writer in her own right. We’ve kept up with each other over the years, especially after her harrowing ordeal as a survivor of Hurricane Katrina and her displacement from her beloved New Orleans. She’s now living in Albuquerque so, since we knew we’d be passing through on our way back home, we made that our final stop of the trip. The three of us had sushi at this groovy little spot called Sushi King on Central, then went back to her place to chat before crashing for the night. Memorable. Especially since she introduced us both to “monkey balls.” Mmmmm… monkey balls…

After a good night’s sleep (for a change) we left ABQ early and had a leisurely drive home, stopping in Hatch to indulge our cravings for Sparky’s BBQ. It had been a while since we’d been there, which is sad when you think about it. Takes maybe 30 minutes to get there from LC. We drove longer than that when we lived in Phoenix, if we wanted to eat in Tempe or Chandler. Which we did. Often. I was very happy to see that a) my review was framed and hung on the wall and b) they’d expanded their menu since the last time we’d been in. I went for the pulled pork, brisket and green chile tacos, which seriously rocked my boat. By the time we got home, it was barely after noon and we had a few hours to unwind before Donny had to get ready for work. All good.

Now that I reread everything I’ve written, it sounds like we did a food tour. Weird. There was, obviously, a LOT more that went on, between meals, but damned if I can find the words to make them sound halfway as interesting. Not that the sex, conversation, sex, sightseeing, sex and naked photography wasn’t interesting, I just don’t have the strength, right now, to elaborate. That and I’m hungry. I’m sure that has something to do with it. Thought those tacos would carry me through the rest of the day. Hm. Got a little wine left, some cheese… crackers… I think I’m all set for a quiet night in. Bed soon, methinks. Judging from the number of e-mails waiting for me when we got home, the next few days are going to be busy. And so ends the ‘vacation’ of Dave and Donny.

Next!




Little bus on the prairie. Our home away from home. One of several…

Been having some really fucked up dreams, lately. Stress dreams. No doubt about that. Seems my plate is overflowing again. Took on the responsibilities of full-time webmaster for the Arts Council, last week. Which means I’m cleaning up the mess left behind by a series of people who clearly had no idea what they were doing. Like YEARS worth of ass-hattery all piled up in a congealing mass of dead links, outdated information and error messages. Of course, they want it taken care of immediately. It took them months to finally decide that I was the one to do this, but now that the decision has been made, the hoops have been set aflame and the whip is descending. This must be what Sisyphus feels like.

This is made all the more stressful by the fact that Donny’s folks are coming into town tomorrow and will be here until Thursday. I’m hoping that I can pull myself away from the computer long enough to be a good host at least part of the time. Still have the newsletter to finish up, too, and the articles for my magazine gig in Phoenix are up in the air. Normally they’re due by the first of the month, but as I haven’t been paid for four months and nobody seems to want to take my calls, or answer my e-mails, I’ve decided not to do them for the first time in five years. Kind of weird feeling, that…

So… yeah. Helped Donny celebrate his birthday yesterday, then sat my ass down and wrote an 897 word short story for a 24-Hour Story contest I entered way back in December. Had I realized, then, that the date coincided with Donny’s birthday, I wouldn’t have signed up. Turns out his having to work later in the day actually came in handy, for once. I had the story done in just under the requisite 900 words, to spec, and sent off with 17 hours to spare. I doubt it will make the cut, not being my best work, but I felt pretty damned accomplished when all was said and done.

Now I’m going to go finish making a Black Forest cake for Donny and his ‘rents, before heading to bed. Got to get up early and clean, before they get here. Who knows, I might even get in some web magic, too. It could happen…




I love spoiling him, whether it’s his birthday or not…

New and much-needed purchase made today. Donny’s brother turned us on to a great deal on an All-in-One printer/scanner/fax machine. It’s one of those deals wherein you turn in your old printer and get $50 off a new printer. The printer in question is highly rated and normally out of my price-range, but as we were badly in need of a printer and scanner that actually works AND it was on sale at $40 off the regular price, we ended up saving close to $100 on it. Very exciting. And now I can get back to doing what I do best. Creating things. Of course, I had to test the scanner, first. Did so by scanning in the cover of a book my mom gave me when we were in Houston for Christmas. Some day I want to scan the entire thing and upload it somewhere. Printed in 1931, it’s a total kick…




Cook book or sex manual, you decide…

The other day I was… well… I hesitate to use the word “bored,” because normally it’s just not a part of my vocabulary, but because I did something about it, I guess it’s okay to say so. I was bored for about ten seconds, until I pulled a Ray Bradbury, by looking around my office to see what would catch my imagination. The eye settled on one of my favorite Harryhausen figures, then I remembered that I still had an unopened box of “Horrified B-Movie Victims” that my son bought me for my last birthday. Pulling them all together and grabbing my camera, I went out to find a good place to stage some fun. This is just one of the resulting images. I’m now using it as a desktop background…

I love that the “horrified” figures have that cartoony
Robot Chicken look to them. Classic…

And, finally, the WTF? Image of the week. Once again, an ad, this time taken from AdsOfTheWorld.com. It is, according to the website, a toilet tissue promotion meant to communicate that Silk Soft is 100% recycled. Stickers were placed on standard toilet tissue dispensers on selected public toilets around Copenhagen. No word on how well the promotion worked, but it does raise an interesting question: why would this make anybody think that recycled toilet paper is a good idea? I’m just curious, but I would LOVE to be a fly on the wall when people are faced with this marketing nightmare…

Apparently shit happens in Copenhagen, too…

Well, it’s a done deal. Scotty liked the simple poster image I created for his upcoming drag extravaganza in Phoenix. Considering he needs ads for delivery to magazines there by Monday, it’s a good thing he did. Also did a couple of flyers for him, 2-up and 4-up, and the “web” image below. He says it will be posted on the bar website. So, there you go and there it is. Moooooovin’ on…




Snatch sounds like it’s gonna be a hoot…

Tired again. Interesting week. It’s almost Friday. By mere minutes, actually, and yet I’m not entirely sure where the week went. I do feel somewhat accomplished, but that may have more to do with the fact that I’m not behind the eight ball on any particular project, at the moment. No deadline demons drooling into my cheerio bowl. It’s nice.

Just completed an event poster for my sistah Scotty, back in Phoenix. Been a while since I’ve worked on anything like it. I find I miss doing so. There was a time when I created all the ads, posters, flyers and sundry marketing tools for both our old theatre troupe, Artist’s Theatre Project, and our former performance space, Soul Invictus. I’ve concentrated on writing for over a year now, almost exclusively. It was a nice change of pace. I really should put my design portfolio together. Could bring in some extra cash.

Earlier in the week, I whipped out a couple of press releases, one for a client in L.A., another for my friend Hilary’s upcoming show at the Rio Grande Theatre. Also worked on a quick turnaround interview and article for the newspaper and wasted FAR too much time on that thrice-damned powerpoint presentation for the DAAC. That last one just keeps coming back to haunt me, like heartburn. Or hemorrhoids. Even did a restaurant review with Donny, which elicited neither, for a change.

So, yeah… as workweeks go, it’s been pretty good. Staying busy. Wish I had more to report, but aside from a brief excursion up to A mountain, it was just too windy to do much of anything except stay in and work. Well… not all work. We do find time for other things. Donny had three days off. It shouldn’t take too much mental exercise to figure out how we spent at least some of that time. That’s right, cooking! I love to cook. He loves to eat. It all works out beautifully. Heh…

Maybe I’ll post the poster once it’s been okayed and finalized. Tomorrow, or Saturday. We’ll see…




Starting off at a slow simmer. It's not all pots and pans, y'know…

Something to start the day off on the right foot. Creative advertising that makes you look twice. Courtesy of AdPunch.org






Fancy a beer, then?

Last night was brutal. Broo-TAHL. The winds blew like the gates of hell had been opened up and every banshee that had ever occupied those cursed halls was loosed on the Mesilla Valley. Not much can wake me once the Sandman has struck, but the howling, banging, blasting 60 mph winds did the trick. Didn’t sleep well at all. Ugh. I kept waking in a stupor and half expecting to be half way to Oz, with visions of flying monkeys and bike-riding bitches dancing through my head. At some point, Donny came home from work and I know I babbled at him a bit, before he crawled into bed and fell asleep. Mine was fitful and the dreams… well… there may be a story of two in there somewhere, but that’s an entry for another day…

The early part of the evening was pretty great, on the other hand, despite the winds. I hung out at the Rio Grande Theatre gallery again, for the Art Ramble, early on. I’d found out a couple days ago that the curator had decided to extend my photography exhibit another month, so was down playing meet and greet for the second first Friday in a row. Pretty cool. Once again, met plenty of cool people, including one guy who may set me up with a MUCH better processing and framing deal than I had previously. Also, there are three more sales pending which, if they do sell, will mean I’ll have sold a total of eight pieces. That’s half of the show. Not bad for a first exhibit. All I was missing to make the evening magical was my Donny, but he was there in spirit.

I also met the new Executive Director of the DAAC, who is a very nice guy, and took him on a tour of the galleries along the downtown mall. It was a good opportunity to get to know him better. I think we’ll get along, just fine. I introduced him to various gallery owners and the folks at the Las Cruces Museum of Art. While there, the museum manager asked me if I’d be interested in being part of the museum’s advocacy group. She’s supposed to send me information. I’m honored to be asked, but know that it most likely entails a LOT more pro bono writing and I honestly feel that I’ve topped off that tank, here. What I need is some real paying gigs, but we’ll see. The gig could offer another set of inroads.

Once back at the RGT, my friend Hilary stopped by and hung out with me for a while, toward the end of the show shift. Afterwards, she talked me into having a glass of wine with her. I waffled at first, because it was so windy out and I didn’t feel like dealing with it, but I’m glad I took her up on her offer. It was a very nice way to wind down the night. Our first stop was Vintage Wines in Mesilla, which was one of mine and Donny’s favorite weekly haunts for a long time, until it just got too expensive on our limited budget. Hadn’t been in for weeks and Nicki, the owner, seemed happy to see me. Unfortunately for Hilary and me, the place was packed, both inside and out, so there was no place to sit. We were there for maybe 20 minutes, just long enough to polish off a glass of wine, then decided to move on to someplace where we could actually sit and talk.

That someplace was Hilary’s favorite restaurant, the Double Eagle, on the Mesilla Plaza. Very exclusive, very expensive, very high end touristy kind of place. In fact, the only time I ever go there, is when I’m with Hilary. She, being a regular, knows everyone, including the wine steward, so it was an experience I don’t often get. She ordered a wonderful French wine, the name of which, naturally, I’ve already forgotten and a plate of cheese featuring Manchego, a Norweigen Brie, a very smooth Goat and a Blue Cheese squeezed from the backsides of actual blue cows. I figured it had to be, because I’ve never paid $18 for a plate of cheese in my life. It was good, and I do admit to feeling more than a few twinges of guilt that Hilary always seems to pick up the tab, but she knows how broke I am and she DID pick the place.

Time always flies when I’m with Hil, which I know confuses a lot of people. What can this elegant dancer from Indiana, who has traveled the world and dated rock stars, have in common with this old desert rat? All I can do is shrug. We enjoy each other’s company, spending the time together talking about art, music, dance and the difficulties of being a working artist in today’s economy. We also talk about wine and travel, the possible collaboration on a book of New Mexico wineries, and encourage each other to move forward with projects that may, on the outset, seem impossible because we a) live in Las Cruces and b) are both having a hard time making money at what we do. It’s actually a lovely way to while away a Friday night, while Donny is working.

We were also treated to several visitations by the inimitable Bugs Salcido, who stopped by our table a couple of times, to “check in.” He was having dinner with friends in the other room and had seen us enter, so would pop over to chat briefly during lulls in conversation at his own table. Or something like that. It always amuses me in a deep, patently voyeuristic way, to watch the interchanges between Hil and Bugs. It’s always half veiled flirtation and half sibling rivalry, topped off with a dollop of surreal musical shorthand that only the two of them understand. I always wish I had either a tape recorder handy, or a camera mounted overhead. I don’t really know what I’d do with the footage once I captured it, but it would afford me hours of fascination. Kind of like Dian Fossey, I think.

It was close to midnight by the time Hil and I wrapped up our evening, which is a rarity for me, these days. We walked back to her place, where I climbed into my car and drove home. I thought briefly of stopping by ye olde sexxe shoppe to visit Donny, but the wind and the late hour deterred me. I was bushed and, even as my little Ford Taurus was being buffeted along the roadway by the devil winds, wanted nothing more than to lay my weary head to rest. Which would have been a beautifully poetic way to end the evening, if not for the hurricane winds whipping up a mad frenzy right outside my bedroom window. Damn winds! They must end soon.




Yes, it appears to be a pirate and, no, I have no idea…
Maybe the winds brought him.

There are ghosts here, but they haunt me only intermittently and rarely unbidden. I occasionally find myself traveling paths unfamiliar, in search of a past I barely remember, in a town that is twice the size it was. What I find are new streets, houses and apartment complexes, where once were only open fields. But still there are moments when my memory is jogged by questionable landmarks. There’s enough here to induce comfort. Not enough to satisfy. But still I search for vestiges of a life that no longer exists. It happens from time to time. Comes with the territory, I guess. I mean, what else can be expected when one returns “home,” 25 years later?

You see, I grew up in this town. Lived here for six years after I graduated from high school. Lived, loved, worked, paid taxes, shopped and grew attached to this little southwestern college town. It meant more to me than the even smaller town in which I’d spent the first 18 years of my life. And for good reason. It was here that I discovered my self. My worth. My potential. My direction. It was here that I met the woman I eventually married. It was here that my parents moved, fascinated by and drawn to the life I’d discovered beyond the confines of predictability. It was here that I forged a life that was uniquely my own.

A lot happened in this town I called home and yet, now, 25 years later, there is very little to connect me to that past life. The University still stands, though it’s grown over the years. I wander somewhat familiar sidewalks, but have a hard time finding buildings that once were as familiar as the sound of my son’s laughter. Beyond the halls of academia, some of the old haunts are still there, but under new ownership. Many roads and place names nearby are familiar, though altered by renovation or crumbled by the stagnation of urban blight. In the distance, the mountain and the river are stoically familiar, but access to them has changed. The world I currently occupy is similar, but not at all the same.

And so, I find myself forging a new life here: New friends, new relations, a love I could never have anticipated, back then. Even a completely different side of town to live in. I find success in areas I couldn’t even fathom 25 years ago. Yet, when I return to the old stomping grounds, I find shadows. Yes, there is an apartment complex I once lived in and, right over there, the activity room that served as our “chapel” when I married my wife of ten years. Just down that street is the house that my parent’s lived in, for a while, before moving north, then on to Houston where they still, happily, reside.

Further on down that street is the apartment complex where I had my very first, no-roommate, grown-up place. I paid $175 a month for that apartment, back then. Lived directly below my best friend and, later, her sister-in-law; the woman who would be my future wife. My sister lived in that complex, too, for a while. Gave birth to my niece while living there. It was there, too, that Paul, my first real love, would drive from Silver City, in the wee hours of the night, to be with me, unbeknownst to any and all who knew him. It was there that I received the fateful call that he had committed suicide. It was there that I mourned and would have joined him, if not for the people who lived in that complex--the tireless friends who saw me through the crisis.

So many ghosts wander the walkways of that run-down strip of twenty cinderblock apartments. Memories, both positive and not. There was a time when I knew every person who lived in that dump. Partied with them. Made love to some of them. Where are they now, I wonder? I don’t recognize a single face. I don’t really expect to. The Pizza Hut we spent hours fraternizing in still stands, right across the street. It haunts me with its familiarity. But it isn’t the same at all, is it? I can sit in the very same booth I sat in over 25 years ago. I can look through the window and see the door of the apartment I occupied. The laughter and the tears have become nothing more than echoes. No, it isn’t the same, at all.

I think it exceedingly strange that not a single person I knew, back then, is anywhere to be found, today. Yes, I know that this is a college town and, thus, transient by nature. I know that many of the people I befriended the first time around have moved on, as expected. But what of the people who weren’t college students at the time? What of Sherry, and Matt, and Anna and Charles? People who owned property here. People who had family here. People who, as natives, helped me grow to love the town as something more than a staging ground for a future elsewhere. I scan the white pages, seeking familiar names, to no avail. Have they all moved on, too? Are they all past tense? Is it possible that I have returned only to discover that what familiarity exists does so only in my fevered imagination?

I guess it’s true what they say; you can never go home again. And if you do, it’s not the same place at all. It may still “feel” like home, but there is little homey about it, outside of what’s created this, the second time around. I’m not complaining. Not at all. Just making an observation. And sharing the fact that, every once in a while, I find myself driving down dimly remembered streets, looking for familiar faces, finding only strangers and connections never fully made. The ghosts, it seems, are a necessary part of my journey.




There’s plenty to anchor me to the here and now…
He is, by far, the most significant.

I love the local swap meet. We found this rarity for a buck and a copy of Fleetwood Mac's Rumors for three bucks. Both are in excellent shape. I mean, seriously, Bette Davis. Singing. LOVES IT! Now, all we need is a record player...







You just know this is gonna be a kick!

Today is my son Gideon’s 18th birthday. It’s a big one. My baby is now, officially, a man. Weird thought, that. I had so wanted it to be memorable for him. I’ve thought about it for years. Played with ideas. Even talked to him about it, from time to time. He knew that there were options and that I would do anything to make one of those options happen. Kind of hard to do that, now, when I don’t ever hear from him.

I just talked to him on the phone. Woke him up. I forgot about Spring Break. In fact, I had no idea that his birthday would fall during Spring Break. Talk about opportunities missed. I figured he would be in school and I would leave a message on his phone, then call to talk to him later this evening. Instead, he answered, bleary-voiced and annoyed. Didn’t have much to say to me, as usual. I wished him well and told him I’m proud of him. He thanked me and hung up.

I think what upsets me the most about all this is that today is his 18th birthday and he has the entire week off. It never even occurred to him to come stay with me for a few days, so we could celebrate his birthday together. Hell, if I had known he would be off all week, I would have made special plans. Some kind of blowout. Something he would never forget. It wouldn’t even have to be here. I could have driven to Phoenix. We could have gone to Disneyland, or San Francisco. Hell, I would have splurged, racked up a credit card or two and taken him to London, if that’s what he wanted.

But, no. He doesn’t talk to me for months, except in monosyllabic grunts, and makes plans that don’t include me. Sure, I know, it’s HIS day, but this is how he chooses to celebrate it? Where is he, instead? In Houston, visiting with his mother’s sister and her family. Even better, does he plan on even calling my mother while he’s there? No. She lives less than four miles from his aunt’s house, but he can’t be bothered. I, and everyone associated with me, are now of little or no interest to him. It’s hard not to take that personally, y’know?

Suddenly, I’m very depressed.




Me and my boy, in much happier times.

Life can be such a fucking roller coaster. I guess that’s how we all know we’re truly alive. Even so, it can really suck when I’ve got marvels to talk about, but don’t have the time to sit down and do so. Then some fucked up shit goes down and suddenly I have the time. What am I going to talk about, the really good stuff, or the fucked up shit? I know what I would rather talk about, but fuck me with chainsaw, it isn’t easy. It’s very hard to concentrate and find all the right effusive adjectives to describe a magical weekend when all one can think about is planting a pipe bomb at the local IRS office and giggling maniacally when it goes off. I’m just saying… sigh….




The night started off well and ended even better.

So, here goes. The show was pretty successful, overall, as such things go. Large crowds throughout the night, sold a few photos, got a lot of positive feedback. Not bad. All of our guests got into town without difficulty. Shelly and Juli arrived first, about an hour before I had to be down at the gallery. Deb and Jess arrived around 5:30, half an hour after the reception started. Depree and Kirsten showed up around 6pm. They mingled, checked out the photos, then did the ramble to check out some of the other galleries. Meanwhile, Donny tinkled the ivories and I schmoozed.

Lookie da pictures!

Afterwards, we all gathered together and drove over to Kelly and Mike’s for an after party. Hilary and Randy joined us later in the evening. We all laughed and giggled like loons until the wee hours. Jesse dragged out his fiddle and played a little. Much alcohol was consumed. Depree and Kirsten left to drive back to Mescalero, but not before exchanging information with others. It was more than a little interesting to reconnect with someone I hadn’t seen in 30 years, but having friends around made it all pretty effortless. They’re a good group of people. That helps immensely.

A nice way to end the evening.

On Saturday, we all got up and had a communal breakfast, before Shelly and Juli had to make tracks back north. Deb and Jesse stayed with us through Monday morning. Did some wandering around Mesilla, stopped in to Vintage for a wine break and generally wasted the next couple of days. It was a nice break after the months leading up to the show. Honestly, I still can’t believe it’s over. Nice thing is, I made some good contacts and have a couple leads for possible shows in other galleries. I’ve been told that of the eight galleries displaying art that Friday night, mine was the most consistently crowded, so I guess that made an impression.

By the time Monday rolled around, I was just coming down from the high. Had breakfast with Deb and Jesse, then saw them off to Phoenix. Which left the rest of the day free for laundry and straightening up. Bit of a bump in the day when Donny walked through the door, not half an hour after leaving, and announced that he’d quit his job. Okay, we can deal. It’s just a job, after all. My hope is that he finds something to replace it quickly, before we start to drive each other crazy. It took him two months to find the last one and things were starting to get a little dicey in the relationship department by the time he did. Yes, I’m supportive of his choice, but naturally a little concerned.

To take our minds off the realities of the situation, we went and saw The Watchmen last night. Enjoyed it mightily. Sure, it was condensed and compressed, but that’s to be expected. I think the producers caught the flavor, beautifully. There are entire message boards dedicated to the pros and cons of this film, but it’s all rhetoric in the end. Opinions have already been expressed, which are as varied and complex as the thematic elements in the original graphic novel, itself. I don’t argue any of them. Pointless, anyway. I liked the film. Nuff said.

This morning was spent dealing with the IRS, which Donny would no doubt argue was a minor thing, but which left me feeling enraged and impotent. Mission accomplished. Score one for the Infernal Rape Syndicate. I hate, Hate, HATE being indebted to the IRS for something I technically don’t owe them. I’ve paid them everything they originally asked for, but still they want more. They won’t be happy until I’m a lifeless husk, devoid of any life-sustaining properties, whatsoever. It’s a constant reminder that, right now, this country SUCKS ASS and, if I had the ability to do so, I would gladly become an ex-patriot of this fucked up nation. Again, nuff said.

Now, I’m going to do some more breathing exercises, avoid my boyfriend so I don’t piss him off further and drink myself slowly into a coma. Why? Because, I can. And, because I’m helpless to do anything else. Just like most Americans. More’s the pity. And to think, just a few days ago, I was on top of the world. …sigh…

It’s all coming together very nicely. The house is squeaky and guests are on their way. Four out of six have checked in. Everything down at the gallery is set up and ready to go. My laptop is all cleaned up and ready to go, too. It’ll be playing a slideshow featuring the 200-odd photos that didn’t make it into the show. It’ll be sitting on the piano, where Donny will be playing, next to a little standee with my artist’s statement. The curator of the gallery really liked this idea. I think I do, too.

Tonight should prove very interesting. The theatre scheduled a dance program at 7pm, which means there will be a huge influx of people who might not ordinarily get out for an exhibition of photographs. This is a bonus. They also scheduled a literary open mic out on the sidewalk, outside the gallery. Poets and acoustic musicians will be setting up and playing, which will be a nice draw for those who aren’t already coming to the show, or to the dance program. Double bonus. Oh, but wait… there’s more…

The Doña Ana Arts Council, who runs the theater and who have been very instrumental in my getting anywhere in this town, will be setting up a table with refreshments, for the show. I was also contacted by a freelance writer for one of the statewide arts journals, who tells me that his editor has assigned him the arduous task of interviewing, and writing a feature story about, yours truly. He’ll be there tonight, covering the circus. After the reception, at 7pm, Donny, I and all our guests have been invited to our friend Kelly’s house, for an after party. I think I’ve just about run out of bonus points.

Now for something very interesting that I hadn’t realized before today. My lucky numbers have always been multiples of 3. That’s not what I realized, I’ve actually always known that part. I was referring to something else. I’ve always been partial to the numbers 9, 36 and, of course, 69. That wasn’t it either. That was just an extension of what I said earlier about my lucky numbers. Here’s what I realized: Today is March 6, 2009, which in digital terms breaks down to 030609. I had no idea, until about an hour ago. Hmmm…

Questionably interesting tidbit number two. Which is ironic, because that’s exactly what makes it questionable. I started out the week with the shits. This is not news. Those ended sometime Tuesday night. I figure I lost about 10 lbs by the time I was done pissing out my ass. Then came the really fun part. I haven’t been able to take a dump since then. No poo. Nothing. Nada. Not since Tuesday night. It’s Friday afternoon. I’m pretty sure I’ve gained those 10 lbs back. Ugh.

And on with the show!




It begins… tonight.

Well, this is not the way I expected to be spending this week. So much to do, but I can’t be more than an hour away from the porcelain fountain, before it becomes embarrassingly pressing. Gads.

I’ll spare the grisly details. I found out, a little too late, that I’m allergic to something called Calcium Ascorbate. Apparently it’s something that is used to keep fruits from turning brown after they’ve been picked. Especially already-chopped fruit, which is sold in bags at your local grocery.

I made a salad on Sunday, using apples from one of those innocuous bags. We ate it. The next day and today, I’ve been sick as a dog. All the symptoms of a flu: achiness, headache, abdominal cramps, nausea and diarrhea (oh, gods, that one’s the worst…) among others. Not a happy Dave.

Especially considering my photography exhibit opens this Friday evening and we’ve got out of town guests coming from the West, the North and the East. It’s going to be an intense weekend. I kind of figured it would be and hoped to be better prepared. Yeah.

Despite feeling like hammered wolf pussy, I’ve had to take care of all those niggling little details that always seem to crop up in the eleventh hour before a show. Tomorrow, I hang the show. Thursday we’ve got to clean this pigsty we live in, so that six guests arriving Friday won’t be completely grossed out.

I’m just glad I thought to cut my hair this morning, before jumping into the shower. The ol’ noggin’ was getting’ shaggy again. I was starting to look like an artichoke. It had to come off. Now I’m high and tight, just the way Donny likes it. One less thing to worry about. Check!

Oh, and here’s a little bit of coolness, from an online magazine I’ve never heard of: http://www.southwestflair.com/2009/March/pilgrimsprogress.htm

Now, I’m off to the WC again… sigh…




Hair today, gone tomorrow. Heh.

Another year older, but not much wiser. Yeah, yesterday was my bloody 48th birthday. Two years away from the completion of half a century on this merry-go-round. Whew. Hard to believe I’ve been dragging these old bones around for that long. I mean, I don’t feel almost 50. Whatever that’s supposed to feel like…

Actually had a really nice b’day, probably owing to the four B’s: Blow job, Breakfast, Bud and Booze. In that order. Donny called in sick to work and we hung out with our friend Kelly all day. Drank too much and smoked a hell of a lot more than I normally do in a single day. Also ate way too much and now I have a cake and a half to plow through; what’s left of the German Chocolate evil Kelly made and the other a full, Carrot Cake confection, courtesy of my cousin. I’m going to be a blimp by show time next Friday.

And now it’s the 26th and I’m deluged by deadlines and have a show looming. Still, had to get this out of the way. Should have done it yesterday, but really didn’t have the time. Or inclination. I borrowed the idea (stole is much to harsh a term) from a person I’ve come to know and respect here on LJ. It’s a departure for me, to be sure. I’ve never been a big fan of birthdays. My own, specifically.

This year, however, I’ve been shown another way. Rather than bemoan, or try to ignore, the day, it has been pointed out to me that I should reflect on the year that’s passed. Hmmm… makes sense to me. I’ll give ‘er a go. Further proof that even stubborn old dogs can occasionally learn new tricks…

So, here you go Melissa, my Top 5 lists of:

Things I have achieved since my last birthday:
1. A successful move from Phoenix, Arizona to Las Cruces, New Mexico.
2. A growing network of well-connected people who can help me achieve the things in life I crave; like security.
3. Establishing myself in the Arts community, in less than six months, which is a personal best.
4. Put together my first solo art show in over 20 years.
5. A sense of balance and a renewed sense of purpose.


Things I have learned since my last birthday:
1. To let it go when it comes to the lies others tell about me. They don’t matter anyway.
2. Waiting tables sucks ass just as much now as it did when I was in my early 20s, though the tips tend to be better.
3. Certain people I never expected it from have got my back, in Phoenix.
4. Romantic love isn’t a myth and that’s scary as hell.
5. Copyright EVERYTHING!


Things I have added to my life since my last birthday:
1. One very beautiful boyfriend as a full-time partner and housemate.
2. Some wonderful new friends, here in our new home.
3. Clean air and a dazzling night sky.
4. A renewed interest in taking time out to appreciate the finer things in life, like reading and cooking.
5. A couple of pant sizes (d’oh!)


Things I have removed from my life since my last birthday:
1. Bad air quality and road rage.
2. A house I loved.
3. Artwork and personal effects I wish I hadn’t.
4. People who were bringing me down.
5. Constant anxiety and occasional self-loathing.


Things I am looking forward to in the year commencing 26 February 2009:
1. Finding enough writing work to keep my bills paid on a monthly basis.
2. Returning to theatre.
3. Feeling much more confident and self-assured.
4. Taking back my stageplay, Head, and moving forward with it.
5. Another year living with Donny.





The best birthday present ever.

Framing is done! Time for a beer!

Oh, yeah, and check this out: http://southwestart.com/events/8988

Happy Dave.




Look, it’s a frame.

It’s coming together...