February 1st, 2003, 7:00pm - midnight
wall painting by:
Anna Sew Hoy
readings by:
Matty Lee
Clint Catalyst
photographs by:
Amy Adler
Jeff Burton
Eve Fowler
Dean Sameshima
film screenings by:
Richard Glatzer & Wash West
musical performances by:
Hot Licks {Giles Miller}
Alex Segade & Malik Gaines
dj Lecia Dole Recio
a very special, very superbowl sunday, very homosexual, sundown salon #10
~ unveiling of new wall painting by anna sew hoy
~ readings by authors matty lee and clint catalyst
~ film screenings in the dome curated by richard glatzer & wash west including jean genet's 'un chant d'amour'
~ artwork by amy adler, jeff burton, eve fowler & dean sameshima
~ special musical performances by 'hot licks' on saxophone and the duo alex segade & malik gaines
~ dancing to the music of dj lecia dole recio
Any Boy Now
By Anna Sew Hoy
This time, we were gathering in the Dome to celebrate our Desire.
My favorite boy is Jenny Shimizu. Once I co-starred with her in a Super-8 film. In the movie, Jenny stole me away from my nerdy bicycle-riding boyfriend, threw me on the back of her Triumph and we rode away through industrial LA. After a fast turn around a corner, my fingers pressed hard into her hips. Jenny turned her face toward me slightly and said, “Ok?” I was supposed to act scared. When the shoot was over, she joked around with her motorbike brother, Danielle, and shot Cheez Wiz from a can onto my cracker.
I had been at Fritz’s the entire week previous, working on a mural, which wrapped around the freestanding bathroom in the lower cave. I wanted to paint Fritz’s object of desire, and he chose certain male models in Calvin Klein underwear ads. I layered line drawings of these boys over the charcoal-colored walls in darker and lighter greys. His obsession was now part of the architecture of the house. Amy Adler’s piece was also of a Calvin Klein model, eyes gently closed, rendered in black and white. Fritz put in works from his series of larger-than-life-size male models catwalking, rendered in diamond dust. These were works of idealized males, served up for an admiring populace.
Eve Fowler photographed a kid passed out on the grass. He has acne and a shirt covered in skulls. She told me how it went: It was 1994. Eve was taking pictures of boys she found on Santa Monica Boulevard for her “100 Hustlers” series. She found the kid, a junkie, and offered to buy him a FatBurger in exchange for taking his picture. He ate the burger, and they went to a park on Curson Avenue. She posed him on the grass. He started sinking lower and lower to the ground, finally nodding off. Eve told me that when she took the picture of him lying on the grass, eyes closed, he mumbled, “what did you put in my burger?”
Dean Sameshima hung snapshots salon-style, sharing a wall with my mural. Some were of the graffiti that had collected in a certain place on Sunset Boulevard, which existed as an impromptu Elliot Smith memorial. The graffiti read: “lost in this world,” “no one deserves it,” “I’m a junkyard full of false starts,” and “we barely knew ye, too soon.” Dean mixed these with photographs of Esteban, a shirtless boy wearing a tie and jeans. Dean described the work as “a way of doing a self-portrait, as well as dreaming of being someone of importance, yearning for adoration, to be someone’s hero.”
Jeff Burton contributed a slide show of an awkward, skinny blonde doing a striptease. This was a departure from his classic photographs, which show only the edges of a pornographic scenario. The striptease was photographed directly, and the added soundtrack made the piece seem like a short movie. The stripper grins unevenly, and gets his red briefs stuffed with dollar bills. For this Salon, Eve, Dean and Jeff were interested in finding desire in the flawed boys.
We were pounding beers. Upstairs in the dome, Wash West and Richard Glatzer screened flesh flix. We looked up at the ceiling to see moving pictures of men in sailor suits smoking and undressing. Night fell, and we could see through the triangular window of the dome, headlights and brake lights twinkling from the 2 freeway.
The performative part of the show was beginning back down in the cave. Boys and those in boy-drag lay on lounge pad furniture. Matty and Clint Catalyst read their stories. Various hustles and sex acts were described as the audience oohed and aahed. Malik Gaines and Alex Segade got on stage and took off their pants, giving us a great view of their thighs. They started with an acoustic set of songs they had written, but could not play elsewhere because they were deemed “too gay.” They headed a campfire sing-along of “The Rose,” and we all sang with passion, getting rowdy, drunk and horny. There was making out amongst the crew. “Hot licks” aka Giles Miller busted on stage with a boombox and a fedora. The tape played a hip-hop medley and Hot Licks blew the horn to it, making the sound bigger and bigger, a soulful saxophone freak-out. He had a black eye to boot! The crowd went wild — after sitting so long feeling each other up, we had to dance.
DJ Lecia Dole-Recio, the best of Echo Park and beyond, hit the decks with a transcendent mix of electro soul. The boys went wild, tearing each other’s clothes off and jumping up and down. LA’s Finest, the Asian-lady DJ crew crashed the party in moustaches. They bared their chests, which looked just like the chests of young boys. We danced and posed and dry-humped into the night….
Paper Cut Bob
{An excerpt from the book “35 Cents” by Matty Lee which he read for the Boys! salon}
I got to the gas station where Bob worked as a mechanic at close to five o'clock and found him standing by the dumpster out back. He hadn't seen me yet, so I just stood there for a minute thinking things over. Was I sure about this? If I had a type, Bob was definitely not it. He was about five foot four and two hundred and eighty pounds; pudgy to say the least. Even in his mechanics' coveralls, he looked like a fat, messy little kid. To call him ugly would be too kind. Weird and a little scary was a better way of describing him. His curly black hair was always covered in dandruff, his skin was always greasy and his breath always stank. He wore those athletic tube socks with red and blue stripes that only dorks and small kids wore. I would have felt sorry for him if I hadn't known he was a great big, fat, fucking pervert.
So I just stood there watching him for a couple minutes, wondering if I was making a mistake. Then Bob flicked his cigarette into the wind, which flicked it right back at him. He freaked out and started patting his chest like a baboon to put out the smoldering ashes. I started to laugh. "Why the fuck not," I thought, "at least he's entertaining."
"Hey, Bob. Don't get too close to the pumps while you're burning like that!" I joked.
When Bob saw me his face turned redder than usual. "God damn cheap cigarettes," he said. "What are you up to kiddo?"
"Nothing man, when are you getting off work?"
"Oh, I can get outta here in about twenty minutes, why you asking?"
"I need a place to stay, Bob."
That was one of the most painful things I had ever said, but I tried to look enthusiastic. Bob didn't need to try. He looked like he just remembered it was his birthday and he was hungry for cake.
It's only about a 40-minute drive from Miami Beach to Bob’s house in Ft. Lauderdale, but that day it seemed like the longest drive of my life. Bob didn’t shut up once the entire ride. He told me all about his "connections." He knew Mick Jagger, Rod Stewart, Ozzy; all the great rock stars. And if things worked out well for us, I might get to be a stagehand for the Stones. How lovely for me. I knew he was full of shit, but something in me wanted to believe him anyway. It was strange how much I wanted to believe back then. So I just tuned Bob out and started daydreaming about being a roadie for the Stones, until some distraction would bring me back to reality and I’d find myself riding in fat Bob's filthy fucking car. It's no wonder I daydreamed so much.
In my daydreams I was living with a beautiful librarian. I was always taking out the trash or fixing the leak under the kitchen sink. We would lie in bed reading every night and then discuss the books in the dark. Somehow we always ended up making passionate love—in my dreams; in reality, I had fat fucking Bob and his bad breath and dandruff. He went on talking about his famous friends for the entire ride. You know, a guy could really go far hanging out with Bob. Like right to bed; or so I thought, but Bob had other stranger plans.
When we got to his house Bob played it cool for a couple of hours, then out came the pornos. Straight ones right off the bat. "Right on," I was thinking, "this could work out after all." But there was something strange about Bob's attitude towards the pornos, it was like he had a purely scientific interest. Then he got out a pad and a pencil and started taking notes.
"Damn," Bob yelled, "that's not the position I designed. This director is always screwing up my moves!"
Then, once he knew he had my attention. "Oh, sorry, kiddo, I have to get some work done. This is my second job, the one that makes me rich."
He didn't look rich to me.
"Yup," Bob said, "I invent new positions for these adult movies."
All I could say was, "What?"
"Oh yeah, they run out of new positions to do it in, and that's where I come in. I design the new ones."
Did he think I was buying this shit? "I bet that pays well," I said sarcastically.
"Oh, sure," Bob replied, "they pay me ten dollars a position and I can do about twenty positions in a night. The only problem is I need a helper."
So here it came; the question, they all had a different way of getting there, but the question was always the same.
"Do you know anyone who wants to make some fast money?"
"I don't know. What do you have to do?"
"Just help me invent new positions for the movies is all. It's easy. You just have to pose in these new positions while I create a template."
"OK," I said, trying not to laugh. "How much will I get paid?"
"I'll split it with you kiddo, and that's a good deal. After all, it's me who's coming up with all the ideas; you just have to lie there."
"OK," was all I could say; I mean I had come this far already, right?
So Bob turned off the movie and took all the dirty clothes and damp towels off his bed and then he told me to take off all my clothes. That was for realism, he explained. And then the freak show began. It was fucking hard to believe how seriously Bob took his act. He got me to pose on all fours, and then on my back with my legs in the air, and then he covered me in these dirty old newspapers. I mean literally covering me in filthy fucking newspapers! I'd been wondering what all the newspapers were about; they were stacked everywhere. His apartment looked like someone was doing a paper drive. And all the time he was wearing these ugly bifocals with a black magic marker stuck behind his ear. To make matters worse, fat Bob got undressed too.
So picture this, if you can. A five-foot-four, fat, naked and extremely hairy guy with bad breath and dandruff, wearing only bifocals and dirty Fruit of the Loom underwear, running around the bed making marks on newspapers that are covering my naked body. And Bob was fucking frantic. He kept yelling stuff like, "Perfecto!" and "Bravisimo!" or, "Hold that one, don't move a hair!" The only reason I could keep a straight face was that he was a little scary. Then he got this pathetic, little boner and I was terrified that I might start laughing. I mean, this was fucking ludicrous right?
But I didn't laugh. Actually, it wasn't really all that funny, this position I was in. Not literally, just the fact that I was now stuck in Ft. Lauderdale with fat Bob the freak.
"OK," he said, "that's enough of the solo poses. Time to do the action couple shots!"
"Wait a minute," I asked. "How many was that?"
"Ten," Bob said.
"It felt more like thirty!"
"Well it wasn't," he said. "We only did ten usable new positions. Now you're distracting me. Do you want to make more money or what?"
"OK," I mumbled.
So then Bob climbs into the bed with me and starts arranging us into all kinds of sexual positions and once we were in a suitable "new" position, he would drag the newspapers up on top of us. Then he would make little tears in the paper where our bodies were touching.
"These are the templates," he explained.
"Whatever," I said.
This went on for about half an hour and then Bob would exclaim, "I've got it," and we moved on to another so-called "new" position.
Bob achieved bliss in about the one-hundredth new position. He never took his underwear off. I guess he was thinking that if he didn't cum, then what we did was legit. So he shot his load into his shorts and I wasn’t supposed to notice. The filthy creep never even changed his fucking underwear. He just stood up and announced, "That's a wrap!" Then he started getting dressed. So I didn't even get to cum? This was absolutely the worst trick I'd ever done. When I finished taking a shower to get the smell of Bob off me, not to mention all the fucking black newspaper ink, Bob said he wanted to go out to eat at Morrison's Cafeteria. Well, where else would a guy like fat Bob eat?
Later on, when we'd finished our "home-cooked" meal, I asked him for the cash and he said he couldn't pay me until he got paid, which was thirty days after he submitted his work. "But the royalties," he explained, "the royalties are where we make all the money!"
Now I was fucking pissed. "What the fuck Bob, you owe me a hundred bucks!"
"Sorry, champ, can't help you out until I get paid. We're both in the same boat."
"Like hell we are Bob! I'm not even in the same fucking ocean with you!"
Bob handled my outburst like a patient father. "Take it easy, kiddo. We'll get paid soon enough. I'll cover your expenses until then and you can pay me back. Besides, I haven't even told you about the best part yet!"
"Oh, I'm fucking quivering with anticipation, Bob."
"OK," he said, "joke all you want. But you don't wanna miss out on this opportunity."
I fell for the bait. "What opportunity Bob?"
"Well, you're great at modeling the new positions, but I think I need someone smaller than me to work with you. Besides, I can't work and pose at the same time anymore."
"So what are you trying to say Bob?" I asked.
"What I’m saying is that we need someone closer to your size that you can pose with. Don't worry, champ, I've already got a few girls in mind."
And I'll never forgive myself for falling for that one. I mean I knew he was lying, but I wanted to believe him so badly that I just shut off my ability to reason for a little while. I suspended my disbelief. I couldn't hear Bob anymore. I was gone, starring in my very own child porn film.
Later, when we got home, he went into his bedroom for a couple of minutes while I watched TV. When he reappeared he was carrying a large manila folder. He walked over to where I was sitting on the couch and dropped the folder down next to me.
"There you go, champ, all the girls in this folder are available for work next weekend. Take your pick."
I opened the folder and found a neat stack of photos cut right out of magazines. They were all of young girls from about twelve to sixteen. He must have cut them out of “Seventeen” or “Miss Magazine”, but I looked them over anyway. I spent hours trying to decide which girl I wanted to work with. When I finally made up my mind I handed a picture to Bob and said, "I like her."
It was a full-length shot of a young girl sitting at a small wooden school desk, chewing on a pencil and trying to look perplexed. She had big dark eyes, and wore black plastic eyeglasses like Elvis Costello. She had medium-length chestnut brown hair and a fair complexion. Her breasts were just starting to develop beneath her white blouse. Under the desk you could see her plaid school skirt and just enough of her milky white thighs to make you squint and try to see a little further. My eyes kept drifting down further to her white knee-high socks and black patent leather shoes. Don't get me wrong. I'm not into schoolgirls with plaid skirts and all. I mean I’m not into schoolgirls in the Japanese fetish sense or anything. But she just looked so damn smart. She was the hot sexy librarian of my dreams and I fell in love immediately.
"Oh, nice choice," said Bob. "That's Dianne; let me give her agent a call."
And off he went into the bedroom. I could hear him making his fake call in a voice way too loud for the phone, and couldn't help but chuckle. Bob was definitely a fucking freak. When he came back to the living room he said, "OK, champ. She's available for next weekend on Saturday. It's all set up." He took back the folder, but I kept the picture of Dianne. Well, what else was I going to call her?
I knew Bob was full of shit and all, but I couldn't help dreaming about Dianne every second for the next week. Everyday, Bob got home at seven or so and I met him at the front door. Of course he didn't let me stay in his house alone during the day. I just wandered around Ft. Lauderdale daydreaming and smoking. At night we did the usual newspaper routine and pretty soon Bob was into me for like fifteen hundred bucks, minus the five he gave me everyday for food and cigarettes.
The following Saturday, I was all nerves. I was at Bob's door at five pacing up and down the corridor. Of course, Bob showed up at seven-thirty with the bad news; Dianne's agent had called him at work and they had to re-schedule for the next weekend. But hey, the Stones were on tour and Bob had made a call to his buddy, Turtle, who guaranteed him that there was a job for me starting next Sunday and paying two hundred dollars a day! On tour with the Stones! Wow, maybe I could even bring Dianne. Then again, maybe not…
Like I said, Bob gave me five bucks a day for food and cigarettes. So, I didn't eat. I was squirreling away some cash for a rainy day. I would steal food while Bob took his morning shower and then eat like a pig at night when he got home. I stayed at Bob's for over two months, every night another story, and every night the same "position game." After about ten more stories and the subsequent let-downs, I had about a hundred bucks saved up.
One day I woke up and just split. I didn't think about it or plan it; I just got on a bus headed back to Miami. I never saw Bob again, but that happens a lot in my line of work.
The Rose
By Bette Midler
{The lyrics handed out by Alex Segade & Malik Gaines for a sing along}
Some say love it is a river
that drowns the tender reed
Some say love it is a razor
that leaves your soul to bleed
Some say love it is a hunger
an endless aching need
I say love it is a flower
and you its only seed
It's the heart afraid of breaking
that never learns to dance
It's the dream afraid of waking that never takes the chance
It's the one who won't be taken
who cannot seem to give
and the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live
When the night has been too lonely
and the road has been too long
and you think that love is only
for the lucky and the strong
Just remember in the winter far beneath the bitter snows
lies the seed
that with the sun's love
in the spring
becomes the rose
Salon Memories #10
I admit I haven’t been to all of the Sundown Salons, but that doesn’t matter, as I’m certain that my favorite was one of the best Salons EVER! Though #8: “Hot Rods n’ Hot Pants” is a VERY close second. My absolute fave was #10: “Boys: A Very Gay Salon”. That was the night/morning I ended up in jail for “driving under the influence” which, funnily enough, reminded me how Very Gay I am. When the “Boy Salon” came to an end, despite my friends’ objections, I stubbornly insisted I was able to drive home. After a “few” illegal lane changes and numerous failed sobriety tests I was cuffed and driven to some Pasadena jailhouse. After much questioning, the confiscation of my possessions, and another pat-down, an officer asked me if I wanted to be in a gay or straight cell. I replied, “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?!” I was insulted, as I assumed I “passed” as straight, HA! I know I was slurring, but perhaps I was lisping and slurring at the same time? Now that’s talent. The arresting officer insisted I get my own solitary cell, as I was “very cooperative” (damn! The gay cell could have been productive!). Anyhow, earlier that night when I entered “Boy Salon”, I found myself surrounded by many dear friends, past tricks and cute possibilities. After a few glamour photo ops with my partner in crime, Javier Peres, we ran straight for the booze. Several (?) drinks later I tried to catch the readings. I was too restless to sit, concentrate and focus. I think I made out with Tom Texas Holmes? I do remember seeing my ongoing crush, Beckett, in the arms of another. Then came Malik and Alex singing in their underwear and their voices were superb as usual, though the snug underwear they donned was a bit distracting, in a good way of course. I kept shouting to them to take their shirts off, but no luck. I think we did a sing-along to “The Rose” by Bette Midler, right? Gosh I love that song. If there weren’t so many people around I would have cried. Then there was Giles blowing his lungs away on the sax, unfortunately with his pants on, DARN! Next, Lecia was on the wheels of steel pounding out the jams (yeah she’s a great artist, but she’s also a master DJ). I proceeded to drink whatever I was handed while dancing all over the place. Richard and Wash screened my second favorite film ever, “Un Chant D’Amour”, somewhat fitting as my desires seem to never be fulfilled, not even in a Pasadena jail cell. - Dean Sameshima
Christopher Russell and I showed up to support our friend and collaborator Matty Lee. I remember Matty’s girlfriend, Lucia, and I sitting on either side of him with our arms wrapped around him after he read "Papercut Bob". He was really shaken up from stage fright I guess but also from telling this intense story, and our arms were kind of intertwining across the back of his shoulders to make a safe and comforting place for him. Clint Catalyst read work at that salon too, and it was such a good combination, Clint and Matty. Clint is so sure, so performative in his storytelling, and the stories are always funny and fierce and filled with pearls of wisdom. So you had him sassing you with his veteran literati stage presence and you also had Matty doing his first ever reading, seeming kind of fragile and maybe on the verge of tears right there in Fritz’s cave. I was on the verge of tears. Eve Fowler had a gorgeous photo of a nodded-out street urchin on display (which Matty incidentally became obsessed with and may end up using on the cover of his book “35 Cents”. - Darin Klein
I remember it being pretty chilly and dark when I rolled in, a lil' high maybe, to what was a real steamy sausage party which included the best queens, a few girls and Giles. God bless Giles, he really kept that crowd real. I was feeling a lil' like how you feel at a fag bar—self-conscious and mean. Tillmans had shot Morrissey for Index that month and I struck up a conversation with pornographer Wash West about how the Smiths were probably the real generative output of straight/queer friction. We also agreed that watching porn in a not-so-anonymous screening situation totally fucking sucked—porn just demands a more meditative viewing space.
Downstairs everybody kicked their shoes off and piled onto the modular furniture all slumber-party styles, super cute. Eli was making out in front of me when Malik and Alex pulled their pants off and sung a few songs "too faggy" for their band My Barbarian. They had passed out lyric sheets to Bette's, "The Rose," and you could tell this was going to be just way too much for these uptight guys. Everybody started singing along though. Maybe it was 'cause I was a lil' wasted or maybe I was pissed for not having been asked to be a part of the show but, I started singing out really loud just taking over the song and making it my thang. It was embarrassing and awesome and what I imagine Bette would have wanted. There is a pic from that night of me and Dean and he never looked cuter. I'm sure I made out with someone that night but I can't for the life of me remember who. I remember walking back to my car thinking this was a real fine time to be a faggot in LA. - Tom Texas Holmes
Jeff Burton is a photographer based in Los Angeles. His work has been exhibited internationally. He is represented by Casey Kaplan Gallery in New York.
Eve Fowler received an MFA in Photography from Yale University and is now based in L.A. She recently exhibited at Thomas Solomon @Rental Gallery, Los Angeles Contemporary Exhibitions, Ratio 3 in San Francisco and Participant, Inc. in New York. She co-curated “Shared Women” at LACE with Emily Roysdon and A.L. Steiner in 2007. She is a recipient of the California Community Foundations Fellowship for Visual Artists.
Giles Miller grew up on the mean streets of New Haven and now spends his time in Los Angeles. His artistic practice is primarily related to music, and he has played flute and saxophone for over twenty years. Recent projects include the scary-sexy music of D'Argento and the freeform cover band Shifty Disko. Giles performs and records with My Barbarian, and has collaborated with artists including Terrence Koh and Anna Sew Hoy.
Richard Glatzer originally intended to become an academic and got his Ph.D. in American Literature from the University of Virginia. Glatzer’s first feature film “Grief” played in competition at Sundance in 1994 and won top prize at San Francisco’s Frameline Festival. His television career includes stints on “The Osbournes”, “Road Rules,” and “America’s Next Top Model.” Glatzer and co-director Wash Westmoreland’s latest movie “Quinceanera” won the Audience Award and the Grand Jury Prize at Sundance. He is a Life Master tournament bridge player.
Dean Sameshima lives and works in Los Angeles and Berlin. He is represented by Peres Projects, L.A./Berlin and Taka Ishii Gallery, Tokyo. His work has been exhibited at Tate Modern, London; Yvon Lambert, Gagosian Gallery, and Artists Space in New York; Norma Desmond Productions, Los Angeles; Gallery Sora, Tokyo; San Diego Museum of Art; Indianapolis Museum of Art. His work has been featured inperiodicals such as Art Forum, Index, and The New York Times. "Instilled and Lost," featuring selected works, was published by Peres Projects. Other catalogues include "Hysteric Seven"(2002), and "Young Men At Play, vol. 1 & 2".
Anna Sew Hoy is a New Zealand-born artist living in Los Angeles. In 2007 she was included in "Eden's Edge," at the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles; and in "One Way or Another," at the Asia Society in New York, which will travel to the Japanese American National Museum in Los Angeles. She has exhibited internationally, and has had solo exhibitions in New York and Los Angeles, with Karyn Lovegrove Gallery and LA><Art. Anna is the recipient of a United States Artists Fellowship, and was an artist-in-residence at the Marie Walsh Sharpe Foundation.
Wash Westmoreland, a writer and director originally from Leeds, has emigrated to America, sired a child by sperm donation, married a bearded lady, spent six months undercover with the Log Cabin Republicans, obtained a degree in Political Science, made several acclaimed gay adult movies, become a member of a religious cult, lived in Japan, won Sundance, and presented Jean Genet’s “Un Chant D’Amour“ at Sundown Salon #10.