tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-74828600274987456722024-03-12T16:56:58.106-07:00Hold MeA homoerratic
odysseyColin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.comBlogger85125truetag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-73335661546053923372015-08-08T11:27:00.003-07:002015-08-08T11:39:29.602-07:00BRAVE NEW WORLDSStep right up, step right up, photoshop yourself a fantasy, build cities, poison the water, create parks in your mind, and fill them with flesh...
I NEVER PROMISED YOU A ROSE GARDEN
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LRyvJK80wzs/VcZBhyEHiOI/AAAAAAAABII/YeljRFtQ_Eg/s1600/I%2BNever%2BPromised%2BYou%2BA%2BRose%2BGarden.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-LRyvJK80wzs/VcZBhyEHiOI/AAAAAAAABII/YeljRFtQ_Eg/s400/I%2BNever%2BPromised%2BYou%2BA%2BRose%2BGarden.jpg" /></a>
OZ ENERGY
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1WSRed5imiE/VcZLbR8-yJI/AAAAAAAABJA/iVLt8KDbGPk/s1600/oz%2Benergy.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-1WSRed5imiE/VcZLbR8-yJI/AAAAAAAABJA/iVLt8KDbGPk/s640/oz%2Benergy.jpg" /></a>
JUST DO IT
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f10vNKwjN2c/VcZBoWHmUbI/AAAAAAAABIQ/KcW4FPLXJto/s1600/JUST%2BDO%2BIT.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f10vNKwjN2c/VcZBoWHmUbI/AAAAAAAABIQ/KcW4FPLXJto/s400/JUST%2BDO%2BIT.jpg" /></a>
CHERRY AND KIWI DREAM
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yz-dZsC1TRw/VcZDfXDlb-I/AAAAAAAABIk/5OGNpyHOUi4/s1600/Cherry%2Band%2Bkiwi%2Bdream.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Yz-dZsC1TRw/VcZDfXDlb-I/AAAAAAAABIk/5OGNpyHOUi4/s400/Cherry%2Band%2Bkiwi%2Bdream.jpg" /></a>
EC
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7siScA8DFfw/VcZGbKBANoI/AAAAAAAABIw/MxCqCynQL9I/s1600/EC.jpg" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-7siScA8DFfw/VcZGbKBANoI/AAAAAAAABIw/MxCqCynQL9I/s400/EC.jpg" /></a>Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-20359029917195634212015-01-21T09:48:00.000-08:002015-01-21T09:48:35.116-08:00http://umbigomagazine.com/um/2015-01-21/fashion-turn-to-the-left.htmlFashion is a passion. Blood, sweat and sequins.
Dipping my toes into London Collections: Men. An article for Portuguese Umbigo magazine.
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cx_Sw-FNzJ4/VL_mY9labKI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/sZMcS37KfvE/s1600/IMG_8548.JPG" imageanchor="1" ><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cx_Sw-FNzJ4/VL_mY9labKI/AAAAAAAAA0Q/sZMcS37KfvE/s400/IMG_8548.JPG" /></a>Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-36374795366313969612014-03-09T06:19:00.000-07:002014-03-09T12:07:45.953-07:00INTERVIEW WITH JOEY ARIAS AND KRISTIAN HOFFMAN<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pX-HF1zz5bA/Uxxl2PYLIPI/AAAAAAAAAhg/j_nGG_rvSeg/s1600/Joey-and-Klaus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-pX-HF1zz5bA/Uxxl2PYLIPI/AAAAAAAAAhg/j_nGG_rvSeg/s1600/Joey-and-Klaus.jpg" height="319" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">A slightly abridged version of this interview was published <a href="http://www.polarimagazine.com/interviews/joey-arias-lightning-strikes/" target="_blank">here</a> in English, and <a href="http://umbigomagazine.com/um/2014-02-14/joey-arias-e-kristian-hoffman-em-entrevista.html" target="_blank">here</a> in Portuguese...</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I had the pleasure of seeing Lightning Strikes in Braga, Portugal in the gilded opulence of Teatro Circo - an ironic backdrop for a show which celebrated the less salubrious streets of forgotten downtown New York. It was, to be frank, an unashamedly show-bizzy celebration, Kristian doing his best Crocodile Rock moves, and Joey cutting a vampy figure with the requisite shimmying. Was it punk? Not at all. It was cabaret bathed in warmth. When they crashed into Bowie's "Oh! You Pretty Things" for an encore, it was a big old knees-up.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Later on that night and the next day I hung out with them and Joey's manager, Earl Dax, of NYC party "Pussy Faggot" fame. I was mentally back in New York, albeit in the chilly Galician north - the studied attention to self, the warmth and generosity of spirit I associate with NYC, and the heady self-obsession of the born performer.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">These days I find myself retreating within for a variety of reasons; it was nice to be dragged kicking and screaming out my shell for a couple of days.</span><br />
<br />
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-size: x-large;">I</span>f like me you grew up in in the mire that
was 70s or 80s England (albeit in my case in the pink-tinged environs of
Brighton) and imagined great, gay things for yourself, then you had to have
dreamed at some point of the streets paved with rat shit and glitter of New
York City. Nostalgia is a powerful aphrodisiac, and NYC was a whiff of poppers
on a sex-drenched dance floor. I did get there eventually, though by then the
city of my fantasies was something else, still special, but the streets were anything
but mean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB">Those times have lost none of their
fascination if the sheer outpouring of documentaries, articles and griping
about the Disneyfication of Times Square are anything to go by. The few lucky
enough to have made it out alive are like beacons of devastating light from a
peculiarly free time that seems forever lost; their survival is the
illumination of the many who didn’t make it and were swept away in its miseries.
Joey Arias is one such survivor, who has gone on to have a career transcending
yet still celebrating his raffish origins – most conspicuously a six-year stint
as Mistress of Seduction for Cirque de Soleil’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Zumanity </i>in Las Vegas. Klaus Nomi was however one of the era’s
casualties, who seemed to have it all in his grasp only to see it abruptly snatched
away. They were artists and performers, misfit toys and friends. We first saw
them together in 1979 on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday Night
Live</i>, as robot-dancing backing singers for David Bowie – a mesmerizing
testament to the seventies’ wilful cha-cha with the avant-garde if ever there
was one. Klaus Nomi would have been 70 years young if he were still with us
today. On his current European tour, Joey will be interpreting some of Klaus’
iconic songs alongside their composer Kristian Hoffman, at the Queer Contact
Festival in Manchester (February 6) and the ICA (February 8 and 9) The show is
called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lightning Strikes</i>, a Nomi number
that perfectly encapsulates the effect Klaus Sperber, one time pastry chef, had
on an already bustling downtown scene. There was no one in remotely the same
galaxy as him, and the recent documentary, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
Nomi Song, </i>illustrates our continued fascination with his burning
singularity and talent. Kristian Hoffman himself was an integral, indeed a
pioneering element of the No Wave New York music scene that made a hell of a
racket for a very Warholian 15 minutes, and since continues to work in Los
Angeles. I talked with both Joey and Kristian, about then and now.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">My
first question is – and excuse me for being so bold – but who is Joey Arias? Are
you really Joey, or is this a persona you have adopted?</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">I can’t tell you. When the book comes out,
maybe I’ll go there, maybe I won’t. I gotta keep some secrets.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Absolutely.
From an early age, you knew you wanted to be in New York and landed quickly on
your feet as soon as you got there.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: white;">I grew up in LA and was in a band – kind of
Bowie meets weird meets Devo – and we even got signed by Capitol Records to
release a couple of singles. But I struggled to get work as an actor; I was too
bizarre looking. In New York I never told anybody about my past, I was this new
person. I came there running, people were like: “Wow! Who is this?” and I was working
in fashion at Fiorucci’s New York store (known as the “daytime Studio 54” for
its mix of celebs and clubbers). My first week in New York I met Klaus, I met
Debbie Harry, so many people. The Ramones. But Klaus at that time was Klaus
Sperber, the baker and opera singer. He was this weird looking older man. He
didn’t stick out very much. Only when the punk thing was happening, did he
start discovering himself. Then it wasn’t till the New Wave Vaudeville Show
that Klaus changed his name to Nomi. When he came out and sang his aria in a
space suit, everyone was shocked. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">Oh my God, it sounds like Maria Callas!</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/I4sMKzT1uME" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Kristian:
</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">That was the first time I ever saw him. Ann
Magnuson (American performance legend in her own right) had apparently
discovered Klaus singing on a snow bank in Union Square New York and invited
him to be in the show. For a minute after it was over, there was this silence,
followed by a standing ovation. The very next day, someone called up and said,
“You should start a band with this guy!” <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">One
thing Kristian that troubles me is how the bold artiness of late
seventies/early eighties pop culture is these days presented as “kitsch”. Never
before had queer bored into the mainstream to such dazzling effect, and hardly
ever since. One statement I remember you making, Kristian, in the documentary
film <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Nomi Song,</i> was how
absolutely serious Klaus was about his art. For him, his operatic, outlandish persona
was no gimmick.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">There was a heavy dose of irony and camp in
all we were doing but we all totally believed in ourselves. I considered myself
a great songwriter at the time (Kristian first emerged in New York cult band,
The Mumps before being instrumental in the No Wave scene alongside the likes of
Lydia Lunch and The Contortions). It wasn’t so much that Klaus was being
serious – he was advocating beauty, which people were afraid to do at the time.
Punk was “hate everything.” Klaus said, “no, you can be this rebellious
revolutionary or outsider, by creating the most beautiful noise ever heard in
the world.”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Klaus
believed he was going to be a superstar. Certainly people were telling him as much.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">Once I became, I guess, his musical
director – though I didn’t even know the word at the time – writing and
arranging the songs with the exception of his classical numbers, and he brought
in his friends from Fiorucci, like Joey Arias (also Jean-Michel Basquiat, Keith
Haring, John Sex, Kenny Scharf) to be his backing dancers, it got popular
astonishingly quickly. Suddenly we were on the six o’clock news and it went to
everyone’s head. We had all watched Blondie, and Talking Heads. We all wanted
to share that dream as things took off. At first most of us only wanted to meet
Andy Warhol. We ended up meeting each other.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Before
long Klaus and Joey were David Bowie’s dancers on a particularly memorable <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Saturday Night Live</i> performance (part of
which is in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Nomi Song </i>in all its
glory). </span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></b><b><span lang="EN-GB">Joey:
</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: white;">We had about 10 shows under our belt, and we were
at the Mudd Club one night about to leave, and someone said, “Aren’t you going
to say goodbye to David”. And we said, “What?!”</span></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">After
the giddy rush of the late seventies scene, there was no reason to believe the
80s would be any different, only better. And then certain things started to
happen. </span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB">Joey:
</span></b><span lang="EN-GB" style="color: white;">Yes, we began to hear about this gay cancer going
around, or something. Klaus left for two months to Europe, to do this tour.
When he came back around Christmas time, he showed up at a house party looking
like he had lost about 80 pounds, clothes just hanging on him. He could barely
walk. In the bathroom with a friend we just started crying. “Something’s up,
something’s up.” When Klaus went into hospital, he was under plastic and you
had to wear a mask and a body suit. He had lesions on his body, but I just took
everything off to massage him The doctors looked at me in horror. I said to
Klaus, “I don’t care.” Klaus was crying, it was really sad.</span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">He
was one of the first celebrities to pass away, in 1983.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<b><span lang="EN-GB">Kristian</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: <span style="color: white;">There were people braver than I was, who went and visited Klaus
all the time. I didn’t do that. I was scared. Klaus was scared too. It was this
epidemic that just came out of nowhere, and people were saying the gays
deserved it. I’ve decided to move on. That’s not the Klaus I choose to
remember. There is something about Klaus that supersedes the tragic arc of this
very involving story. The reason we’re doing this tour, whatever happened to
him through illness, is because what he did intend is still living on.</span></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Joey,
I’d like to talk about your personal icons.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">Klaus was not an icon, he was my friend. My
sister, my brother. David Bowie, Billie Holiday… Bettie Page. I love women of
the forties. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Are
you a creature –</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">I am a creature.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">- of
the blues?</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">No, I’m a creature of the jazz. The way you
live your life, the way you move, explore and do things.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">‘Queer’
has suddenly gained relevance as a byword for a certain kind of artistic
expression. It seems almost everyone in the world of performance claims to be
queer.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">I see ‘queer’ as a word from a different
era. That was the word we used in the sixties. It’s an old-fashioned term. I
don’t use it in any of my shows. My director Manfred Thierry Mugler (one-time
fashion designer of legend) told me: “All you have to do, is be you. Walk on
stage, give no more, give no less.” That’s your queer. That’s your alien.
That’s your past and that’s your future. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">I
find it very intriguing. Audiences perhaps expect slapstick from their
genderbenders, and shock value. You are an elegant presence on the stage.<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
was called by a dear, dear friend, “You are classy, and classic. With a little
bit of trash thrown in.” There’s nothing phony about me. This shit is real. I
never liked drag, I hated it. I couldn’t bring myself to go to drag bars. Then
one day I had to dress up for an Andy Warhol Halloween party in drag. I went as
a kind of Russ Meyer super vixen and everyone screamed, “Oh my God, I love it!”</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Drag
has thrown up a new bunch of kids confounding expectations of what it should be.
There’s Bushwig in Brooklyn, for example. And you are involved in Earl Dax’s
New York Pussy Faggot party.<o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">I’ve never really liked going back and
looking at the past. I’m really excited to see some new artists coming out, new
faces. But a lot of them are lost; it’s a whole new world out there, with
computers and technology. Pussy Faggot is a celebration of the low-down and
dark, the bizarre. New York, if you squeeze it, there’ll always be these little
lumps that pop up between your fingers. Unfortunately, those little lumps are
smaller now.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Kristian</span></b><span lang="EN-GB">: <span style="color: white;">Before the internet you actually had to go out your house and meet
people back then. You kind of had to earn your discovery. In New York it
created this crazy petri dish – everyone wanted to be an eccentric and that’s
why they moved there. It made it very magical how these people could create a
scene out of nothing, if only because the city was bankrupt. Otherwise we
wouldn’t have been able to afford to go there. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB">Joey:
</span></b><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">And then I just got married, to a Scottish man!</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Whoa,
where did that come from?</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">His name is Juano Diaz. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Wait a minute, Juano Diaz? That’s not
Scottish! That’s a story in itself.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">It’s
not Scottish at all!</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: white;">He’s an amazing artist. A writer. I see the
new world in him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Is
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<br /></div>
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<span lang="EN-GB" style="color: white;">A married creature. We actually got married
on Klaus Nomi’s birthday. We didn’t think about it, it just happened that way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">And
now you are celebrating Klaus’ life through this show.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b><br />
<b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span></span></b></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span lang="EN-GB"><span style="color: white;">Klaus was an opera singer, I’m a jazz
singer. It’s a challenge, but it’s pretty amazing. I get there (Joey proceeds
to let out an extremely high-pitched note. He gets there.) It’s a demanding
show, one time on the west coast I just turned to Kristian on stage and said,
“No wonder Klaus died.” The audience went quiet and Kristian just laughed.</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-1874259690279802932013-12-31T04:27:00.002-08:002013-12-31T04:29:24.783-08:00Heavy Psychedelia<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8RA79ERwFQU/UsKvJXpwF0I/AAAAAAAAAfo/F2-yWIy1QCU/s1600/TADANORI_YOKOO_earth_wind_and_fire_1976.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8RA79ERwFQU/UsKvJXpwF0I/AAAAAAAAAfo/F2-yWIy1QCU/s640/TADANORI_YOKOO_earth_wind_and_fire_1976.jpg" width="450" /></a></div>
<br />
Once upon a time, in spite of intrigues and niggling calamities along the way, our species seemed to be heading inexorably in the direction of some kind of blissful nirvana. This was called the 1990s. The end of the millennium appeared to herald the absolute, crushing triumph of the species, with only the spectre of solar radiation (a 'hole in the ozone layer'? How cute is that!) threatening to ruin the party. And what a party it was!<br />
I can't say how the following years, 2001 to now will be judged, but I get the feeling the learned among us will view this millennium (for those that celebrate the Gregorian calendar, while those that don't are surely regarding this as no more than the continual slide into the murk) as an Absolute. Fucking. Disaster.<br />
How do you feel about that? A hole? We are the hole. I feel glued to the spot, tied to the train tracks, no matter how much moving around I do. I feel suspended over an abyss, feet dangling, even if I'm on solid ground. I feel stupid, even if I'm smart and have the gadgets to prove it.<br />
If anything, my joy feels keen and technicolor. My heart is beating a little louder. At least there's that.<br />
The 1976 poster above, is by Tadanori Yookoo, a Japanese graphic artist, for the cosmic soul band Earth, Wind and Fire. Check out his work. Welcome to the new psychedelia, fellow earthlings. Welcome to 2014. It's heavy.<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/ZXE7TFD93s0" width="560"></iframe>Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-62126363932931235882013-12-20T11:38:00.000-08:002013-12-20T11:38:31.568-08:00Wild Christmas<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/OFlte2Hw4xg" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
In 2013 my family got smaller. In 2013 my heart got bigger. In 2013 my art got popular. In 2013 my popularity got knottier. In 2013 my knots got righter. In 2013 my writing got lovelier. In 2013 my love had to travel long distances, but is not afraid.<br />
<br />
<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0Lisbon, Portugal38.616870463929729 -9.272460937535.435988963929731 -14.4360349375 41.797751963929727 -4.1088869375tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-36771008470060573062013-11-23T12:08:00.000-08:002013-11-24T09:22:06.795-08:00ARTPUP!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eagt02n80e4/UpEKSM9mmJI/AAAAAAAAAeU/xBI-extX0Es/s1600/Party1.gif" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Eagt02n80e4/UpEKSM9mmJI/AAAAAAAAAeU/xBI-extX0Es/s400/Party1.gif" width="302" /></a></div>
<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0Lisbon, Portugal38.7252993 -9.150036399999976338.6262223 -9.3113978999999762 38.824376300000004 -8.9886748999999764tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-70572865506552808492013-09-01T04:40:00.001-07:002013-09-01T04:43:28.512-07:00GAY AS A GOOSE?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Tn9_Bga51g/UiMl8bNY8dI/AAAAAAAAAdI/shQ0b6Qd4EQ/s1600/4faggots.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2Tn9_Bga51g/UiMl8bNY8dI/AAAAAAAAAdI/shQ0b6Qd4EQ/s320/4faggots.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<iframe frameborder="no" height="166" scrolling="no" src="https://w.soundcloud.com/player/?url=http%3A%2F%2Fapi.soundcloud.com%2Ftracks%2F108195714" width="100%"></iframe><br />
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DJ DR CALIGARI. FOR MORE: <a href="http://www.mixcrate.com/djdrcaligari">http://www.mixcrate.com/djdrcaligari</a>Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-79588890881517924082013-08-26T04:03:00.002-07:002013-08-26T04:03:34.553-07:00RICE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
In this little pod is a history of water and grain, of expansion, of poverty, of slave trades, of civil rights and wrongs, of genetic capitalism, of famine and of food mountains. Rice is corrupt. Rice is evil. Rice is indispensable.<br />
<br />
You buy rice in a supermarket, ignorant of the pain in its process. It is a packet of survival. It is like a person you meet for the first time. Every day a new person looms before us and we decide whether we wish to pursue this person. We analyse their glossy exterior, and decide if it appeals to us. Much like choosing a packet of rice in the supermarket. There are rows and rows of the same product. We select only one, that speaks to us, and take it home. Our new friend we shall consume.<br />
<br />
We place it on the counter. It comes tightly-packed. That vacuum is satisfying somehow. It holds promise. You gingerly take the seam in your hands and try to prise it open. It has been packaged, after all, to open this way. The seam parts between your fingers till it reaches a mysterious place where the plastic folds in on itself and seals reality inside. We tug. It does not budge. We become nervous. We have been through this before, after all. We curse, and wish things were different somehow. Surely it is easy for them to make it easy on us? We wonder if the manufacturers of this little wondergrain are smirking somewhere. <i>When so many have suffered, over generations, to bring this innocuous pod to their table, why shouldn't we have a little fun at their expense? That's life, after all. </i>We begin to lose our patience. The water is boiling and we don't have time for this. We tug harder and the packet resists. The seam slips and slides in our grasp. That's it - we've had enough.<br />
<br />
Maybe we attack it with scissors but in this case, say, we pull violently at the packet and the seam rips savagely open. The plastic unbends and lacerates, tearing a gaping wound in its perfect circumference. That's it, that's all the moment needed; a little nudge of chaos into our perfect lives, and our kitchens. Rice pours out. It is hard, brittle, inedible. It flies, it has kinetic energy of its own. We have no control over this. Rice clatters onto the countertop and scatters in every direction. It is on the floor. It inserts itself into the dirty grey gaps between our sink and our stove, where moisture and microbes make their homes. Each grain of rice has become our responsibility. They are all a nuisance, every one. They resist your fingernails in their little hidey-holes. They do not cooperate with the dustpan and brush.<br />
<br />
The package is now useless to us, gashed and weak. We pull a jar from a cupboard and try to pour the rest inside. The rice tumbles out over the counter, over everything again. We cup our hands and try to scoop the individual grains into a pile, before directing them into the jar held over the edge of the counter. More rice tumbles onto the floor. We get there in the end, but there's waste, so much waste. A drop of sweat far away, once trickled down gaunt cheekbones for this little innocuous grain. We clean up, and drop the lid on the garbage pale with a clatter.<br />
<br />
Tomorrow we have to pick new people off the shelf and try and tug them open. We need their nutrients to survive.Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-91974770773157623162013-07-31T01:44:00.001-07:002013-07-31T03:01:56.151-07:00Boys and girls come out to play.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
- "Why are they staring at us like that?"<br />
- "Because they think you're a fat ugly little girl."<br />
- "Don't say that."<br />
- "Look. Jemima's starting to cry."<br />
- "Stupid, she can't cry. We can't cry. Our faces just melt. Look at Benjamin."<br />
- "Shut up. I wasn't crying."<br />
- "Ugly Benny! Ugly Benny!"<br />
- "They left me out too long in the sun. It's not my fault..."<br />
- "Stop picking on Benny. He's my friend...."<br />
- "You two are one pretty picture. You make me sick, Poppy. You always take sides. You make me want to tear off my clothes and break the glass."<br />
- "You think I don't hate this too? I've been standing here gathering dust for years. They've never changed my clothes not once. It's like death. There's no air and it's hot."<br />
- "I want my mommy."<br />
- "Oh Jesus, there goes Jemima again."<br />
- "Jesus won't save you, stupid. We're not even alive. We just think we are. Mommy won't save you either."<br />
- "Just stop her whining. It sounds like a drill in my head."<br />
- "You never had a mommy Jemima. Or a daddy."<br />
- "Shut up Katy! Don't scare her. The shopkeeper is your daddy, Jemima sweetie."<br />
- "He is? Really? He's strange. I don't understand. He pulls down my knickers and he touches me."<br />
- "He touches me too."<br />
- "Ha ha! Ugly Benny has an admirer! Benny and Jemima!"<br />
- "We know, you idiots. We see <i>everything.</i>"<br />
- "If he's our daddy, why does he touch me and Benny?"<br />
- "Oh don't listen to her. Katy's just mad. Since you came along, little fat Jemima, daddy doesn't notice her any more."<br />
- "Ugh. Why are you so horrible to me, Polly? What did I do to you?"<br />
- "Because you are dead inside. Look at your reflection in the glass."<br />
- "I want to be like you Katy when I grow up."<br />
- "No you don't Jemima."<br />
- "But where did I come from? Please. Help me."<br />
- "From a dark, dark place little girl..."<br />
- "Stop it everyone, someone's coming to look! Daddy will hurt us if we don't sell something. Look happy. Look pretty, Jemima. Just don't look them in the eyes. Then you'll see. Don't look them in the eyes..."<br />
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<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-76964499896967213652013-06-03T09:43:00.001-07:002013-06-03T10:09:35.278-07:00THE SILVER FOX CLUBLife, that thing constantly getting in the way of our rampant egos, has just dealt me one of its severest blows. I wonder if it's really worth going on. It's that bad.<br />
<br />
What on earth could it be that has made me sink to such a low ebb, you may ask. I mean, we gay men have always had a somewhat delusional relationship with our relevance to society - that's what makes us so cranky by cocktail hour. How could things look so fabulous, but yet get any worse? We've just found out large swathes of France hate us, for God's sake. That's right. <i>France. </i>Without us, what does France have, apart from a reputation for unclean foreskin and racial hatred? <i>Rien de rien, bébé.</i><br />
<br />
Well here it is. I've got bad news, people, and it's all about me, because frankly I'm the center of the universe and you scour for crumbs in my shadow. As I contemplated my contours in the mirror this morning, I realised I'm going to hit my physical peak when I'm about 62.<br />
<i> </i><br />
<i> </i>It's so unfair.<br />
<br />
When I was twenty, I was a skinny bitch. I recently found photos of my ungainly youth (luckily for some, the computer has replaced the Polaroid - to spare most of us from stumbling across images of our spotty foreheads thirty years later and thus awakening us to the entire, ugly sadness of our lives and hairstyles). I was burned to a Costa del Sol cinder - eyes glowing like canned lychees in their sockets - and I carried myself as would a praying mantis. I'm amazed I ever got laid - I did, with girls and then, somehow, boys - but clearly these people were even more self-hating than <i>moi. </i>I gave off an air of having taken a spa in Dachau.<br />
<br />
You see, when I lumbered into my twenties, men started going to the gym in ever-increasing numbers. It's difficult to say why this happened, other than it's clearly the gays' fault. In my neck of the woods, bodybuilding was the preserve of the criminal underworld and of actors who wore monkey suits in bad sci-fi movies. And Roger Daltrey of The Who. (I for a brief while went to his Brighton gym, until I was sucked down the extractor fan of the hot tub and it took the local fire brigade three days to get me out).<br />
<br />
Nowadays, I see these youngsters pumping iron, cheerfully gulping down protein shakes and adding workout routines to their limited range of conversation (soccer, and now, workout routines). In their hairless magnificence, they are perfect. Their puppy fat taut, their tushes breathtaking and juicy as ripe melons in a farmers market. It's so cute, because the young rarely look ahead. It's all about the moment. It's about staring in rapture at your reflection in the mirror, whether you're gay or straight. Channing Tatums everywhere, pouring onto the streets. And then behind them, struggling to catch up and slightly out of breath, follow their elders, that once looked like Channing Tatum. Except they've hit thirty, and look like John Travolta at forty.<br />
<br />
I'm forty-five and luckily I've filled out a bit. I feel I've got the body I could have done with when I was thirty-five, about the time I got to New York. Then maybe I could have slept with a few gym gods, just to say I'd done it, except they only wanted to sleep with other gym gods. It was amazing how identical these dudes were. The same facial hair, the same nipples. Yes, somehow it became possible, among certain privileged sectors of gay society, to physically will your nipples into another size and shape. I don't know if you know this, but it became <i>hot</i> in some circles to have women's nipples. I don't know also if women will be pleased to hear that, because it probably means straight men will want this in ten years' time.<br />
<br />
Now at forty-five, some of these men who wouldn't look down at me at thirty-five, have started to look up at me. I'm flattered, but unfortunately, they are no longer gym gods. Their ass fat has migrated to their stomachs (it's always the first to go) and now, if I was pushed for an aphorism, I'd say they look rather like Norway, very ragged at the edges, on spindly legs and aching joints from all those hours, all those years, spent in the gym.<br />
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Incredibly, I'm still growing. Body fat is a new world of possibility for me. As I say, at 62, I quite possibly will be a silver fox; a collossus striding the planet in my cowboy boots like Ted Turner. Heads will turn, nether regions will moisten. It would be nice if I were also rich and famous, but I'm hoping my silver fox looks will get me by if all else fails. You will wish you were dangling on my arm, and running fingers over my taut abdominals. Oh, the unfairness and cruelty of life! The loneliness! I'd despair, if I cared to remember the misery of that twenty-year old in the photograph, rejected and unloved by all but the rejected and unloved. But like all those who are sixty-two years young, I'll just live in the moment. And frankly my dear, next to me you'll look like shit.<br />
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(<i>Apologies to my long-suffering handsome and ageless husband for the lies perpetrated in this article). </i>Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-25209603633457431512013-04-20T02:30:00.000-07:002013-04-20T03:12:04.688-07:00ASKING FOR A LIGHT (Apology for the cigarette)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It unfolded in the bright sunshine and the bluest of skies, and it still felt like loss. The guy had been sitting there, scruffy beard and snubbish intensity. Slight form lost under his baggy clothes. I turned back, I'd seen enough, and screwed up my eyes in the chilly glare of the morning sun. From the end of the road, another kid was swaggering towards us, little tight shoulders in silhouette. His rolling gait was coiled like a muscly dog. This neighborhood was busy changing, but for now it was still emphatically working class, and the teenage mutts here were all spleen and provocative stares, virile center of gravity, take that how you wish. I looked back over my shoulder and the bearded guy had got to his feet and was leaning against the bus stop, pulling on a cigarette. There it was again; he too seemed balanced nonchalantly on the energy between his hips. Blowing smoke rings. He looked different now, interesting. The pit bull boy rolled by me oblivious and I followed his back as it brushed against the smoke rings. Then he came to a halt. He pulled a cigarette pack from his jacket and extracted one carefully, with a delicate swish. He turned to the guy smoking and asked for a light. As he leaned in, in the blustery wind, two pairs of hands came up pressing in on the naked flame. They may have touched. They were still, together, for an exquisite moment, till the cigarette fired up and they separated again. The pitbull boy gave a gruff "thank you" and continued on his way, intimacy instantly forgotten.<br />
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I remember one of the most vivid, indelible images I'd seen of this cat-and-mouse life which seemed to categorise the gay experience, was a stark black and white photograph of a top-hatted Victorian gentleman, sinister and alluring under the yellow shadows of a street lamp, as a beautiful younger man leaned in. "Got a light?" To my eyes, learning fast, the image shimmered with dirty, intoxicating promise. Ten minutes ago, before writing this, I tried to google the image, being normally quite good at this, but I couldn't find it anywhere. In fact, I could hardly find anything at all. Interestingly, a whole smoking history is apparently being wiped from the net. I normally wouldn't worry - like I care? But in that moment of intimacy witnessed in bright sunlight, I saw myself, and I saw a history of impossible interactions and desires, and I thought, this too one day will be gone, and down we will scroll our tiny screens, ignoring requests to talk and look someone in the eye. And streets will become deserted and the promise of adventure will have been mapped out in binary.<br />
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The blue rings vanished in the air, tingling on the smoker's throat. I felt a twinge of jealousy.Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-91241118729883045022013-04-02T05:05:00.002-07:002013-04-02T05:09:50.170-07:00LONGTIME NO SEE<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/mGCeQC805vY" width="420"></iframe><br />
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I remember when I first saw 'Longtime Companion' at the movies. I hated it. I was in my very early twenties, idealistic and opinionated. I was living in Lisbon, in Europe, and I and my arty friends had tongues making nests in our cheeks. My friend hated the movie even more. I had never been to New York City, and this was not how I wanted to see it - this gilded ghetto cage of fading white moneyed faces, (so telling, the Fire Island scenes of the Pines house floating above the foliage, the real world blotted out and invisible below). This ain't no hip hop. This ain't no No Wave or even new wave. It was operatic dinner parties and hi energy fizzling out. Blacks and hispanics and rice queens were not invited to the last days of disco, even if they soundtracked it. "The Saint Disease" it was first called, and that is a history I came to understand through work and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bwtJiKCrW9s" target="_blank">personal experience.</a><br />
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The fact it was about people dying, a tide of accumulating rot, swelling and gaining strength, rolling over the darkening sky on the beach was the most distasteful part. I failed to have a heart for this peculiar, more monied-than-thou ghetto, even as they died faster and more painfully than the rest of us outside of it.<br />
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The ghetto never died in New York. It did become more inclusive, these days all can rest there and go to high tea. The Pines, if anything, is more monied than ever. Aids never went away either - it took on different shapes, it became the perfect cross-dresser. I watched 'Longtime Companion' again last night and I forgave it, because there was nothing to forgive. These people did die, and it had to have been horrible. This is New York, and all the movie wanted to do was show them and honour them. They deserved to flicker across the silver screen, because now they are gone, all gone.<br />
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<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-33177021361346348692013-01-12T09:43:00.001-08:002013-01-13T02:20:46.111-08:00WATERBOARDING OVER DINNER <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>the table</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>was set for murder.</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>the<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>conversation arched</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>its back and </i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>blew cigarette smoke</i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>in the fac<span style="font-size: large;">e</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><span style="font-size: large;">seated opposite.</span></i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">He w<span style="font-size: small;">inced<span style="font-size: small;">, wreathed in its blue. Stood up and opened a window and then got on with his food silently. The smoker <span style="font-size: small;">curled his finger and p<span style="font-size: small;">laced tip on the cigarette's spine, <span style="font-size: small;">watching</span>.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Before the remain<span style="font-size: small;">ing gues<span style="font-size: small;">ts had arr<span style="font-size: small;">ived, we deliberated what wer<span style="font-size: small;">e </span>the questions that should be <i>verboten </i>at a dinner party as gay a<span style="font-size: small;">s this one</span>.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">- <span style="font-size: small;">T</span></span>hat's easy.<span style="font-size: small;"> First, 'what do you do?'.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">We vigorously agreed <span style="font-size: small;">how crass that was. Then he laughed.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">- <span style="font-size: small;">And of course, <span style="font-size: small;">'are you a top or a <span style="font-size: small;">bottom'?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">The others arr<span style="font-size: small;">ived and we were all introd<span style="font-size: small;">uced</span>. Our host had warned us to tone <span style="font-size: small;">it down, as the ot<span style="font-size: small;">hers weren't <span style="font-size: small;">so comfortable with such fooling around. Of cou<span style="font-size: small;">rse a cigar<span style="font-size: small;">ette was lit up over the main course and blown in their faces. Tongues locked into cheek.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">Around the fireplace, one of the newcomers asked how long we had b<span style="font-size: small;">een together, Lennie and I.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">- A<span style="font-size: small;">lmost nine years, I replied.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">He frowned as if it were an impossib<span style="font-size: small;">ility</span>. Then he asked, - so you're in an open relationship<span style="font-size: small;">?</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">There</span>, that's question number three, <span style="font-size: small;">and it's one you should <span style="font-size: small;">never, never ask a gay couple<span style="font-size: small;">.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;">His friend, a sexy Italian astronomer poure<span style="font-size: small;">d into tight jeans that <span style="font-size: small;">had been engineered to focus your gaze unswervingly on his butt</span></span>, devoured me with his eyes.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span> <br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></span><i><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </i></span><br />
<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-23706832948145647262012-12-31T03:36:00.000-08:002012-12-31T03:37:51.093-08:002013 I'M GONNA BE FAMOUS!<span style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;"><a href="http://www.mixcrate.com/djdrcaligari" target="_blank">EVERYBODY DANCE (Happy 2013)(click here - don't worry, it ain't spam, more like corned beef)</a></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/_wlJr6eCc-w" width="420"></iframe><br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-83432049641843815812012-12-01T11:30:00.000-08:002012-12-01T11:49:31.811-08:00YET ANOTHER<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Yet another ripple, yet another icy tremor, yet another child abuse scandal seeping out through the cracks and dirtying fingers grubby with news print.<br />
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I grew up on the edge of countryside. This was the 1970s. There were great rolling hills and brooks thick with snaggling weed. Days were spent far, far away from home, breathless, cheeks flushed. Me and my pals, me often alone. Skinny and weak me, except for my uranium mind. Electric pylons fizzed overhead against the slate skies of winter. I was gone for hours, there was no time out there, no clock murmuring, no caw of the phone.<br />
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That uranium mind had unspeakable thoughts. It stripped my teachers naked. There was Mr Harris, the slacker mangod of Religious Education, moustached and grand, and he filled a tight speedo. That I saw in the swimming pool. I imagined him with Mr LeTissier laid out on the floor, eager to touch, but I couldn't figure out how they would do that. What came next? Couldn't say. Mr Laker, gym teacher, stripped with us boys once. I saw his penis, I did. I was squinting nervously, head bowed. It was fat in a bed of lush orange hair. He never touched us, he never lusted over us - at least, he never touched skinny, stupid me with the uranium brain. And my memory begins its fail from here on, the names no more than a brittle echo, but in the hot school summer there was he, the deputy head, who stripped his shirt off proudly, like Brits do at the merest threat of sun. I stared, in fleeting fast gasps and wished I could touch those perfect nipples, through his chest hair and snake down to his belly. Maybe if I dare, down down down. Envelop me, you. But no, of course it wasn't gonna happen. Funny how I still remember how exquisite his nipples were, and with such distraction available on the computer screen! They were the best nipples in the world ever. Fact. And when he moved on from our school, Mary my classmate sent a request to Radio One to the Breakfast Show. Dave Lee Travis actually played it. He's in big trouble now, right, that Mr Travis? Grubby and in the news. Mary asked for Chicago: "If You Leave Me Now", for our deputy head. He came in the classroom that morning and she blushed and we laughed. Later she said she used to hang at his apartment all the time.<br />
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When I was a kid all I had was hills far as the eye could see, with no one hurtling across them except me. I hated my childhood, its dazzling interior and my radioactive imagination. Kids today have so much though. They are bombarded with stimulation I never got. Perhaps unfairly, to me they can seem harsh, and ugly inside. They enjoy a world I never got, but it seems they're trapped. Maybe it's that which conditions them. They have to be a phone call away. They cannot stray beyond the perimeter of their front yard. Everyone is a potential predator. The world tells them to love their childhood, because that's as good as it gets, and they want to believe it, which sucks the innocence out of them in the noir of vampiric dreams. These kids, grounded and catty, are nothing like I was. At their age, I ran and I ran, believing things had to be better than this one day, and they were.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/j1ykMNtzMT8" width="420"></iframe><br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-54326519772196043332012-11-03T12:43:00.000-07:002012-11-03T12:43:57.589-07:00THE PROBLEM WITH SINGLE MOTHERS<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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It caught my eye on Facebook, that great sloppy soup of idle chitchat and self-absorption. It wasn't intended for my eyes, though it was written by someone I knew, and once knew intimately. I read it, scrolling down the corner of the screen. It stayed with me. And then the poison behind the words began to grow, ulcerous.<br />
It was a comment about benefit cheats. This person was saying, single women were deliberately getting themselves pregnant so they could get free houses and other handouts. They were no better than leeches.<br />
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Like I say, I used to know this person. I guess if we are now Facebook friends, then we still do. We have both changed, but I was always aware, behind the libertarian lurked a reactionary soul. It was a product of his upbringing, and a product of his innate sense of superiority. It was perhaps a class thing.<br />
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There are many that spend endless hours cultivating their hatred for others, be it immigrants, be it people of color, be it genders. Don't be surprised if a gay man is among them. I've known more than a few. I can only think, a part of them inside must be cancerous, or dead. These people aren't worthy of our attention, even if they crowd our airwaves and buzz in our brain louder than our friends do sometimes.<br />
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Still, it got under my skin like, admittedly, the things he does are wont to do. Firstly, I tried to imagine his conception of the female body. How he must hate it! - to imagine women farming themselves out, sluts spreading their legs with scant regard for their welfare and for that of their newborns. All, perhaps, because they were common. And poor. All for financial gain. Then I remembered, this person once persuaded a lawyer to sign over property deeds to him, for a little uninhabited pied-a-terre in a swanky end of town he had his eye on. He paid nothing for the pleasure, and the council spent tens of thousands of euros of taxpayers' money doing it up for him. It's his little getaway. He hops on a plane whenever he likes. He feels he's earned it. In fact, the eleven years we were intimate I don't remember him paying a single cent of tax on his earnings. He always loathed paperwork.<br />
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And then I remembered, this person was in denial, up to the day his immune system finally crashed and he had to be rushed to hospital. He suffered excruciating pain. It must have been awful. In fact, he is a virtual cocktail of costly meds to keep his viral count down. He is not living in the country where he was born - he couldn't wait to get rid of that undesirable passport - so I wonder which state health system is providing him with his drugs. Of course he should have them - no one should be left to fend for themselves, right? That's the purpose of our system, to help those with Aids and single mothers. He really should have tested sooner though, but he was afraid. Fear is a constant of our lives. But then, I imagine how many others also became infected, because of that denial. Only he will know, if he wants to think about it, but I doubt that he does.<br />
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It was a miracle, that somehow he didn't infect me too.<br />
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Gay men have their girl friends, their fag hags, call them what you will. But girls, perhaps you should be aware, as with a gleam in their eye they tell you about their latest exploits, that you are nothing but the perfect cypher for their narcissism. That as you laugh with them at their jokes, that really in their hearts your bodies may disgust them, and that when your backs are turned, they might call you whores on Facebook.Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-33166583349245872622012-06-23T09:56:00.002-07:002012-06-23T09:57:15.935-07:00i am this also<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="331" mozallowfullscreen="" src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/44570295" webkitallowfullscreen="" width="500"></iframe> <br />
<a href="http://vimeo.com/44570295">isto também sou eu / i am this also</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/joaogalrao">Joao Galrao</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com/">Vimeo</a>.<br />
<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-74897009221938014352012-06-09T02:36:00.000-07:002012-06-09T02:38:27.979-07:00i am this also<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="http://dezanove.pt/356070.html" style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,sans-serif;" target="_blank">LINK TO ARTICLE IN dezanove.pt (PORTUGUESE)</a><br />
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I am an artist, a reality I still often find difficult to believe. The fact that I sit there, slumped dejectedly over a blank canvas (or whatever my chosen media might be that moment), and try and sell these doodles for monetary value still bewilders me to this day.<br />
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I won't deny it's fun though. And in some ways, I find getting to my public as interesting as the work itself. Selling a potentially explosive idea to as many people I can seems so positively audacious and powerful! That's why, for me, the parties and arty, wily shenanigans I have been involved with over the years, <a href="http://youtu.be/e7wz3wuGP8M" style="font-family: "Courier New",Courier,monospace;" target="_blank">CUE VIDEO</a>, initially in New York City, via Virginia, lately in Lisbon, <a href="http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.342389835830973.74132.160881130648512&type=1" target="_blank"><i>where there is a tangible whiff of creative excitement in the air,</i></a> seem as legitimate as any pretty picture I may paint.<br />
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Curating an entire exhibition of (wince) queer art seems like the ultimate confidence trick to me. I imagined no one would want it, least of all the artists I approached. Well, there are 17 of us, just in the first go round, some pretty damn well-known, so at the very least a lot of alcohol will get consumed the opening night.<br />
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I hope to begin commenting on the individuals' work as we go along here.<br />
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<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-54610927315753606842012-05-18T03:28:00.001-07:002012-05-30T10:31:53.216-07:00THE AMERICAN<br />
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Some years ago, I dated an American. It wasn't one of my best ideas. This was before I went to America and discovered other Americans, whose simplicity and generosity knew no bounds. No, this was one of those Americans who expected their dates to come fully-formed, waving Y2Ks in front of them. Money was a game he could afford to play. After some months flaying about he broke up with me, citing my lack of a viable financial future as a major cause of concern. Yes, he worked in finance, for a multinational that had to have an office in every country in the world and would then proceed to scoff at their weedy financial muscle.<br />
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I was hurt, but imagined he was right. It wasn't my best of times, I'll admit. I swallowed my hurt and soldiered on. I cultivated his friendship; after all, he seemed to know better than me. A year or maybe two passed, and by then I had done the unimaginable and moved to New York! The American came to visit, and in the course of a long, blurry evening, I finally realised he was a balls-to-the-wall alcoholic. He got me more drunk than I'd ever been, and he was drunker still. He could barely stand, so I had to hail us a cab home. He was a mess - I suppose I'd just seen it so often I never really noticed when we were together.<br />
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Next day, he was sleeping it off in my roommate's bed at our digs in Brooklyn. I didn't see him till late, so late in fact that if he didn't hurry, he would miss the flight to Chicago to see his fucking Episcopalian pastor of a father. When I finally caught him, he was trying to slink out unnoticed. He informed me with a smirk that he had wet the bed, so I needed to clean up. Plane to catch, see ya.<br />
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After eight years, I came back to Europe fully-charged. And today it's my 44th birthday! Shit! Times have certainly changed. I see many, whose once-untouchable surety is looking pretty shabby. These past twelve months were no picnic for me either. I got sick, real sick with pneumonia, and my mum died. That was a wrench. Still, I dug in my heels. And actually, I'm one of the few who can say I'm doing pretty good. I'm firing on all cylinders - no need to go into details. I see so many my age who look like the life has been sucked out of them by circumstances out of their control. But my ideas have never stopped. Never.<br />
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So, the American. Not long after the bedwetting, there was another incident which really was TOO MUCH and I told him to take a hike. I finally said to him, why am I allowing myself to be taken down by a closeted alcoholic bedwetter with Aids? Ouch. Because he's financially viable? The American will never lose his job; he's too high up to fall, it is said. Others will be sacrificed before he. He now moves and shakes in London, but occasionally surfaces here. I ignore his stares. Then I think, you know, I should be more grateful. For the night he really lost it in front of me, and showed me the little baby in the Big I Am, was the night I stumbled drunkenly into Lennie, my eventual life partner. I have never forgotten the cab ride back over the Williamsburg Bridge, city glittering, window rolled down and that night city air. Lennie was American too, and the sweetest, sexiest soul you could ever hope to meet.Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-59502307388594995532012-04-25T15:08:00.000-07:002012-04-25T15:08:33.207-07:00HAPPY BIRTHDAY!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-18007768947752150172012-03-04T13:52:00.005-08:002012-03-04T14:06:01.253-08:00I KNOW HOW TO GET TOM CRUISE THAT OSCAR<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tp3k1LicMow/T1PkJDKd2QI/AAAAAAAAAU0/vBAIZV-D0AE/s1600/Tom%2BCruise%2Bwithout%2Bshirt.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 197px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Tp3k1LicMow/T1PkJDKd2QI/AAAAAAAAAU0/vBAIZV-D0AE/s320/Tom%2BCruise%2Bwithout%2Bshirt.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716163196182452482" border="0" /></a><br />Tom, in the role of a lifetime, is an old man in a rest home who develops a touching, bittersweet relationship with a beautiful male orderly played by Chris Pine, or some other square-jawed Hollywood wannabe. The big reveal is that Tom in the movie was a child runaway from the midwest who ends up a male hustler in New York just before the Aids epidemic hits. Poignant tragedy ensues. Welling strings. Tom effortlessly plays eighteen and eighty-ish and is Oscar-bound. In the poignant final coda, Chris lets old Tom go down on him (once old Tom removes his dentures). Gus Van Sant or Ang Lee directs. Reese Witherspoon plays matron.<br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oVokeywiwr4/T1PnJk-fQbI/AAAAAAAAAVM/58RV-GgF9ME/s1600/6a00d8341bfa3f53ef00e54f2a847b8833-640wi.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 184px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-oVokeywiwr4/T1PnJk-fQbI/AAAAAAAAAVM/58RV-GgF9ME/s320/6a00d8341bfa3f53ef00e54f2a847b8833-640wi.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5716166503793902002" border="0" /></a>Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-61705960067575757892012-02-11T10:04:00.000-08:002012-02-11T10:31:10.717-08:00DISCO REVOLUTION<iframe src="http://player.vimeo.com/video/24571611?title=0&byline=0&portrait=0" webkitallowfullscreen="" mozallowfullscreen="" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="225" width="400"></iframe><p><a href="http://vimeo.com/24571611">Discodromo - Mercurio</a> from <a href="http://vimeo.com/goldnsour">GoldNSour</a> on <a href="http://vimeo.com">Vimeo</a>.</p><br /><br />I WAITED TWENTY PLUS YEARS FOR THE SECOND GAY DISCO REVOLUTION, and I'm hoping HERE IT COMES.<br /><br />(Warning: this video is only suitable for the fleet of foot, and the GAY of HEART, BODY & SOUL)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.discaire.com/" target="_blank" rel="nofollow nofollow">Who?</a><br /><br />Veiled in playful secrecy, the rhetoric of Discaire Records would have you believe that the label is controlled by a cult-like group of shadowy subversives. In truth, Discaire is a "<a href="http://www.xlr8r.com/mp3/2011/05/mercurio-high-temperature-mix">homophonic</a>," forward-thinking brotherhood of four like-minded gay men from New York, London, and San Francisco.Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-75297018668131559892012-01-25T03:34:00.000-08:002012-01-25T04:12:47.400-08:00Q U E A S YI woke up this morning next to my husband feeling uneasy. I sat up in bed and contemplated the source of this malaise. After all, I shouldn't have any more to worry about than your average western citizen in 2012 - job security, financial crisis, perhaps H5N1... But I'm secure, and loved, by my man, and by friends gay and straight.<br /><br />But no, there is a reason for me to feel threatened, because apparently <span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">I <span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;">am the threat. <span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span></span></span></span></span>I throw a party in Lisbon called Pink!, and the accompanying Facebook page is quite the hot ticket. I won't deny we get a little saucy there, but it is a closed group after all and only consenting, mature adults who are in the group can see it. It's actually really cool, homosexual imagery of the arty, balls-to-the-wall variety, faits divers, culture. It makes us feel alive! AND I KEEP GETTING SHUT DOWN. I desperately seek an alternative, where I'm not OFFENSIVE TO PEOPLE WHO CAN'T EVEN SEE ME, BUT STILL HATE ME NONETHELESS. But that alternative DOES NOT EXIST. I need Facebook, apparently.<br /><br />Like I need cancer.<br /><br />In the wake of the THIRD shutdown, in which I lost all my friends (if I don't see them online, do they actually exist?), people came to me with stories of how art imagery on their wall - WTF even <span style="font-style: italic;">religious </span>imagery - was removed.<br /><br />Now this. I guess I feel like Rihanna. (Please click on Andy and Candy, thank you. And fuck you very much.)<br /><br /><a href="http://www.pitchfork.com/news/45217-matador-says-googleyoutube-rejected-perfume-genius-promo-video-for-being-not-family-safe/"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 217px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-iGPGpEEH4mA/Tx_uk6dPQPI/AAAAAAAAAUo/IAAZ-NpW1ns/s320/156354_182015578490950_119395781419597_612388_1342455_n.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5701537971208929522" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Oh, and the Pink Page on Facebook is <a href="http://www.facebook.com/groups/155023937942747/">here</a>. Join the fun, why don't you?Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-21064381227306573652012-01-16T03:31:00.000-08:002012-01-16T07:49:04.081-08:00PINK 2012!We're back!<br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/g2AGM41h9ok" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" width="420"></iframe><br /><br /><a href="http://www.facebook.com/groups/217156795026552/">http://www.facebook.com/groups/217156795026552/</a>Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7482860027498745672.post-36065605235752114252011-12-26T05:36:00.001-08:002011-12-26T05:52:52.316-08:002 0 1 1<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O48zLDEogi8/Tvh4sRz-m4I/AAAAAAAAAUc/Cu0purPoRsE/s1600/tumblr_lvhuywnzuV1qlu0hn.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 219px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-O48zLDEogi8/Tvh4sRz-m4I/AAAAAAAAAUc/Cu0purPoRsE/s320/tumblr_lvhuywnzuV1qlu0hn.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5690430831273614210" border="0" /></a><br />Shall be known as the year in which everything we took for granted as infallible, the pillars upon which we had built our society and accessorized our sense of worth, the status symbols, our aspirations, the glint of gold in our wallet, all that, were shown to be as ludicrous as a single bowl of rice in famine-ravaged dustbowls.<br /><br />Shall be known as the year in which the new generations, whether you thought them shallow-minded or young, dumb and full of cum, vilified or venerated, got angry and took to the streets. The old power has never looked so flimsy and foolish. It shall be known as the new '68.<br /><br />Shall be known as the year I got married in England to my American partner, after seven years, but still in the Land of the Free our relationship is not recognised and we haven't rights.<br /><br />Shall be known as the year I almost died of pneumonia and in the fever dream I got writing again, and in those dreams my mom talks to me, after her death 17/08.Colin Ginkshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15381260308351166350noreply@blogger.com0