Archive for boys

The Return

Posted in music, socialization with tags , , , on July 24, 2008 by darcyarts

 This is me in San Francisco, 1979, after Frank and I had returned from our “honeymoon” period in Santa Barbara.

 I decided we should go back to S.F. after a monstrous thunderstorm caused a flood of rain water to pour through the central light fixture in our ceiling. Our cozy little room on the Pacific Coast Highway was flooded out.

The landlord said we could stay in another room down the hall. It had just been repainted and freshened up after the former tenant, an elderly male, died there of Cancer.

We stayed there a few nights but it wasn’t the sunny corner spot our room had been. I couldn’t handle it. Hey, I’m very sensitive to spiritual detritus.

Besides, I had grown restless and used the torrential downpour as an excuse to beat it. It seems I have always used psychic or physical disasters as a reason to change venues.

There is quite the spiritual patina in San Francisco. I can always feel layers and layers of lives lived in those old buildings. It was like I was constanly picking up on this low level hum. 

I asked Frank to pose in front of the poster of Jim Morrison we had in our room. You can tell he’s a little perturbed.

This time in San Francisco Frank and I joined a fresh communal living experience. We moved into an old Victorian home on Waller Street not far from Market Street. One of Frank’s best friends, Steven Durkee, lived there and had told Frank about the extra room while we were still in S.B.






Steven was smart, sweet, funny, brutally honest and possessed of an old soul.  We got along famously, probably because of our shared moon in Scorpio placement.

This is Steven’s boyfriend, David Brunson. He spent alot of his time in Mexico but had come up be with Steven for a spell. Here is Frank with our big-daddy host, John.

Frank has on his lovely faded gaberdine jacket. I think we found this in a thrift store in Santa Barbara, a great old shop on the west end of State Street. You’d never find one there now. I’m sure store front rent is far too expensive these days.

I’m not sure what John is writing but it looks like a big, hairy reminder of something like a cardinal rule.

I think you can see my bra hanging from the hook on the closet door behind John, scarves too, and a pair of black gloves. Hmmm. Maybe the cardinal rule was keep your closet door closed.

Our little corner of the house overlooked Waller Street.

 Our wordly goods were few. The better to quickly change venues. Money was scarce though I soon got a job as a file clerk in an insurance agency downtown.

The best part of that gig was getting there. I looked forward to the trip down Market Street each morning in a green bullet-shaped car. Out at Third Street and up to Grant to the Cafe Trieste and a very stimulating cafe latte.

“Ciao, Bella! Cafe latte?,” asked the lovely barista.

“Yes,” said I, double thrilled to be greeted so warmly and to have become a regular.

Sometimes the juke box would be blaring a sentimental Italian song about “Mama” even though it was 7:15 a.m. People sat at the mismatched tables, dressed casually. They were reading the newspaper or engaging in conversation, enjoy the atmosphere and the best coffee in town. It was as close as I’ve ever been to Europe.

The bad part was leaving by 7:45 to make my walk to Montgomery Street and the insurance agency. This was my first encounter with mind-numbing boredom. After a few months I realized people who do this kind of work for a living could resort to very bizarre fantasies and behavior just to cut the stagnant mind space. It was awful. Getting up early also meant I couldn’t hang out late with the boys or get into much trouble Monday through Friday.

It was Thanksgiving soon after our arrival.

Left to right, there is John’s young boyfriend, Mark. John at the head of the table. Kevin, Bruce and Steven’s shiny head of hair.

 John was a pretty good cook. We had the full feast including a big turkey. The dining room  was in the back of the house. We ate by candlelight.

Bruce, sitting in the chair in the kitchen, was a very bright boy. He had a degree in biology which he earned by the time he was 19. He was a provider of psychotropic substances like mushrooms and other herbal remedies. He rode a motorcycle and was into leather.

This is Rick, I think. I’m having trouble recalling, but he made very special brownies which he is showing off in this picture, also taken in the kitchen. The sign partially obscured by his head says “Baby Meat.”

There was a lot going on with this many people occupying two floors. It was a very nice house.  John lived in the upstairs room.

There was an odd little diner across Market Street that always made me feel as if I had stepped into a time warp. It looked like a place that could have been in Montana or Wyoming.

They had great breakfasts and cool little jukeboxes at each seat. One of the hipster wait-people managed to get really interesting music. I always liked hearing “Warm Leatherette” by the Normal. It just sounded so good and it was such a weird juxtaposition in that little wood-paneled hunter’s cafe. In San Francisco the hunters were just a different breed.


See the breaking glass
In the underpass
See the breaking glass
In the underpass

Warm leatherette

Hear the crushing steel
Feel the steering wheel
Hear the crushing steel
Feel the steering wheel

Warm leatherette

Warm leatherette

Warm leatherette
Melts on your burning flesh
You can see your reflection
In the luminescent dash

Warm leatherette

A tear of petrol
Is in your eye
The hand brake
Penetrates your thigh
Quick — Let’s make love
Before you die

On warm leatherette
Warm leatherette

Warm leatherette
Warm leatherette
Warm leatherette

Join the car crash set

 A view, shot in the early morning, from the bathroom window. Hot.


An Astrological Aside

Posted in Art, music, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , on July 15, 2008 by darcyarts

I have always had a strong attraction to Taurus men. I wasn’t able to define this phenomenon in the early days but as I continued to experience it’s power I realized it was undeniable.

Now that I know, I posit the theory that even back in grade school the sweet-tempered boys that attracted my attention were most likely Taurus boys.

It started early. It happened through film, photos as well as in person.

In cinema, I loved Gary Cooper and Jimmy Stewart.

In my elders’ pop music era I loved Perry Como, then Bobby Darin, then Roy Orbison’s beautiful voice.

In Cream, it was all about jack Bruce. Gee, what’s that I see just south of the right side horn of Jack’s SG ?

 In the Buffalo Springfield, it was Richie Furay.

 Here is Richie with his girl, Nancy. She wrecked my teenage dreams. Taurus men are loyal and he’s still with her. At the Springfield’s last concert I gave Richie a satin scarf from the thrift store. He kissed me on the cheek. I was in a daze for hours.


In Roxy Music, it was Brian Eno. Brilliant men are hot.

In Queens of the Stone Age it is Josh Homme, a true musician and great voice.

This is a photo by Nick Wilson.





 Here, I made him up in the style of Mel Odom.  I painted the eyes to look dreamy and the lips are accentuated in Odom’s style. 

It’s all about the eyes with Mel Odom.






Mel Odom is a very interesting illustrator. He has done a lot of very sexy images like this red-headed couple. He also makes beautiful collectible dolls with a super old school, Hollywood, gay aesthetic.


 I’d finally get my very own Taurus.

 Jack White with his hair combed back?

Naw, but Frank (Santa Barbara, 1979) was definitely all that and a big, big bag of chips. Nice shoulders, too.

Still is.



Here we are as New Wave hot bitches thinking about “Baby’s on Fire.”


On the pro Art front Hi-Fructose Vol VIII out this month has some really interesting things in it.

Getting to Words and Art

Posted in Art, dreams, music, nature, socialization, television with tags , , , , , , , , on July 10, 2008 by darcyarts

It’s 1969. I’m 16 and living on a commune.

One minute history lesson: A collective dream was shared for a very short period in the mid 60s. Then people decided to live what they thought might be a more creative and authentic existence. When political turmoil led to the murder of leaders who called for change and justice, the shock caused some to try to simplify life and get back to the country.

Nostalgia for the mud, Tom Wolfe called it in “Electric Koolaid Acid Test.”

If you have not read his poetic masterpiece of creative nonfiction, get thee to a bookstore!

There must have been hundreds of “farms” all over the country.

On “The Farm” down in the clean-dirt desert we lived very simply. Young men and women gatherd to throw off the rules with which their parents had saddled them. They adopted new, old ways — pooled resources, free love, herbal remedies, gardening, goat’s milk, fresh eggs, home-baked bread and the peppermint cleanse of Dr. Bronner’s liquid soap.

The commune dwellers on “The Farm” where I lived were bright and energetic. They possessed an adventurous, questioning spirit. They were all older than I and they had been to college.

Kathy from Ohio had grandparents who retired to the California desert so it was she who found this particular farm. She and her east coast college friends came west and tried to create an unfettered, free and loving environment.

Back in Orange County, I spent a childhood filling my head with romantic, glamourized visions received from Hollywood films of the 30s and 40s. 

Leaving behind the television and replacing that cultural input with other people and their cool records was very good experience.

I’d been a gifted child but my befuddled grandparents did not know what to make of it.  In our house we had cheap mass-market astrology texts and endless piles of movie magazines. The bookmobile came by each week. I borrowed books written in the 30’s by Helen Dore Boylston, a series about a woman who becomes a nurse.

In those formative years I learned everything from the media — TV, movies and radio– and from the lyrics of songwriters. I guess that explains a few things doesn’ t it?

I was a natural autodidact. I soaked up everything around me and went looking for more, more, more. What I learned in my one year of high school was that smart, creative nonconformists are ostrasized. It is a rude adolescent melting pot, not a place for the sensitive.

I left traditional school behind for the desert, travel and stimulating conversations with interesting people like these:

The young man beside the red van was called, Ed, Red Van.

On the Farm we had descriptive nicknames for people. This prevented confusion and helped everyone easily pinpoint someone being discussed. 

He was a Virgo and had the group’s most commendable work ethic. He organized the men into a work-for-trade unit and took them out into the community to mend fences, build and repair things. He organized the selling or trading of our homemade bread to “straight” people in the community. It was good PR.

There were always lots of visitors or new people joining the group. The descriptive nicknames came in handy and helped avoid conversations like this:

“Ed is going into town,”

“Who’s Ed?”

“Oh you know, that guy with the red van.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Flute John was from Massachusetts. He was an Aries. Young and still growing out of his adolescent clunkiness. He didn’t say much and didn’t stay with us long.






Jerry, in the red headband, actually lived in Aguanga, the nearest little town to Sage. He was identified by being linked with his sister Sue. 

SuenJerry, or Aguanga SuenJerry.

A very sweet and sensitive Cancerian soul, he was AWOL and hiding out.  He had been drafted and was determined to avoid being sent to Vietnam. He didn’t go to college.



Alice Marquez (the woman who resembled Paramahansa Yogananda) and Bill Lashbrook in the garden doing the American Gothic pose.

Alice, the Aquarius, was a uniter of all levels, types and classes of people. She was uber friendly, bright and accepting. So, she was just Alice and everyone knew her.

Bill was very shy and had the sweetest dog, a chocolate lab named Cocoa. He and the dog were the mellow squad.

Alice checked out everybody’s action and finally settled into a domestic partnership with Bill. They became, then, AliceandBill.

Alice called me masa harina. In Spanish it is corn flour, the dough that tortillas are made of and sounds like masarina when the vowels are run together.

Alice’s family owned a Mexican bakery in Santa Paula. I don’t know why she called me that but I assumed it was an affectionate nickname. It could have easily been a reference to my soft, bland, innocence. I would change.

Words were magic, charged with romance and a little mystery that enhanced our newbie self-identities.

At this point, I believe Leonard Cohen, was my English teacher.

On quiet days I would sit alone in the white farm house and listen to this record.











Taj Mahal taught me about Americana and roots music when I listened to this sublime recording: