A Heartfelt Tribute to a Dear Friend

CHRISTOPHER VATTUONE’S EULOGY
Given on 2/5/08

We are not here today to speak of what could have been, but to celebrate what was. For the past few years, Chris’ life was rather dark but the many years of bright, vivid life outshine those few years. I must confess it took some time for me to get back to that Chris. Like an archaeologist brushing off ancient dust to reveal something golden and brilliant, I dug into my past to unearth the magic that was Christopher Vattuone. Through photo albums and boxes of memorabilia in my basement, I pored over pictures, letters and a collection of odd things that represent a friendship spanning over 25 years. These pictures and things were never discarded for they, like Chris, were always valuable to me. Looking back on all of these memories, something inside me ignited like a stove being lit or a rose bush coming back to life after a long, cold winter. The vivid passion of Chris was alive in me again. Soon I was laughing among the tears as the memories flowed. I was young again and inside the wild and wacky world of Chris.

Chasing a skunk through Old Town to get sprayed on purpose, driving backwards through a McDonald’s drive through, wearing high heels to see the movie “High Heels”, making an annual pilgrimage to Karen Carpenter’s grave, never tiring of “The Poseidon Adventure”, calling Hollywood to try to audition for the remake of “The Poseidon Adventure”, watching the “Price is Right” everyday, being a contestant on the “Price is Right”, Helga Beasley, loving every horror film ever made (no matter how awful it was), loving every roller coaster ever made. If anyone of these statements doesn’t sound familiar, then you don’t know Christopher Vattuone.

Chris was a fireball of life and energy that swirled into my life back in 1981 in drama class at Point Loma High. Our friendship was cemented during “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum”. He was outlandish, funny, crazy and helped us all realize that we didn’t have to conform to some dry, restricted clique. He made the bizarre and the dramatic seem as normal as can be. We would spend hours making up stories, creating characters and acting out the parts, fleshing out our own strange world, laughing at it all.

Post high school, the friendship continued as Chris and I worked at the Village Hat Shop together, putting our creativity to work on a whole variety of hats that either flew out the door on peoples’ heads or sat around for months begging to be bought. Besides being a creative place, the hat shop was a place where we learned important work skills too. We both had our time as managers of the Horton Plaza store. After I left the hat shop for San Francisco, Chris took on the role of manager with a sense of professionalism and maturity. He had a retinue of regulars who loved him and he would always greet them warmly when they came in to buy a new hat or just say hello. When his time at the hat shop ended, he fulfilled a dream of becoming a flight attendant, taking on the job seriously and professionally. I never had that Northwest flight with Chris as flight attendant but I’m sure he did his best to make the skies oh so much friendlier.

Our lives grew in different directions but our friendship was always solid. Chris was one of those friends who you could see once a year and pick up where you left off. Like an old glove that slips with ease on the hand, we carried on as if we saw each other just yesterday. Wherever the winds took me, Chris was always sure to visit. Whether it was San Francisco, New York or as far away as Russia, Chris was one of the few friends to make the trek. The laughs, the stories would continue no matter where in the world we were and new ones added to the collection.

Chris was a man of great flair and passion and his enthusiasm for things was intoxicating. He created a buzz that quickly swept us off our feet. Sometimes that meant making a movie in the span of a few hours or having a spontaneous costume parade down Kettner Boulevard on a cold January night. Whatever or wherever it was, we were all along for the ride. I remember when he visited me in Russia he brought a book about the Carpenters. On a long train ride to Siberia, we discussed and debated the life and career of Karen Carpenter. Who else but with Chris could you spend a 28 hour train ride through Russia talking about the finer points of a dead celebrity? By the end of the trip I was as enthusiastic about her as Chris. When we got to my apartment in Ekaterinburg, we played Carpenters CDs over and over and over. I never knew I couldn’t get sick from their music (but I’m sure my neighbors felt differently).

In his short life, Chris touched and inspired us all in so many ways. Maybe that inspiration didn’t lead us to the dizzying heights of Hollywood celebrity or President of the United States, but it moved us to greatness on a day-to-day level. Chris’ bravado, self confidence and belief that he could do anything (no matter how ludicrous it sounded) were so infectious. He was our Don Quixote—fighting windmills that were dragons. If he said those windmills were dragons, we too believed and fought right along side him. Even today when I doubt my abilities or lose motivation, I think of Chris. He’s like coal for my locomotive, feeding the fire to keep the train moving fast. In a place like New York one needs a little Chris in them to bolster them against the sea of naysayers. We all need a bit of Chris in us.

Chris didn’t leave this earth donating millions to charities but he did leave a very rich man. The wealth of lifelong friends he has is a reflection of his generous spirit. He was kind and caring, showing honest love and concern for his friends. He saw the beauty in everyone he met and made them feel great about themselves. In the past few weeks of his life, the myriad of friends who dropped everything to come see him at his time of need was tremendous. A regular Who’s Who of people who brought flowers, held his hand, massaged his feet, cut his hair, sat with him, put lotion on his face, made a photo collage. It was the right thing to do for a friend who gave us all so much. Family was utmost important as well and his loyalty and devotion to his family was immense. Over the years we all got to know his parents, his brother and sister and their families. It was not hard to see the source of love that made Chris such a special person.

I wish I had a magic wand and could make this day go away. I wish I wasn’t standing up here reading this eulogy. I wish we all weren’t here in this church saying goodbye to someone so dear to us. I wish. But, unfortunately, we are. And someone as illustrious as Chris deserves to be celebrated with family and friends gathered around, tributes of flowers and speeches, tears shed. I don’t feel that Chris is gone. He is with me wherever I go. Like the sun he shines on, warming our hearts and souls. A memory may trip me up when I least expect it, bringing a smile to my face or a tear to my eye. Chris’ presence will be felt in my life for a very long time. His memory is a reminder to us all to never lose passion in life, always have enthusiasm and keep close family and friends. While his life may not have been long, it definitely was eventful.

I’d like to end my tribute to Chris with a poem by Langston Hughes:

I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There’s nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began—
I loved my friend.

And I still do. You were our star on earth Chris, now you’re a star in heaven.
I hope you have found peace and happiness wherever you may be. Ciao Bello. Caro mio. Farewell.

After the End-Epilogue

Sitting on an airplane, flying back to New York after the trip home to say goodbye to Christopher. Funerals and viewings make a lot of people uncomfortable but they are important rituals that need happen. It is the final celebration of a life, a celebration that every human being deserves. To be honored with dignity and warm words no matter how long or short, happy or sad a life. It is also a time for family and friends to write tributes to the departed and speak for no priest can capture the life of someone they did not know. That’s why I wrote what I wrote for my dear friend Chris.
I still don’t believe that he is gone. We all kept saying to each other, “OK, when am I going to wake up”, or “When is he going to get up out of that casket?” It would be just like Chris to pull off such a macabre stunt like this, appearing from the back of the church, walking down the aisle to see who his real friends are. But alas, his hands were cold, his body stiff as a board, his face a frozen, made up mask of peaceful rest. I made him a special photo button of the five of us: Carla, Chris, Eric, Tamara, and myself with the words “Friends 4 Ever” written on which I pinned to his lapel. As I pinned it on his lapel I did so with trepidation, waiting for him to open his eyes like a slumbering vampire to scare the shit out of me. While I wanted this happened, it didn’t, and instead I was comforted by the fact that his oldest and closest friends are with him, next to his heart that used to beat strongly and loved so much.
My years at PS 42 trained me for viewings (we went en masse to them when a colleague’s mother or relative died). Some of my friends were uncomfortable with the whole thing but I encouraged them to come see him, weird as it may seem. Wakes/viewings are important rituals, a chance to say goodbye, visit with friends and family and being in the presence of the departed one last time. The hard part was leaving at the end of the viewing for that’s the last time you can see them. Once the casket is closed, that’s it. We friends were the last to leave and as we were all trying to leave, tears galore, I decided we needed to do a groin pull for Chris. Groin pulls are a 4-step movement which ends with grabbing your crotch, something that Chris made up and we all did in our crazy youth. So all of us lined up in front of him and with a one-two-three-four, gave our dear friend a big chorus line groin pull one last time. The staff of the funeral home was a bit taken back but we didn’t care, we needed to do it. Believe me it helped elevate the sad mood and was closure for all of us.
The Catholic funeral mass with rosary to start was so un-Chris, yet so Chris. The chanting, candles, flowers, music, incense were a great dramatic touch, the grand finale to a dramatic life. The blah-blah-blah of the priest and the very dry eulogy to Chris, was the un-Chris part. I’m glad I got up to speak for my friend, for if I didn’t the whole affair would have been so grim and sad. He was about happiness, not sadness. My eulogy came from the heart, and captured the essence of Chris; his humor, craziness and generosity. Not to brag, but I had them laughing and crying at the end. It was a great eulogy for a great friend and lifted the mood of the church from sadness to wacky happiness—the way he would want it.
His coffin was a navy blue with a seagull motif. I guess they wanted to tie in the fact he was a flight attendant with something aerial. Inside the lid was a flock of seagulls and the words “Going Home”. I got into the seagulls and maybe I’ll be inspired to put them in my art as a tribute. As we said goodbye to him at the cemetery, a Northwest plane flew over as if in tribute to one of its former flight attendants. The cemetery entombment was short yet poignant. The last time we will be near Chris. Once we left, they put him in his tomb in the wall and there he will rest forever. At least we know where he is from now on.
I took three roses from his floral spray on his coffin. A reminder of what I just went through as I make my way home, back to New York, back to reality. I strapped them on to my messenger bag for a bit of flair, for all to see. The day before the funeral, Tamara, Jenna, Linda and I went for pedicures. A little glamour for our glamorous friend. I opted for the outlandish blue glitter toe nail polish in his honor. The nail technician (I believe that’s the term they use these days) was a bit surprised but I didn’t care. It was what I wanted and seemed as normal as can be. Just like Chris would do.
Tomorrow is the start of Chinese New Years. Now that this is all over and Chris has been laid to rest, it’s time to start the new year finally. I am full of new energy and optimism. I feel Chris’ enthusiasm in me and am ready for new challenges in this year. Maybe I’ll just have to go down to Chinatown tomorrow and ring in the new year with my PS 42 colleagues. To mark the end of something and the beginning of something new. Chris would like that.

Christopher Vattuone 10 August 1966- 30 January, 2008

I loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends,
Soft as it began--
I loved my friend
Langston Hughes

Hope there's someone who will take care of me...

A rubber ball hangs from the doorknob on my bathroom door. Whenever it gets moved, it bounces and flashes in bright colours, like a mini disco ball. Now it’s run out of spark and only beats a faint red when the door is moved. I look at it and think this little rubber ball is like my dear friend who has been moved to hospice, being made comfortable for his transition from this life. Once a bright, vivid flashing thing so full of energy and life and now a delicate murmur of light. Squeezing it, I envision holding his hand out there in San Diego telling him it’s OK, don’t be afraid of what’s next. That’s all I can do as I wait for THE phone call.
The phone rings early in the morning, is that the call? Is this it? No it’s that mysterious RESTRICTED number that keeps calling me. My head aches from the 3 Manhattans I had last night. Is it a hangover or guilt from drinking as Chris dies from alcohol poisoning? Who knows. Even the meows from the cats, hungry for their breakfast, seem shrill as if to say “Shame on you!” The pictures of us lay on the table, a lifetime of memories. So strange to think how all our destinies play out. Who got sober, who got married, who was supposed to die but lives, who was supposed to live but dies.
Antony and the Johnson’s song “Hope There’s Someone” is in my head so I pull it up on YouTube. It makes me think of Chris right now surrounded by people who love him, take care of him, make him safe at this lonely, scary time. I hope there’s this much love around me when my time comes. It’s OK Chris, there’s people waiting for you: Brian, Jennifer and a whole slew of relatives I’m sure.
Waiting is so stressful. But some things, like nature, can’t be rushed.

Finding Chris

My dear friend Chris lies in a hospital bed in San Diego. Yellow as mustard, on dialysis, in and out of consciousness, he slowly dies. His liver and kidneys are shot, but somehow he hangs on. Friends have been called and are flying in to sit vigil by his bed. I considered going out but I don’t want to see my dear friend in such a state. Let my memories of him be happy ones, the good times, not this. I spoke to him the other day in one of his coherent modes and told him what I needed to say to him. So I leave the slate with no regrets, nothing left to be said.
As I sit and wait for the final news of his passing, I reach back into my memory, past all the dark years to the fun times. Where did my Chris go? These past few days I pore over pictures and memorabilia to find the Chris I knew and loved. So many years of drinking, of his alcoholism dominating conversations among friends, worrying about when this day would arrive, would he ever go into recovery. It’s hard to know when the bright years ended but I sift through the memories of 20+ years to help me remember.
It all started with a play called “Time: A Mobius Loop” that we were in together back at Point Loma High in 1981. 27 years ago, not many people can date friendship back that long. Longer than some marriages these days. Then there was “A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Forum” which solidified our friendship. A whole gang was made from that show, a gang that now rallies around his death bed. Life lead us into different paths but that bond of friendship remained over the years. He was the bright part of coming to San Diego, organizing my social life while I was in town. We laughed, did crazy improv stuff, thought up ideas for movies, made movies, went dancing, held parades, did drag. Chris brought us all together and now he brings us together again, yet for other reasons.
Oh Chris, I’m heading down into my basement again to shuffle through the memories, to find you again, to remember you as you were and not as you have become.

January 5, 2008

One of those dead of winter mornings I love. Freezing cold, sunny skies, soft pastel shades and all quiet on the street and in the house. The quiet is disrupted by an idling ambulance outside, are they here for Gigi, my next door neighbor who had her leg amputated? No, I see C.C., my alcoholic neighbor stumble into the back. He’s a mess that one—yellow from jaundice, bruised all over like an overripe peach, but at least he’s able to walk into an ambulance and go to a place where he can be treated. Unlike my friend Chris in San Diego.
Chris has been battling alcohol for many years and now it has taken a toll on his body. Last November he lost his boyfriend, and drinking partner, to alcoholism. Poor Brian’s liver couldn’t handle any more and he died in Chris’ arms on the living room floor. Now Chris is recreating all of that except he has no one to hold him as he slowly puts himself to rest. He refuses all help, sends away the paramedics when his family or friends call 9-1-1, doesn’t answer the phone and lays in bed sleeping, too weak to get to the bathroom or answer the door. Friends and family stop in to check in on him and try to convince him to get help. I’m tempted to fly out but I know it will be pointless. I can’t do anything for him, he must take the first step if he wants to recover from this dreadful disease. A large part of me awaits the phone call from his sister to tell me he is dead, a smaller, more optimistic part waits to hear he’s finally decided to go to the hospital and detox himself.
Pockets of life tucked away in every corner of the globe. In any home one can find joy and grief. Sometimes the bright, happy outside of a house masks darker, sadder secrets inside. The soft winter sun rises here in Brooklyn, the backs of the houses outside my kitchen window appear through the bare branched tree in Pete’s yard. Cats snuggle next to the radiator in post-breakfast dreams. The yellow kitchen glows from the morning sun. Happiness abounds in this home. On the other coast a bright crème coloured house awaits to be warmed in the bright California sun. The big old poinsettia tree is ablaze in red splendour, the sky a clear blue. The beauty outside this small house hides the stench and misery of a life worn down by alcohol. Will that brightness be able to penetrate into the darkness, breathing fresh, healthy air into this pocket of misery? Readers will have to check in to see what happens next.

2008--Day 1

Woke up this morning to a sunny first day of a new year. A bit woozy in the head from all the revelry of the last night of the old year but nothing a quick jump in an ice cold pool won’t help. And a little coffee con leche and a ham and cheese croissant from the supermarket café—we are ready for 2008! New year, new ideas, new schemes and plans which will unfold as the months pass. Innovative ideas for my business and finding a boyfriend are the top two things on my list. Now that I’ve done a full year of my biz, it’s time to reflect and figure out where to go next with my blossoming t-shirt/design business. As for the boyfriend front, enough of the boring coffee dates or just sex rendezvous, I’m looking for someone who’s in for the long haul. So we’ll see how things come about this year.
Oh I forgot to tell you: Good Morning from Miami!! Postponed my Christmas trip to Florida until New Years and flew down yesterday morning to meet my friends Rick and Jon (from the Russia days) for a few days of fun in the sun. We are joined by Stefano, an Italian friend of Rick’s from Turkey and Doug and Thai, Jon’s friends from Vancouver. Quite an international mix here: two Brits, a Scot, a Phillipino, Italian and I the lone American. Spent all day on the beach sunning and swimming with all the non-Americans taking advantage of the weak dollar. Yes our dollar is so weak, even the Canadians are here! Got all gussied up for a New Years night on the town which began with a lovely Italian dinner at Cantina 27 followed by a walk down the boardwalk to Ocean Drive to watch the fireworks. We paused along the way to burn the envelope of things to leave behind in 2007. An old tradition I love to do. Everyone writes down what they want to leave behind in the old year, we stuff it in an envelope and burn it before midnight. Very cleansing experience and a great way to start off the new year. These European friends of mine had a lot to leave behind and we had quite a bonfire on the beach I must say. A fabulous fireworks display on the beach at midnight as we watched from the front of some gay bar on Ocean Drive with G&Ts in hand, a festive, mellow way to start 2008. The nice thing about the evening is that none of had that usual hysteria of being somewhere perfect at midnight, nothing was planned, not even the restaurant. The evening just unfolded. We wound up at Twist a big bar/disco where we pushed and shoved our way on and off the dance floors along with the other hundreds of gay guys and a smattering of drag queens. Good times had by all. I’m not usually into the bar scene much these days but it was fun to be hanging out at Twist with old friends.
Now Jon and I have planted ourselves by the pool, waiting to see when the rest of our crowd will drag themselves from their rooms. We all got in rather late so we don’t expect them very soon. Wouldn’t mind a big greasy lunch and them a swim in the ocean. For now though, blogging by the pool at the Art Deco Indian Creek Hotel is fine by me. A few days in paradise, then back to the cold, gray north to begin 2008. Happy New Year everyone!

It's A Wonderful Life, 2007

A sunny Christmas morning in Brooklyn. The house is quiet as is the block. All have flown or drove off to be with family or still slumbering in their beds dreaming of sugar plum fairies. I should be in Miami with friends right now but changed my plans. It’s OK, I need to be alone in the quiet with the cats snuggling at my feet in my own house today. After all the ups and downs of the last month leading up to this day, I’m happy just sitting in my kitchen drinking a cup of tea with the morning sun at my back.
The Underground Market is over for Maruska and I, we packed up on Sunday and got out of there. It wasn’t the big money maker for us that we expected but we went away with lessons learned and lots of new friends. The last few weeks were very frustrating for many of us for all the press and PR the market got didn’t generate many sales. Mainly I think because people fear a recession and are spending less this year on gifts. The housing debacle that is going on right now has scared people and thus they cut back on their spending. It has taken a toll on us designers and artists who are making a living at markets like this. Overall, many of us at the Underground made the money we expected to make which took a toll on our psyches as well as our pocketbooks. But we came to be a little family, supporting each other, laughing and crying together, uniting as a community. Tons of money was not made but good friends were made and that’s priceless.
So as I sit here in the quiet of my kitchen, shedding the noise and madness of the holiday shopping month, I think of all the new friends I got this Christmas season and that makes me happy. Maruska, Tommy Tee, Jen and PJ, Ryan, Monkey, Edgar and Zach, Jamie, Shy, Maya, Sarah and Mark, Chris, David the T-Shirt guy, Denitza and Elizaveta--the Bulgarian sisters, Teresa, Colin, Angela, Jonathan, Vinny, Phil and Roberta, and Chane. Thanks guys for a great time. Here’s to more good times and success in 2008!

The Burning Man Chronicles-Part 2

Ladies and Gentleman, today there will be no crashing planes into buildings. Yes, 6 years ago on a Tuesday in September that’s what was going on here in New York City. Explosions, buildings crumbling into dust, clouds of smoke and ash all over the place, absolute madness on a clear blue day. Well this Tuesday we have a somber, rainy, muggy day. I’m not one for reflecting on that day or wringing my hands in grief, life goes on, a bit changed, but it goes on.
Speaking of dust and explosions, let me go back to Burning Man before that is all a distant memory. The culmination of this arts festival/hippy love fest in the Nevada desert is the burning of a giant wooden man on Saturday night. The man himself was burned early this year by a disgruntled veteran burner who was upset with the way things were changing on the playa. But they rebuilt him in time for Saturday night’s torching. I was surprised at how small he was perched up there on his pyre of large logs. Still, when he went up in flames it was impressive. Not to be upstaged, the oil derrick of the “Crude Awakening” exhibit was torched as well Saturday night in a gigantic ball of fire, the largest explosion to date at Burning Man. After a fantastic fireworks display, this 100 ft or so wooden structure was immolated with four giant blow torches in a matter of moments. The throngs of people looking on howl and screamed with excitement, hooting and hollering across the dark Playa. It actually threw me back to that Tuesday 6 yrs ago when I watched the second plane crash through the south tower of the World Trade Center, the force of the explosion pushing heat against my face there on the Lower East Side. Impressive as it was, it was more disturbing than exciting for me. Guess for as much as life goes on, that day is still with me.
Another part of Burning Man are the giant dust storms that sweep across the ancient lakebed getting dirt everywhere and blocking out all the art exhibits across the Playa. You can see them creeping across the giant open space and you hurry to get your goggles and dust mask on. Winds whip up to 100 miles an hour and the fine dust gets everywhere imaginable. The wise advice is to hunker down in your tent or at the closest camp to provide you shelter until the storm finishes. Sure that’s the logical thing to do but many, yours truly among them, found it extremely fun and liberating to get out and run around during the dust storms. There were drumming circles that would drum away during dust storms so whenever we were enshrouded in a giant dust cloud, the drums could be heard all over Burning Rock City, calling the brave out to bang and dance around. If you’re not up for dealing with the dust and dirt, then Burning Man is not the place for you. One must embrace in order to survive. Of course, these dust storms wreak havoc on rental cars (and everything else). My mom and sister-in-law took care to hide the evidence of where I took the rental car by giving it a good washing before I returned it. Even back in New York at LaGuardia, you know who on your flight was at Burning Man for their bags are covered in the dust. Always a great conversation starter. Post-dust storm one day, we had a little rain show (which equals mud), after which there appeared in the sky a fantastic, full double rainbow. Of course this rare phenomenon sent all the burners screaming and yelling out onto the Playa to photograph it. It was an amazing surprise event for us all.
So now after more than a week since the big burn, we are all back in our little New York routines; Pete, Jackie, Marshal, and the rest. We all feel connected by this incredible adventure and recount stories from the week over meals and drinks. Some of already have plans afoot for one year from now returning to the Playa for more fun. Until that next time, we all bask in the after glow of the burn.

Tioga Toomey's Whoa Nellie Deli

Coming down I-395 South about 2 hrs from Reno, there’s a must stop place to eat. Driving along Mono Lake through the town of Lee Vining you’ll come to the 120 turnoff to go into Yosemite (the eastern side). Also known as the Tioga Pass, it is a busy route in the spring and summer as vacationers explore the High Sierras and take a drive into one of the most famous National Parks in the US. Right there on your left is the Tioga Gas Mart/Mobile. Believe it or not, inside you’ll have one of the best meals of your life served up with good humour at Tioga Toomey’s Whoa Nellie Deli. Now you could call this entry a plug for my baby brother’s restaurant and, in part it is, but if my brother Matt was just dishing out hot dogs and hamburgers, I probably wouldn’t put him on my blog. You want juicy pork chops with a berry glaze and a side of garlic mashed potatoes and spaghetti squash? How about some crunchy lobster taquitos with fresh tomatillo sauce? Or a meaty dose of venison encrusted with pepper and walnuts with a brown sauce to bring out all its gamey flavors? Well head down to Tioga Toomey’s Whoa Nellie Deli for some great food and drink for a reasonable price. Plus you get a great view of Mono Lake from the outdoor seating area. Some nights you’ll even get a band playing. So what are you waiting for? Get in the car and head out west! Sunset over the lake, a glass of wine and a sumptuous dinner served by a great guy and his staff and dress code is casual—who can beat that?? But don’t dawdle for they close up on October 28th, when the Tioga Pass closes for the winter. If you don’t make however, there’s always next year. They open for business in April when the snow melts, bears come out of hibernation and the pass reopens. If you do stop by, tell them Tom, Matt Toomey’s big brother, sent you.

The Burning Man Chronicles-Part 1

Coming to you live from Lee Vining, Ca! No I cannot say that I am coming to you live from Black Rock City, NV, home of Burning Man for I have already passed through that place. Yes I tried to come to you live from Burning Man but it didn’t happen. Burning Man is like Brigadoon, the winds and dust storms part for a week on an ancient lake bed in northern Nevada, an entire city of happy folk appear in all sorts of garb, doing all sorts of interesting things and then it disappears back into the blinding dust storms. One is caught up in all the exciting goings on around Black Rock City (BRC) that they lose all thought of the outside world. Cellphones don’t work, no Internet connection, no newspapers besides the dailies recanting events around town. Part of me wanted to blog while in the moment but I was more into being in the moment with my fellow BRC citizens and blogging could wait.
Burning Man, already an institution to many and I’m sure many people around the country as well as the world have heard of it (so I won’t go into huge details). An arts festival in the middle of the high desert in Nevada, an experiment in communal living, a giant dance party, a week long drug fest, a week long sex party—everyone interprets Burning Man in their own way. To my Christian brother it’s “that pagan thing in the desert”, to other outsiders it’s that festival where everyone goes around naked caked in body paint and mud, a site of untold hedonism. It is what you want it to be. But instead of labeling Burning Man, it’s better to go and experience it with your own eyes.
Burning Man is one of those things on my list of things to do before I die. I came to this event completely void of expectations (but with a tent, a sleeping bag, costumes and gallons of water), like a book with no words in it that would write itself as the week evolved. Everyday was a new experience as I got on a bike a rode off across the ancient lakebed to a different adventure, new people and good times.
I stayed at “Astor Place Reimagined”, Pete and Jackie’s uber deluxe NYC camp where Astor Place, that famous downtown communal spot, was rebuilt on the Playa at Burning Man. It was great to sit on the stoop with a cup of coffee and watch the sun rise, all sorts of BRC citizens cruising by on their bikes either going home from all night partying or starting their day, saying good morning to them all, some stopping to sit and chat, others to spray paint graffiti on the subway entrance.
Now some people at BRC feel that one needs to do massive amounts of drugs to properly experience Burning Man. I’m not of that ilk—not that there’s anything wrong with it, just my drug days are over and I don’t need to have a temporary altered state to enjoy something. Still, others do and that’s OK, for Burning Man means something different for everyone.
For me Burning Man was all about community and acceptance. It has that San Francisco groove (as I call it) that welcomes everyone in to be part of something special. It’s that same feeling that drew me to San Francisco in the first place. No pressures to fit into a mold, no judgements, just free to be you and me (and not hurt anyone in the process). Driving down to Matt’s house in Lee Vining, I passed many a burner in a dirt-caked automobile and even though we didn’t know each other, we are connected because of this event. I am now part of a larger community.
The highlights of BM were many. Probably the best memory I have of the week was a giant flying carpet driving around the Playa on Sunday morning, crowded with all night partiers who were swaying to the gentle Commodores tune “Easy Like Sunday Morning”. As we were busy taking down Astor Place, this giant carpet on wheels cruised by, everyone waving their arms and shouting “Good Morning” to us. Other highlights include the two semi trucks welded together, the Monkeys—a giant zoetrope run by bicycle and drum power, the Crude Awakening exhibit—five giant metal human forms worshipping to a giant oil derrick (which was exploded in a mass of huge flames on Saturday night), the art cars—a variety of creative modes of transportation which carried people all around the Playa: giant cats, fish, a Chinese junk, a huge boom box that blared music, a stage coach with moving horses and the Roller Boogie skating rink where I relearned to roller skate.
During the day the Playa had a feeling of vastness but when night fell, it was an illuminated fairground crowded with art cars, bicyclers, flame throwing machines and all sorts of activities. Like a giant carnival in a black sea, people whizzed about from one thing to another all night long. Some partied on the floating double decker boats that rolled around the Playa, some yelled and screamed at Thunderdome where people jumped around suspended from bungee lines wacking the shit out of each other with foam bats (very un Burning Man but fun all the same). There was Dance, Dance Immolation! Where you could dance to a tune jumping from one lit up not to another on a giant keyboard. If you missed, you get a shot from the flame thrower (of course you were dancing in a giant flame proof suit). The creativity was endless and inspirational as well. If I do this event again, I already have my art car imagined: a huge tea pot on wheels that will carry people about serving tea at various points along the playa. Back at camp we’ll hold tea dances, every day a new kind of dance. Maybe in a few years time. For now I relish in the afterglow of a fantastic week of community, new friends and inspiration.

Black Sea R&R

I’m a simple man. I don’t need much in life to make me happy. Give me a little pansiyon overlooking the sea in a small coastal town and I’m happy. After all the trials, tribulations and hard work at Kashka Suu, I deserved a few days to unwind at the sea.
Amasra is one of those tiny seaside towns that quadruples in size in the summer and goes dead in the winter. These kind of towns dot coastlines all over the world. This one in particular is heavy on the Turkish vacationers and light on the foreigners so I and the handful of Europeans here did turn heads about town. Amasra has a mixed up history being a Roman port, then Byzantine, then Ottoman and now modern Turkish. Remnants of former conquerors are everywhere from the ancient castle walls to the looming silhouette of Attaturk looking down from on high. But no one cares about those political things now, they come here to take the sun and swim in the inviting waters of the Black Sea.
The town is quaint and small enough that after one day of walking around, you start to see the same people over and over again. It’s one of the charms of a summer town. There was the girl on her bike who rode out to feed old bread to the birds at the end of the pier, an old man who took his morning swim by the ancient lighthouse tower, the young couple seen in the café overlooking the bay every afternoon. For awhile I felt I was reliving “Lady With A Lapdog” (Chekhov darlings!) that short story that I was tortured with way back in Russian literature class in college. It felt very much like an old world beach resort.
Drinking tea, eating figs, having a swim those were the high demands on my list since last Thursday. Life is great when you get off your merry-go-round for a few days isn’t it? Rick drove up from Ankara on Friday night for the weekend to continue our visit. Drinking Raki, eating fresh fish, driving down the coast to the beach at Chakriz, laying about under umbrellas until sunset—utter bliss. After three days of R&R, it was time to drive back to Ankara to catch my flight back to the US. Couldn’t leave Turkey without a steam and a scrub in the hamam. Had a glorious massage and scrub down this evening so I’m getting on my flight to Istanbul all squeaky clean and post-hamam glow. May this clean feeling last until I hit JFK who knows how many hours later. Late night flight to Istanbul, waiting 6 hrs in the airport, then on to Frankfurt and further on to JFK. Where has the summer gone? Have I been gone only 2 months? Seems like an eternity. Oh what awaits me at home? Bills, work search, household worries and so on. But there are good things too; my cats, the garden, the neighbors, friends, etc. It’s only a few days I’ll be there before I fly off again to Nevada for Burning Man. The adventures just never end do they?
PS: Anyone looking for a dynamic, self-starting, well organized person for some part time work? I’ll be looking for some kind of part-time work or consultancy gigs when I get back, starting in end Sept. Let me know dolls.

The Safranbolu news

Cockle-doddle-doo! Coming to you live from Safranbolu (home of saffron producing in Turkey). The rooster has been crowing in the barn outside my window for the last hour and at first it was quaint but now it’s a little annoying I must say. The clock tower is just ringing 8 am here in this idyllic, UNESCO-approved hamlet of well preserved Ottoman era houses. For those of you familiar with Rothenburg o.d. T, it’s the Turkish version. You can look it up on a map if you’d like. I’ll give you a hint, it’s near the capital of Turkey.
Anyway, this was my halfway stop point yesterday as I make my way up to the Black Sea coast. One of those “must see” places according to my friend Rick and a chance to stay in a fancy old Ottoman house with all the antique trappings of old world charm. Notice the way they splay the bath towels on the bed in a giant bow. Spent the afternoon walking around the narrow, curvy streets, having lunch at the old caravansary, photographing windows and doors (my hobby), and going from one hilltop to the other for views of Safranbolu. I’m happy to report that I didn’t buy let alone stop to gaze at any souvenir shops or purchase any Turkish delight. It all looked like junk made in China, not stuff made locally (well except for the towels and tablecloths). So liberating to just walk by all the tchotchkes and not feel compelled to buy (and I’m sure folks back home are breathing a sigh of relief). After an afternoon of checking out the town and soaking up the flavor, I headed back to the Selvili Koshk hotel for a rest before dinner. I was thinking of having a steam and a scrub in the old hamam and then a light dinner but before you know it I was passed out, dead to the world. As much as I tried to get up, I just couldn’t and slumbered away in my soft bed in my Ottoman room until that rooster woke me from my sleep. Now it’s time to head over to the new town and catch a bus to Amasra on the Black Sea coast.

The Herati Roll

It just so happens that Herat is home to many graves of famous Sufis. Some of these tombs are known for their mystical healing powers or places to get wishes granted. People come from all over to make their pleas and receive some inner satisfaction from worshiping at these shrines of hope.
The main one is the grave of Ansary, an ancient Muslim who is buried on the outskirts of town. Of course like any holy place, besides the pilgrims, there are the odd lot of beggars who harass you as you make your way to the holy site. On our way through the graveyard to Ansary’s grave, we were followed by a crowd of boys pretending to be dumb, deaf or just plain retarded. Khaled and Seluhaddin, my guides to this site, caught some of them at their own game by getting them to talk or act like the normal kids they are. I guess we all have to make a buck somehow.
My guides, and former students, decided to take me to a few other shrines around town. Along the way we picked another former student, Zubair. Zubair has gone through the most dramatic change of all the alumni from our program. He went to a goofy, funny young man to a serious, no frills, devout Muslim. As you can see he’s grown a full beard, let his hair go long and makes himself out to be some sort of Muslim cleric. I guess a year in the US has made him go the other way and reach deep into his faith.
Anyway, we headed to another outskirt of town to a small shrine of another great Sufi prophet. This site has mystical, unexplained powers. Here one lays on the ground at the foot of the grave, concentrates hard on a wish they want to come true, turn themselves once or twice and suddenly this unexplained force spins you fast along the ground either in a straight line to the back wall or at a curve to the side wall. Going straight back means the wish will come true, flipping to the side means no wish. In a way it’s sort of like being that triangular piece in the Magic 8 Ball that flops around in the purple fluid until it reveals the answer to your wish.
One by one we all tried this. Khaled and Seluhaddin went, both flopping toward the side wall. Zubair laid down, went deep into concentration and spun straight back toward the wall. His wish will come true. Then it was my turn. I borrowed a patou from a guy also eager in getting his wish and laid down. Like Zubair, I went deep in to meditation, focusing hard on my wish, after a minute I gently rolled myself over once, then twice then something began to spin me, pulling me along the ground at fast speed. My eyes were tightly shut as I spun uncontrollably along the earth. Which way was I headed? I let the ground take control of my body. Everything was pitch black and I stopped. I lay there for a moment face down, afraid to see where I landed. I felt as if I curved and went to the side wall. Part of me thought that being an infidel, my luck wouldn’t be good at a Muslim shrine. But when I lifted my headed to see where I was, lo and behold I was at the back wall, with Seluhaddin’s foot next to my body to stop me from crashing in to it. My wish will come true!! The great Sufi prophet likes me!! “What was your wish Mr. Tom?”, asked Seluhaddin. “I’m not telling you. If I do, it won’t come true.” And I’m not telling any of you readers either.
Afterwards we drove to yet another shrine by the ancient minarets of Herat. These 5 minarets (there used to be 11 originally) tower above the skyline at all sorts of angles. 4 of them look pretty solid but the 5th one is at such an angle I expected it to fall down as we drove past it. Fortunately, some took the forethought to strapping large ropes around it to keep it upright. At this other shrine, also a Sufi prophet, people grind up rice or dried chickpeas in a little bowl on his grave. They feed the powder to their children to make them smart and wise. Also you can make a ball out of mud and leave it on top of his grave. When it dries, whatever ailment you have will go away. I didn’t really believe this when my boys told me about it. On the way back to the car, I scratched my head on a low branch from the tree at the gravesite. Was this the great Sufi prophet’s trick or just a random act of being tall and not bending low enough? Only the Sufi knows…