Diez Anos con Jim Thomson (Chapter 3)
Chapter (3) Gay and Proud
My father is a good man. And that realization was not one I came to easily. But now I know that in his simple nature, there is much wisdom. He was and is consistently good. He never failed me, although I know I let him think he did. But in my father’s love of the higher One, I felt love, and placed it in a bowl that often tips and spills its goods. I am loved and I’m learning to love. I love my wife. By now, you’re beginning to think my title of this chapter is off, maybe you’re not.
Jim was a rock star, and he new it. He actually changed his name for a while to Jimmy Rock-n-roll. After the band heard nothing for months about their demo CDs scattered around Los Angeles, Jim still knew he was a rock star. He didn’t just say it, he lived it, and part of this effort I’ve undertaken has everything to do with my observation and hate for my own hypocrisies and doubt, and my admiration for a man like Jim, who was dedicated.
I’m going to fail you. What I said I would tell you I can’t. I’m not good enough. That’s how I doubt. Truth is, I’ll give you everything and then cast parts of me in your dreams. But this isn’t about me, yet it is—about us. I sometimes feel like all of me is caught in a net against the ceiling, stuffed in there with all my things and my crosses, and we’re all in there cramped, struggling and hovering.
Yes this is minimalism. Look closely.
One night, Jim was so dedicated to drinking before a concert that he passed out from twelve beers on a stack of Styrofoam panels, because the concert was set in a stucco company’s warehouse. A friend of some of the band members parked his vintage muscle car in the building, where the front bumper was inches from Jim’s sleeping head.
Jim was not disturbed, even as the driver revved the strong, low growling engine—a sound that pierced the ears. A little later, people and pre-party chatter filled the room. All at once, Bobby later recalled, Jim was on his feet. He walked with a hand near his groin and his eyes closed. He went strait to the driver’s door of that black muscle car. He pulled open the door and then fumbled with his zipper. Bobby mostly saved the car and pushed Jim outside to tinkle.
Jim was revived for the show and played an enthusiastic concert. But for the after-party, Jim didn’t last long. He went back to the bottle and it led him to sleep.
Bobby used a fat felt-tip permanent black marker to write on Jim’s shoulders and back, “Gay and Proud.” And an artist in the crowd drew a large phallus with gonads. Jim told me the ink stayed a week, and that his mother had revealed it to him the next morning as he was rummaging for food.
My father is a good man. And that realization was not one I came to easily. But now I know that in his simple nature, there is much wisdom. He was and is consistently good. He never failed me, although I know I let him think he did. But in my father’s love of the higher One, I felt love, and placed it in a bowl that often tips and spills its goods. I am loved and I’m learning to love. I love my wife. By now, you’re beginning to think my title of this chapter is off, maybe you’re not.
Jim was a rock star, and he new it. He actually changed his name for a while to Jimmy Rock-n-roll. After the band heard nothing for months about their demo CDs scattered around Los Angeles, Jim still knew he was a rock star. He didn’t just say it, he lived it, and part of this effort I’ve undertaken has everything to do with my observation and hate for my own hypocrisies and doubt, and my admiration for a man like Jim, who was dedicated.
I’m going to fail you. What I said I would tell you I can’t. I’m not good enough. That’s how I doubt. Truth is, I’ll give you everything and then cast parts of me in your dreams. But this isn’t about me, yet it is—about us. I sometimes feel like all of me is caught in a net against the ceiling, stuffed in there with all my things and my crosses, and we’re all in there cramped, struggling and hovering.
Yes this is minimalism. Look closely.
One night, Jim was so dedicated to drinking before a concert that he passed out from twelve beers on a stack of Styrofoam panels, because the concert was set in a stucco company’s warehouse. A friend of some of the band members parked his vintage muscle car in the building, where the front bumper was inches from Jim’s sleeping head.
Jim was not disturbed, even as the driver revved the strong, low growling engine—a sound that pierced the ears. A little later, people and pre-party chatter filled the room. All at once, Bobby later recalled, Jim was on his feet. He walked with a hand near his groin and his eyes closed. He went strait to the driver’s door of that black muscle car. He pulled open the door and then fumbled with his zipper. Bobby mostly saved the car and pushed Jim outside to tinkle.
Jim was revived for the show and played an enthusiastic concert. But for the after-party, Jim didn’t last long. He went back to the bottle and it led him to sleep.
Bobby used a fat felt-tip permanent black marker to write on Jim’s shoulders and back, “Gay and Proud.” And an artist in the crowd drew a large phallus with gonads. Jim told me the ink stayed a week, and that his mother had revealed it to him the next morning as he was rummaging for food.
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