Star Wire

What follows is an uncharacteristically wordy post.  It is not necessarily about art.
It has been a week since we learned of the too soon passing of our dear friend.  Much has been said about him and much has been shared regarding our feelings of loss and of joy and of laughter.

And that is good.
Rose is where he started and we are where we are.
We are still us.
We are different.
We are simultaneously diminished and reinforced.
And so, In the spirit of our group I would like to recognize another fellow without whom this salon would not be the same.  A man who in our presence routinely puts his heart on exhibit and has in a forthright fashion invited us to do likewise.
On a morning of utter dispair and heart broken confusion it was by his timely guidance and caring correspondence that I began to feel my blood flow and my breath return after such a trial of profoundly shocking sadness.
He laid bare that tragedy so that we might contemplate a path to healing.
He cares.
On any given evening his earnest effusions of angst and polemic are fiery and to the point; and on each Saturn’s Day his talent and wit are courageously put on display for all to enjoy and criticize.
He is thoughtful.
When I was invited to post here he said to me, “Here’s the keys, Kid.  Go fuckin’ nuts!”  Promptly, upon mine first post, he must have realized that I am an artfag and probably lamented what had become of this Fast-Forward Banglor Political Blogtank of Awesomeness.
At any rate, In a figleaf moment he commented, “Well, do a Georgia O’Keeffe post.”
As it happens, I don’t do requests.
Although, as fate would have it the artist fits in rather well this week in our further unwinding of Modernism in contemporary art and so…
Mr. Wiserpants, this Bud’s for you.
With many thanks and caring.
You are a good friend to us all and we are truly lucky to have you.

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Sunday Cake

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Birthday Wish – Don’t be a dick

Happy Birthday Aprilwine.

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So, yeah.  Not so great of a week.  I’d like to thank Wiserbud for yesterdays poat, and to encourage all the returning commenters to put H2 back on your daily reading list and comment a little more often.  Except for Doc.  Fuck that guy.

Nestled between Erica Campbell’s boobs and your mom jokes, Sean M. had a comment that struck me as worthy of highlighting and quoting, I hope he doesn’t mind:

Tush,

There is a line in a book that has helped to save my life which gives me comfort in times like these, where I can’t see the sense of a thing. It says, “…out of every season of grief or suffering, when the hand of God seemed heavy or even unjust, new lessons for living were learned, new resources of courage were uncovered, and that finally, inescapably, the conviction came that God does ‘move in a mysterious way His wonders to perform.’”

What that tells me is that everything happens for a reason, and though we may not be able to see that reason right now, maybe we’re supposed to learn something eventually. Or maybe we’re not supposed to have someone or something in our lives anymore because something needs to happen.

I know that this has given me the firm determination to be kinder to the people in my life and to tell them that I am always there for them. I know that this has led me to talk to people who are hurting or struggling, to tell them that it’s okay to reach out so that they don’t have to suffer alone. Maybe these are things that we all needed a reminder to do, or to do more often. I don’t know. But I do know that I want to take this horrible, awful, shitty fucking tragedy and try to see that something, however small, but something good comes out of it.

/$0.02

Thank you, Sean, for sharing.  I encourage everybody reading this to please take care of yourselves and know that:

THE HOSTAGES ARE HERE FOR YOU.

There are invisible hands reaching out to you.  I’m begging you, with tears in my eyes, don’t be a dick.  Use the power of this fully operational invisible friend machine.  I’ve seen Hostages race to the rescue with generosity that is astounding.  It may take some humility on your part.  I get that.  But if we don’t know, we can’t help.

 

Big Boob Friday – Ummmm….. Yeah… Soooo….

Hello to friends both old and new and welcome to the today’s edition of Big Boob Friday.

Well, it’s been a difficult week for us here at the ol’ H2. A time of great sadness has befallen us as we have lost a beloved friend and an original Hostage this past weekend. A person for whom the word “original” is wholly inadequate.

Lance (Rosetta) was a man of great heart, great humor and great passion. One could not help but be amazed by his incredible zest for life and laughter. Upon meeting him, you instantly became his friend, and not in the shallow, meaningless bullshit-cocktail-party sort of way. He honestly took you into his heart and actually cared about you from that moment forward.

We have all shared many stories and remembrances these past few days. It many ways, it has helped to ease our pain. The fun and the laughter… that is who Lance was and will always be to me, as I sure he will be to many, many others.

It almost feels like an insult to his memory to be sad. But someday, hopefully soon, the sadness will subside and we will all be together and raise a toast to our friend with a smile.

But I did not come to this post to mourn Lance. No, I came here to praise Rosetta.  And of course, to make fun of him.

I think that is what he would have wanted.

So mix yourself up a caipirinha, sit back and enjoy

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“A fellow of infinite jest”

Let the music do the talking.

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RIP Rosetta, The Hardest Working Man on the Tittyweb Jenkins

floyd greene

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Our Friend Rosetta

Rest in Peace, Rosetta

~thank you for the gifts of your humor, your love, your hugs, and

your wonderful being you~

June 17, 1769 – April 9, 2016

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The following is a post originally published on October 26, 2011. It was a brilliant concept where we all wrote eulogies about each other but got to read them before we were were gone. Below was the eulogy written by BlackIsWhite on Our Friend Rosetta:

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Allen Klein said “Humor does not diminish the pain—it makes the space around it get bigger.”

Allen must have known our friend Rosetta, who was taken from us at far too young an age by the first known transmission of plant-to-human potato blight.

From an early age, Rosetta knew the kind of emotional pain that many are fortunate not to experience until later in life.  When he was 7, his parents allowed him to be kidnapped by cast members of “Up With People” when the show passed through his home town, or so he thought.  As it turned out, they actually sold him to the producer of the travelling production, although he did not find this out until later in life when he had a chance meeting with his brother in a latex fetish store that he had wandered into seeking a neon pink hosenphucker suit.  He was soon reunited with his parents, who were impressed that his fetishes had exceeded even their own in terms of their weirdness.

Those early years in the theatre made an impression on our young friend, as did the straps and leather ties used on him by his “uncles and aunts” as soon as he was old enough to drive the touring company bus.  While he never liked to talk much about those formative years, they did nothing to reduce the sensitivity of young Rosetta, whose overriding love of show tunes (especially the score from “Paint Your Wagon“) was only surpassed by his fascination with latex clothing and the myriad of colors and styles that were introduced at the annual Latex Fashions Show in Berlin.

When Rosetta left the travelling theatre company to put down roots and attend community college, he soon realized that his upbringing was anything but average.  He excelled at his studies, having trained himself five years earlier to get by on only an hour of sleep a night.  While his perspective was not often appreciated by the more serious peoplesurrounding him, others quickly came to realize that he was a funny mofo, and he quickly drew a following that was willing to overlook his personality quirks and Howard Keel-esque voice belting out famous show tunes through the dorm hallways after the local bars had closed.  Not a few of his fellow students also came to resent his easy wit and ability to charm the pants off of their girlfriends…literally.

By his senior year in college, Rosetta believed he had no skills to speak of and thought his prospects to be dim.  Over a pitcher of caiphurnias, a friend convinced him that while no one would ever be looking to him for the next great mathematical equation, the grand unified theory of physics, or the next great novel that high school students around the country would someday be forced to read, it didn’t matter, because he was a funny mofo, and if he used it to his advantage, he could be richer than all those other guys.  Realizing that the charm he used to talk comely co-eds out of their frilly panties and bras was the same charm that could sell Eskimosice futures and politicians shares in wind farms,  he went into financial services, and never looked back, proving George Herbert‘s apt observation, “In conversation, humor is worth more than wit, and easiness more than knowledge.”

Although he managed to turn laughter into conquests, he eventually met a beautiful woman who left him hopelessly smitten.  He tempered hischarm with heartfelt sincerity, and she was impressed beyond any words other than “I do.”  However, he never stopped appreciating the variations on beauty that surrounded him, and never lost the appreciation for a great set of overstuffed boobs that was taught to him by the jaded old queers in the travelling theatre company.  When he saw his first picture of Kerry Marie, devouring an all-you-can eat Chinese Buffet, by herself, he began a lifelong infatuation, marked by photos of the buxom lass in numerous cheeseburger and pizza stalking positions, leaving him the exquisite torment of a fixation that could never be requited, but could at least be calmed by an annual subscription to her website, a CD with a copy ofQueen’s Fat Bottomed Girls on a continuous loop, and the ability to add her in a BBF post every few months, so he could read Wiserbudcomplaining about how much fatter she was in the newest post than in the last BBF post he included her in.

Rosetta drew many people, regulars and lurkers, to the Hostages, mostly because he could make anything into a joke.  People stayed because Rosetta’s jokes and gags helped so many to cope with personal tragedies and setbacks, as well as a world that brought fresh news daily about how it chose in large and small ways to abandon reason, and make the absurd the new normal.  Another friend of mine once remarked that it is a very angsty place.  But it was also a place he helped to make a home. Whether he was blaming Mare, or explaining how he had decided to declare himself a racist because a teacher had decided to be a douchebag to a politically aware young lady who had the temerity to wear a t-shirt that offended thepolitically correct teacher’s sensibilities, he was finding ways to tailor humor into a universal language that made you laugh and made you cheer as he poked the finger into the eyes of those who wanted to suck the joy out of life for others around them.  This bald, grinning man displayed one of the kindest souls I have ever encountered, and understood better than most the power of the tongue.

He never used it to build up, but he also never used it to tear down, which is a remarkable thing.  He was a rare man.  One who understood this great power, and could have used it himself to great effect, but chose instead to use it to help people to forget, or at least take refuge, if only for a few moments, from those things which they could not forget.  I believe that this was because he knew all too well about the sorrows that life could inflict upon the human condition, and generously gave of himself that which he wanted most for himself…to feel the stings of life neutralizedby the healing joy of laughter.  This is why he could touch so many people in ways that left them wanting more, instead of wanting to press charges.

When I read the account of the birth of his and his wife’s son Max, I cried.

In a profession that necessarily robs you of your humanity, just so you can keep other people’s secrets, and bring order to the dysfunction of their lives, I never thought that I would be able to be moved by someone’s story that way.  But that was our friend and brother’s greatest gift.  To remind us that our experiences shape our souls, but our character defines who we are, and I fear that I could never face the same thing in my life without letting the pain twist my soul and saturate it with a bitterness that would contaminate everything about me.  I think of the things that so many of us carry around, and I think this is a confirmation of the old bromide that “God never gives us more than we can handle.”  Rosetta had so much love to share with children that the loss of one couldn’t change who he was; there was so much love that flowed out of him like a river that it couldn’t change him.  And when his son Henry was born, we saw the light that Rosetta carried around shined even brighter.

Even if I could, I wouldn’t ask God to bring our friend back to us; Max waited patiently for his time with Daddy, and even someone as jaded as myself isn’t that selfish or cruel.  My request is for the next best thing:

That God never lets his words lose their power to touch us.

Those words, with our memories, are the legacy that he left for us.  And if we cannot enjoy his company any longer, then those words, and the laugher they draw out of us should be sufficient to take some of the stingout of the tears that we shed today at the loss of our friend, who understood what Sir Francis Bacon knew when he said “Imagination was given to man to compensate for what he is not; a sense of humor to console him for what he is.”

“Goodbye” is uttered too often by grieving people at their loved ones’ funerals.  Rosetta and I shared the belief that shuffling off the moral coilis only the beginning.  Therefore I will only say “Expect us when you see us, man, man-lesbian.  Until then, keep the indians cold, and give Max a kiss for us.”

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Hugs for all

XOXOXO

Structure Wire

Robert Gwathmey

b. 1903 near Richmond, VA   d. 1988

Region capture 49

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