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July 17th, Two Thousand Three: Whoohoo! I have an intern. And she's fun and I like her a lot,
even though we have the same name, making her the second Heather
in my work right now, which is getting a bit confusing. And I'm
going to need to learn how to delegate when she's here to help.
Last night, the best I could think of was to ask her if she'd
mind fetching me a beer, while I was shooting some rehearsal shots
for Dykes Do Drag. It seemed lame, but it was one foot in to trying
to learn to ask for help, and I really did need that beer. Must
never, ever, never take horrible advantage of interns and treat
them like Annie Leibovitz apparently does (have I ever told that
story here?).
And, whoohoo! The Dykes Do Drag show this weekend is going to totally rock. I feel all chuffed
and puffy to have gotten a preview during the rehearsal (was there
for more work on the piece I'm doing on them, which is turning
into rather a big project, but that's all good, they're a great
group of folks who are fabulous performers with fun brains and
they ain't hard on the eyes, neither, lemme tell you). So lookie,
if you're local, you really need to go. I understand that on Saturday,
when I'm going this weekend, there are still tickets available,
which is a real rarity this late in the game. I'm not going to
give anything away, but last night not only did I laugh to the
point that I think I sprained my cheeks, I also got weak in the
knees, quite direly, during more than one act. Hot, hot. And funny.
What more do you need, really? So, locals, you're an idiot if
you skip this show, especially this time round. Call the Bryant-Lake
Bowl for tix. Just do it.
And whoohoo again! My landlord is a peach. Poor dude came by the
other morning, and forgetting that I worked at home, went to stroll
right in to have windows measured, and we had a rather embarrassing
run-in, as it was early, and given I work at home, I was here
in some flimsy nightie with my hair in all directions. He apologized
profusely, and we talked a little about my work, as we've never
gotten much chance to gab. He came by again later that night to
talk more about it, this time while I had my face covered in a
clay mark. Poor guy. But, after a good face-washing, we talked
more about what I do, he was super-supportive and enthusiastic,
and has offered my some barter work at the building to help keep
me solvent. So, so nice.
Not so whoohoo: the Scarleteen boards have been awful this summer.
They tend to be an experiment in barely controlled chaos most
summers, but this one has been a real doozy. We have had SO many
stupid girls (I can say that, because they all state they know
better and that they're being stupid) having intercourse with
zero protection, freaking out after the fact with pregnancy scares
(they never seem to freak out about STI risks, which is crazy,
since they're more likely to nab an STI than become pregnant,
but they refuse to recognize this). We've had a pile of date rapes,
party rapes reported. Even one is too many, but a handful in a
couple weeks is WAY too many. Today -- though certainly not an
emergency, just something pathetic -- in the GLBT section, some
young girl identifying as lesbian went on a totally hetero-leaky
riff about how she wants her girlfriends to shave their pubic
hair. That one was just sad. Queer kids certainly have some things
which are rough as hell to deal with, but the queer girls generally
get spared to a great degree from the mainstream, hetero body-negativity
the straight girls are infused with. Sad to see it start to seep
into dyke culture as well, for as much as high-school dykedom
is dyke culture.
But with the other stuff, you know, it's just bad-sad. The truth
of the matter is that most of these teens have nothing to do.
Nothing. And they're at an age where they're restless, they're
feeling the pull for rites-of-passage, to be more independent,
and when their parents don't help them in that in terms of helping
them find things like jobs of volunteers jobs, cool summer projects
and opportunities, all they're really left with that they seem
to feel might provide that is sex. (Thanks to the message, by
the way, mainstream culture and the abstinence-folks send that
intercourse is the most super-duper-special thing in the whole
wide world, that's what they go for above all else, because, you
know, it's supposed to be special. A collective primal scream
can be inserted here.) For the most part, it's not even like most
of these folks are that interested in the sex they're having based
on what they're saying; rather, they revert to that because there
is nothing else to do that feels developmental and grown-up.
I don't know what parents of teens aren't getting here. Maybe
they're just taking advantage of the fact that their kids are
past the age where they have to do summer camps and the like to
keep them supervised, maybe they think they're doing the kids
a favor by giving them a whole summer full of free time, but from
what I can tell, no one is benefiting from that "favor." Teens
may not need direct supervision anymore, but as they're way more
capable than when they were 8, they need encouragement and direction
to use that time off to really do things that empower them, that
really give them actual autonomy, that inspire them (and hey,
if they're going to pick partners to be with, that put them around
people who they have important things in common with besides interlocking
parts). And without being a total wanker, I need to tell you that
intercourse with teenage boys isn't it. They're not finding intimacy,
and in the two minutes the whole works takes, especially since
most of them aren't confident enough to speak up and say that
they need more than a two-second poke, they're not even getting
off, which ain't much, but hell, at least that'd offer them something.
For most of them, the partners they're with aren't even folks
they have THAT much interest in: it's who is available and interested
in their schools and small communities. Sad. It's fucking sad.
For the most part, your average high school isn't something physically
or intellectually draining they need a big vacation from so they
can rest up, go back next year, and be barely challenged for another
9 months while they bide their time. What they need, IMO, is something
much more stimulating, compelling, exciting and challenging than
school. It seems to be what they want, too; really, they're asking
for it, but no one appears to be hearing them (and we've even
had some who asked outright for opportunities have parents tell
them they "couldn't handle" a job or volunteer work, perhaps not
realizing that they're then more likely to be learning to handle
Herpes, instead). Dealing with an abortion or pregnancy (often
alone, or in a Montague and Capulet dramatic scenario with someone
who before tragedy struck, they had no real bond to or that great
an interest in save to act as a balm for their insecurity), with
a month of being dragged through the rape-reporting system, with
worrying for three months that their thighs are too big or fuzzy
to be properly displayed on the beach for mating rituals, isn't
it. They don't need rest. They can rest up from a busy summer
full of things that inspire and challenge them that actually do
give them more freedom, more autonomy, and add positive things
to their lives during study hall in September. Preferably without
chlamydia. |
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Subj: what?
Date: 7/14/2003 10:24:21 PM Eastern Standard Time
From: joey salami <joeysalami@yahoo.com>
To: hcorinna@aol.com
I would not pay you two pence to model! Ugh. Get a job like everyone
else!
July 15th, Two Thousand Three: What the fuck? Mind you, with some regularity, I get email from
some asshole or another who just wants to be nasty or mean or
thinks that tossing some rude comment at me is good entertainment.
Did I ask Mr. Salami to pay me to model? I can only assume that
this was in response to this, or that this man has Tourette's or another impulse control disorder
of some kind, but I'm guessing the former. I've found that anytime
I talk about wanting to get paid for my work (or hell, even open
my mouth and speak in complete sentences where someone sure I
can't because I'm a naked girl sees it), it tends to be a catalyst
for this brand of bullshit arriving at my doorstep. Pity I only
remember that after the fact.
I know I should have a thicker skin, I do. But it burns my freaking
biscuits when I hear people get angry because a female artist
and/or sex worker and/or model has suggested (gasp!) they get
paid for their work. I don't tend to respond to emails like this,
I just close them and move on, but they do tend to color the hours
after I've read them with a rather unseemly shade of acrid yellow.
Sometimes, I have to let it out and repaint.
Get a job? Because you know, working about double the hours most
folks with desk jobs do and getting paid usually less than at
least half as much, I'm just over here eating fucking bonbons
and watching soap operas all damn day, waiting for my ship to
come in. Because managing four different sites (one of which is not-for-profit and beyond philanthropic) that serve over 15,000
users a day is a cakewalk, especially when you started them not
only before most folks were unto the web, but in genres that didn't
exist on the web until you did (and lemme tell you how many people
who gleefully, and far more easily, hitched a ride on that car
don't give me shit for credit or thanks for clearing that path).
Because being an editor, writer, sex educator, counselor, model
and photographer (often at the same time) and working to turn
established genres and models upside down on their heads is bullshit
fluff that just anybody could do, and which I should give away
for free to any passerby because it's so mindless and meaningless. Because it's SO much easier to do this
sort of work as a lower-class, queer, feminist woman over 30.
Because for doing all that I do, I don't deserve any sort of compensation
whatsoever, because all I must be doing is sitting on my perky and exfoliated ass, looking pretty.
I have a fucking job, and a craft, asshole, and I likely work
harder at it in a day than you work at your job in a week or a
month, and have sacrificed more for it than you'll ever be asked
to for any job of yours.
Let's pretend, for a moment -- shall we? -- that all that I do
is "just" take pictures. You know and I know that that is just
one aspect of the work that I do, but it's clearly the one that
got this good ol' boy's limited attention span and wouldn't let
it go (or he didn't want it to, because otherwise, I'd be more
than a pretty face or a nice ass, and we couldn't have that, could
we?).
For all the Salamis out there (no, I didn't make that name up,
and yes, if it wasn't chosen intentionally by the bearer to offend
someone put off by all varieties of salami at the moment, then
it's one hell of a coincidence), let me deconstruct a photo shoot I do for
you.
It's at least a two-day process. Before I shoot, I need to spend
some time with concept work. Depending on the shoot, that may
be as simple as thinking of colors, props and a set (often things
I have to purchase which cost dolares), or as complex as sitting in a pile of books digging into the
finer points of myth and fable, finding a location, getting new
equipment, the works. The day before or of, I need to clean and
prep my set or location (having studio space in-house also, amazingly,
costs money). The day of, I have to start early. Like an actor
(who I rarely hear anyone begrudge getting paid), I do things
to get into character and mood. I have to clean up, do hair and
makeup, set up lighting, ready my equipment. During the shoot,
which can take anywhere for an hour or two to a whole day, I need
to keep up that visual mood or look, hold poses, and jet back
and forth between modeling and being the photographer (both skills
I've had to learn and hone over years). While modeling, I need
to look unaware of the camera, while also being the photographer,
I have to be acutely aware of it at all times. Unless I luck out
and get a commercial gig where I only need one or two shots like
most photographers, I have to instead produce at least 20 excellent
shots every time I shoot, and that usually means taking a good
100-200 to work from. I then have to go through all of those shots
and pick out what I'm working with. Then, I have to edit them,
correct color or lighting or dust or composition, size them properly,
code them into the gallery pages, make a contact sheet, make thumbnails,
make the accompanying promo text and graphics and load it all
up (and pay for the server space and badwidth to do that -- again
with the dolares, see). Mind you, before any of that work, I also
have to keep up my health, body and flexibility, with stupid femme
grooming crap I wouldn't be bothered with otherwise, keep all
my equipment working and up-to-date, the works. And for all of
that, and all I've done before, the consumer who wants to view
those images (not pay me to model, mind you), ends up paying me
less than 2 cents (gee, or is that pence?) a photograph, at a
maxium, since that pay isn't JUST for the photo work I do, which
is only about 30% of my weekly work overall, but for the whole
of it.
Far less than a good many office workers, perhaps even Joey, get
paid to kill time and surf sites like mine on the company dime,
mind you.
(It stands to mention that men and women who do sexual photo work
in less creative, feminist, or solo environments, even those who
"just" model, also have additional risks and expenses I don't,
like the risk of STDs and STIs daily they need to keep in with,
constant testing, travel expenses, and extra upkeep on their bodies
to keep them marketable to a straight male mainstream porn audience
or producer.)
Now, why might my suggesting or discussing the fact that I expect
to be compensated for my work anger someone like Joey so much
that he cannot help himself from sending me this mishegoss? Would
he still suggest I shouldn't be paid if a blow job or a lap dance
came with my tits? Would he still suggest I shouldn't be paid
if I wasn't the model and photographer, but only the (often male)
photographer taking the photographs, or the webmaster coding or
administrating the sites he looks at? Would he still suggest I
shouldn't be paid if his shrunken head could accept that HE is
the one who makes me or what I do a simple object for display,
and not a person and process of substantial efforts, hard and
lengthy work, study, education and mutidimensionality? If he didn't
WANT what I do to seem so ungodly simple and pithy that when I
start walking and talking and thinking like a whole person it
didn't bust the bubble that I'm a stupid, brainless cum-receptacle
and ruin the whole thing for him?
Now, while I don't like to be on the receiving end of blind anger
like Mr. Salamis, I confess, I'm chuffed as hell I make him angry,
because someone like our pal Joey is -- breaking my promises,
I know -- an ungrateful rat bastard, and a misogynist, pissant
fuckwad, to boot. (Umm, it's Official Toss Right Speech Out The Window Day, in case you missed the memo.) Making the Salami's of the world
angry means I'm likely doing something right in my work because
I'm making them have to look at things they don't want to, like
the fact that sex has living, breathing people in it, and that
women in various forms of sex work and erotic art are actual sodding
people, not glossy two-dimensional paper towels or collectors'
items with staples in their bellies.
But I'd really rather that dudes like Joey either flicked the
switch and got it, or just went the fuck away (not too surprisingly, since I
stopped dating men, a lot of them have gone away, or, alternately,
are now TRULY pissed and none too shy about expressing it). That
he could have that suspension of disbelief for however long he
had it -- enough time to get angry with me in -- says to me that
it's possible that the subtlety of some of my work in terms of
it being different, being feminist, being queer, being radical,
is a spot too subtle. That's okay: it's a long process I went into planning
to take the time to go through it and it's all about feeling it
out, and it means I still have more work I need to do, new places
to go. But it also means I have to put up with the Mr. Salami's
in the audience and the crap they feel compelled to throw in my
direction until I get there, and I don't relish that at all. Of
course, if and when I do get there, the crap hurled at me by that
ilk may get even worse.
Part of me has always wanted to make changes in the way that men
like this (and women, too) think about sex, about women, about
sexual women. Not just for me or for culture-at-large, but for
them and their benefit. But on days like this, when I get emails
like this? I could care less about their benefit. I tend to sit,
instead, seething before my monitor before I yell out a similarly
impulse-uncontrolled "Fuck you!" quite loudly. And that ain't
pithy or without a LOT of my own anger behind it, because histrionic
as it perhaps may sound in response to a one-line email (really
it's in response to the parade of emails like this I've gotten
over time, not just this one), attitudes like this are the seeds
and the symptoms of sexism, of sexual violence and disrespect
and shame, of a world whose creative spark and fervor has done
near gone out, of things I've been truly terrorized and scarred
by in some of my life. And I'm pissed as fuck that it isn't up
to the people who feed all of that crap to fix it, but to me,
to the rest of us who do anything but contribute to it. I want
the Joey Salamis to have to fix it, dammit.
Hell, they could probably do that on the company dime, too. But it'd cost a lot more than two pence.
And they might have to take their hands -- and their heads --
off the fricking salami for a minute. |
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July 14th, Two Thousand Three, Addendum: I appear to be ill. Which at least explains why I was stupid
enough to almost behead myself in my own home this morning.
And it partially explains why the whole sodding day got away from
me without my being able to do half the things I was trying to.
Allow me to say this: I was recently in the company of someone who apparently had mono.
I don't see any way I could have gotten it from her whatsoever
(if she's reading: no guilt today for you, missy). If by some
miracle -- the artist formerly known as My Dumb Luck -- I managed
to get mononucelosis not only during a total bleeding farkuckt
dry spell in my sex life (Me, frustrated? Naaaah), but while I was running Scarleteen, no less, I may die from
the irony alone.
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July 14th, Two Thousand Three: I think I need an intern. An in-person one. Or a patron saint.
Or more coffee.
I keep hitting walls lately where my usual intense drive and motivation
to workworkwork gets totally stifled by my feeling so completely
overwhelmed by everything I have to do. The minutiae that I need
to keep charge of so I can do everything else keeps piling and
piling to the point that I find it hard to concentrate on the
bigger things I need to. That's not good.
It's dark and stormy today, and there are sirens and car alarms
every few minutes, likely due to the high winds. It's ominous
and tired outside. In a few, I'm going to have to brave the wet,
run out and grab smokes and coffee, and run back to spend the
day housecleaning, dealing with the piles and stacks that keep
getting in my way to hopefully feel a bit more managed, then try
and do some grunt work this evening. I confess that I woke up
this morning at the very-late-for-me-hour of 9 (I seem to be needing
a lot more sleep than usual lately). After hurting myself three
times in the span of an hour -- that'd be a hot water burn on
my hand, a final stub to the toenail I cracked in blood-gushing
half already kickboxing Saturday, and dropping a hammer on my
arm that was atop a ladder because some idiot bearing my name
left it there -- and feeling more than a little under the weather,
I gave up, curled up on the couch and finished reading Harry Potter for most of the morning. I should add that while using the ladder
to change three bulbs that had gone dim in my living room, I realized,
seconds before it would have been Truly Horrible, that turning
off the ceiling fan whirring madly a half inch above my head might
be a good idea.
I'm not at my best today, to say the least.
It was a good weekend, though. Got a tough boxing session in Saturday
morning, despite the toenail debacle and the imprint of his foot
my trainer left rather forcefully on my forearm. Spent both Saturday
and Sunday on the beach at Lake Harriet with Becca and Lise, respectively,
and the weather was plum for chilling, lazing about and swimming.
Later Saturday night, had a brief but enjoyable second date with
R., who was unfortunately still ill from the week before, poor
girl, but didn't want to cancel entirely, bless her. She even
brought me a surprise bag of perfect little gifts, which was sweet
as sugar. It's been a little while since I felt wooed. It's nice.
I'm packed to the gills this week. I have two days and one night
of shooting for a project I need to both do and arrange with likely
about 20 people. Ouch. I need to fit a shoot in myself if I can.
I need to ready an SL update. I have articles for Scarleteen I
need to code. I have back tax paperwork I need to start dealing
with. I'm hosting a Naked Lady party (and a Becca's birthday) Friday night, and Becca and I
are scheduled to go camping Sunday - Tuesday and I need to dig
up a catsitter and figure out if I'm taking Sofi with me or not
(I'd like to, I just don't want it to be a drag). I have some
invoices I need to check in on, and a client to nag. I need to
call my mother, work on tracking down my father again, I've got
a haircut appointment, I wanted to fit an extra boxing session
in this week and I'm already tired just thinking about all of
this and I need to stop right now before I lose my mind and my
nerve. Ugh.
Can I just go back to the couch? Please? It looks so damn inviting.
And safe. |
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July 11th, Two Thousand Three: Going to be busy over the next couple of days. I seem to have
a dreadful habit of really overbooking myself lately. Don't you
laugh: when I say lately, I mean even more than usual. I know
full well I've always done this, perhaps out of sheer protest
of there being only 24 hours in a day which are never enough for
me to do everything I want to do.
In a little bit, I'm heading out to Hair Police to keep Elise company while she becomes (even more) fabulous. Couldn't get
an appointment for myself until next week, which is likely good,
because that gives me time to reconsider bothering with any color
right now. In the summer, with so much of my hair naturally gray
at this point, any color I have out in my hair gets zapped immediately.
When I shoot in the summers, it's usually with a serious slathering
of color conditioner, because I tend to look more blonde than
red otherwise. I don't really care all that much, but some folks
are very attached to my red hair, so.
Wow, that was dreadfully trite and boring. Sorry 'bout that.
Let's try something else: after Elise's hair, we'll be heading
down the street to Herkimer to sit outside and enjoy a beer. Not
long afterwards, Becca and I will be going to see (the gloriously
brilliant and quite nice to look at) Sherman Alexie read and do a film screening tonight at Birchbark Books. After
that, I will likely not do more work like I should and will instead
probably either go out for cocktails or stay up much too late
reading Harry Potter as I've been doing the last three nights
in a row.
Tomorrow I train in the morning, then later in the afternoon I
have a second date with R. from last week. Here's hoping we're blessed with a less frantic opening. We're
thinking beach, but we shall see if the weather allows.
Lise just got back in from Vancouver a day ago, so I want to see her
this weekend as well, and not just to pick up my big bag of Lush
booty she graciously grabbed for me while up that way. For the
record, they have apparently changed the formula of Karma perfume
forever, meaning the last bottle I got that I didn't really care
for the scent of, whose color was four shades lighter than it
usually is, wasn't a fluke, and I've lost one of the three perfumes
in the world I liked, possibly for good (the other two are Fracas
and Chanel No. 5 in case you're wondering, or dying to slather
me in scent because you love me). Wah.
At some point, I also need to get to the art supply store and
stock up on some canvas, a few new brushes and gesso for a personal
project I want to get started on this week, which I suspect will
take me months when it comes to the full installation. I haven't
worked with tangible pieces like what I've got planned in a long
time, and I'm looking forward to it. And that's all you're getting.
I have a few projects like this in my pocket brewing, and they're
all things that may not be shown on the web at all, or here, so
that I can really try and do some work without thought as to what
people want to see or what sells.
Speaking of which, I sat doing some number crunching yesterday,
and came to the conclusion that at this site, I need to get up
to 8 signups or membership payments a day to keep it solvent and
make myself a little more financially comfortable. I won't be
rolling in it with that, by any stretch, but if I can get that
going -- and that's not a difficult average, overall -- it'll
keep me from getting too tight on months when there isn't any
freelance work coming in, or when advertisers move on from SL,
as they tend to now and then. That's a low number as far as "amateur"
sites go, but personal, single-model sites with that number and
higher tend to include content or tone I'm just not willing to,
and to boot, I have a very different market than most of them
do. Anyone with any ideas, toss'em at me (or if you want to tell
me why you don't subscribe, I'd be glad to hear that too, and
I promise not to tell you you should or that you're an ungrateful
rat bastard. Really.). I think I'm also allowed once every month
or two to put out a pitch to journal readers to subscribe and support me if you can and if you enjoy the work that I do.
So, ummm... that was the pitch. Heather Corinna, Marketing Idiot Savant. Yep, that's me.
Sometime this weekend, and it's looking like Sunday night, I have
got to spend a good 8 hours on gruntwork: archiving journal entries,
fixing small glitches at all the sites, dealing with bills and
budgets and paperwork (that's right, work on that funny stuff
we make from trees), the works. The stuff I loathe doing. But
it's got to be done. I figure I grab a bottle of plum wine, toss
some samba or calypso on the stereo, and pretend it's some sort
of party. Yeah. I'll just pack up that happy little delusion and
keep on walking.
Which is what I should get ready to do right now. I fell asleep
with a wet head, so look like some sort of wildebeest and I got
into a mad tussle. I think he got off easier than I did. Must
fix. Of course, if I go into Hair Police like this, out of sheer
pity or terror Sy may clear her schedule completely so I can get
in today. Or I could grab an empty beans can and panhandle to
pay for having my hair done next week. Or I could talk about some
of the more important things I've got on my mind lately.
Or I could just wake the hell up, get off my ass, stop babbling
and go become marginally presentable, since I used all the time
I had to talk nonsense. Right, then. |
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July 9th, Two Thousand Three: Only someone who works at home might, smack in the middle of
their workday, become convinced that there are evil demon pillows
run amok in their bedroom.
Only someone who works at my home, with a Very Silly Pug, might
discover that the pillow in their bed that is inexplicably, madly
flopping around in circles and growling?
It contains the aforementioned pug wedged between pillow and pillowcase
who managed to get herself in there but could not get herself
out.
Still don't trust that pillow, though.
Think I'll be sleeping with a different one tonight.
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Photography: 07.09
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