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October 7th, Two Thousand Three: Not even the Cliff's Notes... Plateau Notes, perhaps. Mound Notes
may be most appropriate, given the author.
Summary:
• I'm beyond jetlagged. Long travel times, a two-hour time difference
and an allergy flare-up have fried my brain utterly. We're having
a synapse sauté for lunch here at Chez Heather today.
• I had a great trip, during which I did some amazing photographic
work, saw many people I adore and cherish completely, and met
some new ones I adored and cherished from the onset. And one new
one who was very drunk, but awfully nice to look at. Can't say
I adore and cherish her, or even knew what her last name was,
but she did give a good deep kiss or two and look awfully nice
in jeans. She kept saying I smelled good. She might not say the
same this morning.
• I heart my dog.
• I was so bad at Lush I had to be double-bagged. It is a day
that will live in infamy. And I didn't even get any free samples.
Bastards.
• Just spent half the morning in conference calls, one of which
could result in Very Good Things come winter. Think good thoughts.
• My intern (whose name is also Heather, so she has to get called
"my intern" for now) is the best housesitter ever. Becca is the
best dogsitter ever. So nice to be able to come home to almost
everything in one piece as I left it (see below).
• I need a bath. Bad. I am going to take one even though my bathroom
floor, which had cracks that were supposed to be fixed in my absence
not only is not fixed, but now inexplicably has two gaping holes
made through it which I could do a puppet show on my downstairs
neighbors ceiling. Charming.
Review: Had good trip, people and pugs rock, must work, am tired, sneezy,
slightly stupid and stinky. |
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September 30th, Two Thousand Three: This'll likely be the last you hear from me for a little while,
as I head off to Seattle and Vancouver tomorrow morning, where
I'll be through early next week. I'll likely log it a bit, but
prefer not to worry about publishing or being wired when I'm away,
so y'all will get all my stuff when I get back.
I have a couple photoshoots I'll be doing up there which are funding
the trip (if I ever get a car again, I'll have to make a concerted
effort to set up a long list of funded photo ops across the states,
Canada and Mexico some summer, methinks -- pity I know no one
who wants photos in Tibet or Genoa or Jamaica), and will also
have plenty of time to spend with Jane, Lauren and Emira, time for dinner and lunch with other friends, and I may even
have time to train with Wolfe a bit and get my ass thoroughly
kicked.
Should be interesting to travel right now. It's the first time
I've gone on trips in a while where I wasn't living with or dating
someone seriously, so I don't need to worry about reporting back
in any regard, or missing that sort of connection while I'm gone.
Since the last time I went somewhere, I changed the subscription
stuff so I no longer need to manually assign passwords and babysit
that. My lovely intern is house and catsitting for me while I'm
gone, and I'm actually leaving my house in serious order, which
never happens. Becca will have Sofi with her. I know the building
here is in good order because... well, I take care of it, and
it's all good. I don't have to do any modeling myself, so I get
to be as scrappy as I wanna be.
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In a word, I got nothin' to worry about. I'm even going where
it's warmer than here, both times this month, no less.
It's 36 degrees outside in Minnesota right now. 36. And it's only
going to get worse. I'm half Mediterranean. You see my conflict.
(Can I just say right now, as I'm uncomfortably scooting round
on my chair whilst sipping the morning joe, that bruised or fractured
tailbones suck? Still?)
It's good to be having so many opportunities to photograph other
people. Not only is it a refreshing change from the self-portraiture,
I find that when I'm shooting a lot of other folks, I see myself
in different context when I do come back to shooting me, and that
work gets stronger for doing more of the other.
(Why is my monitor pulsing at me? It's very strange, and it's
making me nervous.)
In any event, I'm off. I have a pile of laundry to deal with,
I need to pack go grab food for the gatas, do some quick emailing,
invoicing and banking, figure out how the shuttle to the airport
works, update Scarlet, slip in a coffee venture with a friend, and make sure I get
a little time to spend with the aspects of my solitary life I'll
miss: time to sit and play the piano, to walk my pooch (in the
damn bloody cold), to meditate in the sunroom, to water the plants,
to train a bit, to enjoy my big bathtub, to have a fag on my skanky
(and chilly) back porch, and toss a few disjointed words out into
the aether while I'm slowly waking. |
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Photography: 09.29
members (20 photos, guest model) |
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Photography: 09.19
members (36 photos, self-portraits) • sign up |
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September 28th, Two Thousand Three: What a lovely day. Early this afternoon, Becca and I set out with
the dogs for a jaunt to Hastings, about 45 minutes southeast of
here, to visit the Alexis Bailly Vineyard, per the suggestion of one of the DDD troupe folks last weekend
(Thanks, Jenn!).
It was a beautiful fall afternoon, albeit a bit chilly, and overcast
off and on in spots in that dramatic midwest Surrender Dorothy
kind of way. I've always wanted to have a vineyard or work in
one, though only if I could squash the grapes with my feet. Not
only does it seem a deliciously sensual experience, I also think
I'd be a very peaceful person from having the opportunity to stomp
the shit out of grapes all day. And nothing else really fits my
vineyard-lalaland imagination. There will also be many drunken
late-night parties with lots of homemade bread and mandolin playing.
And I will strongly resemble Sophia Loren and don beautiful ragged
cotton skirts I'll tuck into my waistband. And my lover will only
fasten one clasp of her overalls, ever, and I'll always have inexplicable
purple stains on my ass from ...
... sorry. Back to the real deal. Which just as much fun. Okay,
close.
Immediately upon arrival, Sofia (the smaller version with the
squishy face) appeared to be sniffing out truffles, but instead
sniffed her way to a few vines of ripe cherry tomatoes, which
she decided was the entire reason for the trip, and well worth
the journey.
We managed to drag her away, face full of tomato seeds and all,
so that Becca and I could enjoy a wine-tasting.
Sudden swerve to the right: best to perhaps do copious wine-tasting
not only after lunch, but after cleaning entire apartment building, including vacuuming two sets
of three-flight steps. Doing so before, especially with a head
cold, and after a night of dancing and a morning the day before
of hard training is not the swiftest plan ever.
The wines were really lovely. So much so that we splurged and
split two mixed cases, including a handful of bottles of this
amazing red dessert wine infused with orange that is absolutely
perfect for a friend of mine I'm seeing very soon. It's groovy
to be able to buy treats like this direct from the local source
and support them. Makes the entrepreneur in me tres happy.
But before we bought the wines (I'm having some continuity issues),
and after sitting on their lovely porch with a glass, we took
a nice walk around the grounds with the dogs, talked about horseback
riding again soon as we both missed it, I told my Heaven, the
Annex of Hell story*, which amazingly, she'd never heard, and we took in the landscape
in general. One of the nicest things about living in Minnesota
is just how damn pretty it is up here, no matter the season.
Did have an exceedingly blonde moment today though, which likely
no one would know about unless I decided to prattle on about it.
Okay, so make that two. When we were ordering the cases, the wine-tasty
dude says to Becca, "I keep wanting to call you Becca." And I'm
about to shout out, "That's uncanny! Because that's her name!
You're psychic!" when Becca says something about him looking familiar
and they discover they both worked at the Ren Faire here ten years
ago. It really hadn't occurred to me that, gee, why he might want
to call her that is because he could have met her before. I'm
going to blame the wine. That way, it's a good advertisement for
its potency, and not a good advertisement for the ill effect I
think living in the valley (yes, the gag me with a spoon, like
ohmigod, bitchin' valley in the 80's) for a year when I was younger
had on me.
I think it might be best for me to let the pictures tell the story
today. I'm hoping someone who is earnestly psychic sees a long
hot bath, a big cuppa java, my piano, my bed and a book or DVD
in my immediate future. However, as the cats appear to be divining
by looking into their empty food bowls, it seems a walk to the
market comes first.
If I lived at the winery, see, I could just tell them to sod off
and go catch mice for supper while I splashed wine over my purple
feet and sank back into the arms of my half-coveralled lover.
Like, I am so sure.
* So, in college, my first assignment when I started studying Blake,
from the brilliant, amazing and ever-inspired Suzanne Sklar, was
for each of us to go find Heaven that very afternoon, a la The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. So, I think to myself that a beautiful fall day, with a horse,
in a vast expanse where I can go anywhere sounds like just the
thing. Especially since at the time, due to a back injury the
summer before, I couldn't walk without a cane, thanks to an idiot
coworker at UCP who decided she'd rather drop a wheelchair bound
teenager unto a hard tile floor than break a nail, causing me
to dive under him and totally fuck my back for six months. So,
total freedom of mobility in the gorgeous outdoors with a fine
animal sounded choice.
I asked the wonderful John Keller (and any former Shimer College
goers who know where he is and happen to find this, please tell
me, I miss him something dreadful), who I knew had a horse, if
that was doable. Turns out Mango was as old as dirt, and not only
hadn't been ridden in ages, but had refused to even move for the
last year. I am often magic with stubborn animals, so asked if
we could just try. As it turned out, and to John's great amazement,
Mango gladly let me climb astride her and headed out of the stable
in fairly short order.
Turns out either I was a greater horse-magician than I knew, or
Mango just saw this as her last hurrah. While John was suavely
taking a piss on a tree in the meadow we were in, Mango decided
to dart out at a full gallop. I was riding bareback, hadn't ridden
in an age, I had seriously limited mobility, and had never been
on a horse going a good 40 MPH with no warning. I am holding the
old girl's mane for dear life when it soon becomes clear that
not only is she not going to slow down, ever, she's headed right
for the highway. Love animals as I do, I had no intention of being
along for Mango's Kamikaze Highway 41 Frogger Adventure, so a
mere fifty feet or so before the whizzing vehicles, after trying
everything I could think of to get the girl to stop, I just let
go. I curled myself into my best falling position, flew, and found
myself ass-up in the biggest mud puddle known to man, more than
a wee bit on the ouch-side, cringing for a few long moments sure
I'd hear the worst sounds I could think of when Mango met Mack.
But, no bad sounds. John found me eventually, due, according to
him, to my highly acrobatic and lovely-to-view-from-afar falling
skills (of course, anyone who knows me well knows that saying
I fall beautifully is so true in its symbolism as to be downright
acid). And after the seriously long, cold and mud-coated many-mile
limp back, we found Mango, calmly chewing away at some hay in
her stable where, as I understand it, she never left again.
Next day in class, we all had to describe our experiences. I felt
inclined to mention that while, for a little bit there I did indeed
find Heaven, I also discovered that it may be, as Blake also often
surmised, located right next door to Hell. |
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September 27th, Two Thousand Three: I loves me some Dante, I do.
Have I mentioned that my favorite kickboxing trainer just kicks
ass? I just love this man to pieces. I so wish he taught more
than once a week.
First of all, there is something incredibly comical abut being
totally wrapped in the sweetest bear hug imaginable and being
covered in giggly smooches by a 6'3, solid 250 pound Haitian man,
especially when you're about to essentially beat the crap out
of each other. That was in response to my snarkily ordering him
not to miss his classes again, because they suck royally most of the time when we get a sub Saturday mornings, and I will accept no more
substitutes.
To top that off, he totally stoked my ego today. There were three
of us up early to train, and one of the women is an awesome kickboxer
with sheer natural talent, but he insisted she pair up with an
intermediate and I pair up with him so that we could be "more
evenly matched." Now, I'm not about to come close to kidding myself
into thinking I'd last five seconds in a ring with Dante at full
force (that's not modesty, you do the math: 6'3, 250 and years
and years of training and 5'3, 140 and not even two years yet,
okay?), but that he thinks so is truly a high compliment. That
he almost always chooses to pair up with me just makes me feel
durn special, it does. Even when he underestimates his size and
force and I end up with my head hitting the brick wall like I
did two weeks ago. Ow.
OT and TMI: One doesn't need an alarm clock or a rooster to wake up
if you have one barking pug AND a 15-year-old deaf cat yacking
up on the fucking pillow next to you. It should go without saying
that even if i had set an alarm, 4 AM would not have been my chosen
time of wakage. I love my pets, too. I need to say that today
because sometimes they make it awfully easy to forget. |
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September 25th, Two Thousand Three: All day it feels like morning, as fall begins; the air crisp
and cool, the sky tinged blue-grey. The silvering wind rushes
through my hair and chills my neck, whispering into my ears that
winter is coming, she's coming, too soon.
These mornings, I warm my belly and face by standing over the
open oven as it heats, and rise early enough that it is still
dark when I wake. When I come in from walking, a cup of hot coffee
or tea is manna; I cradle it in my hands letting the mug heat
my palms and fingers. I shiver when I'm outside, but feel overheated
and restless when I come back in.
It seems quieter now, more still. The light is diffused, the hours
pace themselves differently without the stretched-taffy time of
extended daylight. All day is all day, all night is all night,
their transitions a nondistinct vacuum too subtle to guide myself
by.
The leaves have not yet transformed, but the edges of each are
barely kissed with yellow or brown speckles. Soon they will be
fire red, chocolate ochre, toasted umber, simmering orange. Nothing
makes loss and death look so beautiful as those leaves: burning,
turning, fading, falling, all effortlessly in beautiful, unquestioning
surrender and acceptance.
It will be a long winter. I feel it, deep in the bones of my knees
and the tips of my ears, in the early chill wind, even as the
sun still warms my cheeks. A long winter where I am not so much
nesting as cocooning; looking still and hidden, but inside spinning,
spinning, spinning in circles, tossing out a thousand strands
to reinvent myself. I will not be warm inside this year, but will
feel the hard chill, barely protected from the tough gusts of
wind that shake me on the vine I have tethered myself to.
I won't want it, but I need its isolation; I need to feel it like
a pioneer woman left alone for a cold, white season in a land
she's unfamiliar with and uncertain of. A solitary homesteader
who need answer the door to no one, is safest keeping it firmly
latched, and who sits, shotgun resting on her knees, should any
wish to cross her threshold uninvited. I need to rub the ball
of my fist over the window each morning, scrape the frost off,
look out and see nothing but a vast expanse of blank, empty slate
which I need not seek to fill. Which no one expects me to fill,
knowing it is full of all, as is.
When I go to bed at night, then, I might begin to listen long
enough -- have the silence I need -- to hear the silvering wind
then as she whispers that spring is coming, she's coming, in her time. |
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September 24th, Two Thousand Three: I got my brain back sometime yesterday afternoon. Not sure who
spotted and returned it, but whoever it was, I thank you. I don't
need to know where you found it, for the record. I also found
out why my tailbone hurt so badly. Lovely when you need an outside
party to provide your recollections for you. For future reference,
ladies, don't go picking girls up if you're going to keep dropping
them.
The last couple days, I have allowed myself to spend most of my
time getting things straightened up and organized around here.
It's clear to me that a lot of my work stress comes from not being
able to find things, from working in an environment where shit
is constantly falling on my head, where I don't know which pile
is what stuff and what stuff is in which pile and my ass from
my elbow in general.
It's a slow process, but I've been making some serious headway.
Clear desk, clear home; clear mind, clear heart. I need to stop
forgetting this simple maxim.
The getting-to-clear space has thus far enabled me to find checks
I need to deposit, bills I need to pay, reminded me of contacts
I needed to make (which I did follow through and make on the spot),
to further plan the next two trips, to get all my photography
shit in two organized places (sadly, my working remote is still
MIA), to deal with the budget for the next few months, and to
find a few important things I'd misplaced. Hopefully, I'll find
some more. Including the phone number of one of the... erm, girlpile
participants who I'd like to ring about fiddling round with again
sometime in the future.
Which brings me to something I need to hash out and deal with,
because it's been bothering me, and I've been reluctant to talk
about it because I've been unsure how to do so productively.
The long and the short of it is that since about last March or
so, when I first started talking about how my sexual attraction
to men was waning quickly, a decent lot of my readers and/or subscribers
haven't handled it very well. Reacting uncomfortably or oddly
-- or even angrily -- about that is something that has seemed
really strange to me: after all, I've been an out bisexual not
only since I started my sites, but for a good two decades at this
point. And unlike a lot of bisexuals I've known in my life, I
wasn't ever on the outer edges of the Kinsey scale, but pretty
squarely in the middle. To boot, I took a huge bunch of years
off from dating women, and no one ever objected to that or was
weird about that (that I picked up on, anyway).
Now, when I first started talking about my male attraction waning,
and then about ceasing to date men altogether, it seemed to cause
one of three reactions: either folks were fine and supportive,
folks were just kind of, well, more silent than usual, or reacted
with what I can only call anger. I actually had a couple men write
in telling me things like that it wasn't FAIR for me to stop dating
men and only date one gender (to which my response was that I
was sure, then, that those guys must be dating men themselves
to stay "fair," eh? No? Fancy that.). I had a few more write in
uber-concerned that without a man to protect me in my life (because
you know, so many men in my romantic life have done such a swell
job of protecting me), I'd get hurt, delicate flower that I am.
And over the past few months, despite putting up a greater volume
of work than ever, and a greater quality of work than ever, I've
had a sizeable number of male members cancel, one of whom actually
informed me that I was looking too much like a dyke lately, which
is... confusing, to say the least, since I look like I've always
looked (and hell, in the first photos anyone ever saw of me online, I was muscled to the nines from
working the markets, and didn't shave yet, to boot). I don't even
want to discuss the guys asking for pictures of the girls I've
been dating, and I REALLY don't want to discuss the one tidbit
I got suggesting I consider dating femme girls because they'd
be a lot more fun to look at.
After the last post here, I got some fresh weirdness, including
a reader concerned about the suitability of my mentioning "lesbian orgies" given what I do at Scarleteen, and another who patronizingly
told me that it was crystal that what I really, truly needed in
my life right now is a serious relationship. That was the best
joke I've heard in a long time.
Now, it's a given that when you live a quasi-public life in a
way that people can talk semi-directly to you and give feedback
that you're going to have folks who think they know a lot more
about you than they actually do, or who project a lot of their
own wants and needs and fears unto you, or who decide that you
represent something to them that you need to hold up for whatever
reason, in the ways they want you to. And in my case, when I first
began this journal in '99, for a couple years there, what it was
was a record of probably the most mainstream, quietest, and mellow
time in my life; a period of time that really isn't all that representative
of the rest of my life or my nature, so some folks may be feeling
like I've changed, when what I've actually done is get back to
who I know myself to be. Moreover, something like this journal,
no matter how open or earnest I am, is only the smallest window
into my life or my character. Especially with me personally: even
my closest friends have found it takes a substantial amount of
time to really get to know me deeply.
Here's the thing: I'm a big, grownup girl. I'm 33 years old, kids,
and I was self-sufficient by the time I was 14. I started my first
business at 21. I'm a strong survivor of a helluva lot of really
awful shit. I can handle my sexual and romantic life all by myself,
which I've been handling for 20 years now (and which began with
girlfriends, not boyfriends, no less), and which, much of the
time, has been very much not vanilla and very much not heterosexual.
And which, over the last ten years and some, has gotten a lot
more calm and mellow than ever. You really can be a libertine
and be a thoughtful, coherent person; they aren't mutually exclusive,
I promise.
As far as my orientation shift goes, lemme tell ya: no one has
been more weirded out by it than me. At this point, men have pretty
much exited my sexual imagination and attraction base altogether,
stage left, and I earnestly can't imagine being with a man at
all anymore. It's surreal. Identifying as bisexual is starting
to feel like poor fit or a misnomer or even a lie. Every now and
then, I just have to sit back and go, "Guh! This is how straight people feel! How weird is THAT!" because it really is weird to me, having my sexual attraction
be polarized. Having spent the majority of my life very equally
divided in my attraction base, but choosing men far more often
than women because of both ease and availability and even more
so, because it was safer for me emotionally, for however safe
romantic entanglement has ever been for me as a whole, which is
to say, not very -- it's been weird. Very. Yet it all makes sense,
it all feels astoundingly right, far more so than other spaces
I've been in before. I feel... home, in a truly profound way.
The first time I came back to making love with women after leaping
over a lot of those old fears, it was all I could do to keep from
weeping because it was just that intense and just that much of
a relief and just that much like finally getting the hell home
after being out in the damn cold too long.
But the biggest weirdy-bit has been feeling like I have to justify
this shift, this resurgence, to people I don't even know, especially
since it was such an incredibly big step for me to try and leap
past all my deeply embedded fears of being hurt terribly by women,
or rejected outright, to get (back?) here. Making that step has
meant accepting some things that aren't easy for me to accept:
like how much harder it is to find dates or even just play partners,
like losing some of the things that heteroprivledge gave me, like
dealing with the shit that comes along with being a femme who
is absolutely not interested in male sexual attention, especially
given what I do for my living. Like trying to gently deal with
ways men, even male friends, have talked to me in the past that
has never crossed the line with me, but was always slightly uncomfy,
and has now become REALLY blecky to me. I've learned that I can't
say to a lot of men that I'm bisexual but not dating men and expect
them to just accept that, and lordy, has that sucked. I've had
readers, colleagues and even friends say things to me like that
if this is hard, I could just "choose" to date men again. I wish
I were kidding. In some ways, both online and in my life, I've
had to deal with a sort of coming out all over again, and that
has been really strange for me, especially since when I came out
eons ago, it was no big shakes. I thought I was long done with
that.
Friends of mine have a lot of different theories about some of
the reactions I'm getting. Some have said that maybe folks never
really got that I was bisexual when I had primary male partners.
I can follow that, but I don't get it. Others have said that my
shift means that for those who sexually fantasized I might be
involved with them or have the same attraction back that I'm effectively
slaying those fantasies. I suppose I can get that one, but it
makes me feel kind of itchy. I mean, not only have I never dated
a subscriber of mine, and can't see that I ever would, gender
aside, I don't use come-on lingo like you see in a lot of sexual
material (e.g., "Hey guys, lookit those boobies!" or other gender-specific
language or activites). I've always had a majority-female userbase
at all my sites. And I've tried, in my words and in my visual
approach, to make clear that this is creative work, that what
I'm selling is my work, not myself or my ass. I know you can't
really control what someone sees, or how objectified you get,
but still. Maybe I'd like to.
The real dischord is this: over the last year or so, I've been
feeling like I'm really getting back to myself, to a harmony with
my essential nature. Yet at the same time, I have felt less and
less comfortable really being myself and expressing that publicly,
because some of how it has been received has been so unsupportive.
And not just on the sexual/romantic themes. I've had more than
a handful of people write in to tell me, for instance, that I
can't even CONSIDER trying again to get a day job or freelance
work outside my art because I'd be selling out, and that I'll
find a way to get by, clearly dismissing the fact that, like,
eating is nice, and during a Minnesota winter, a roof over one's
head comes in handy, or that I want and need more financial stability
than I have (and folks, let's face it: if my work was not often
about sex or nudity, I couldn't even dream of barely supporting
myself with it).
So, I'm just going to ask for what I need. If this were just me
talking into space, or writing books, either I wouldn't need to
or I wouldn't be able to (or both). But it's not: in some ways
what this is is a community, and one whose catalyst is my life
and how I share it. So, I feel it's fair of me to make requests.
That said, if you're going to communicate with me via comments
or email, I need to ask that you think a little bit longer before
you do so. That you trust that I'm a capable adult who does know
what's best for her and does make informed choices about her life
based on that. That you respect those choices and my boundaries.
That you accept how I identify without question. That you understand
doing something like this journal makes me a lot more vulnerable
than those reading it, and that I'm giving quite a lot by sharing
it with who-knows-who. That you remember knowing my work isn't
knowing me; that this is a peek through a keyhole, not an aerial
view. That you realize and acknowledge tht you're never gong to
know the whole story about pretty much anything, because I like
more than my share of privacy, however much I may opt to divulge.
That you remember there's just one of me and thousands of you,
and while I cherish all of you sharing this with me, it's an unbalanced
relationship by design because I'll never know as much about any
of you as you know about me, and you're bound to feel a lot closer
to me than I can or will -- or may even want to -- about you.
That you remember it's just me over here, and I'm just as human
as anyone else is.
And that you accept that both my desk and my head are often cluttered,
and what I really need to learn to do right now is keep them more
clear. So, you want to help with that? Groovy. But if you've got
more clutter, keep it on your own desk, bub. I already have all
I can handle, and you need to handle your own clutter yourself. |
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September 21st, Two Thousand Three: I continue to stand by my firm belief that it is a Very Good
Idea to clearly state what you need to the universe, because sometimes
-- not always, but certainly often enough to make it worth the
breath expended -- the universe seriously delivers.
Sometimes, she gives you at least a portion of the extra cash
you need. Sometimes you get an intern or a new puppy or the last
piece of chocolate you can't find but will plotz if you cannot
eat right this very second. Sometimes, she gives you the help
you are desperate for, and now and then, right when you need it.
Sometimes -- just, you know, rhetorically -- you might tell the
universe or a close friend also listening to your conversations
with the universe that what you really need right now is some seriously hot, casual sex with no strings
attached or romantic anything that's just fucking fun so you can
chill the hell out for a little while. And the universe might
-- just, you know, rhetorically, because who on earth would really
be such a wanton hussy -- give you just that in less than 24 hours with, let's say,
three incredibly fine women at once, all of whom you've thought were hot for some time, when casual
sex with even but one would have WAY more than fit the bill.
For the record, I did NOT ask for the mother of all hangovers.
Nor my period which just arrived to cap off the nausea quite nicely,
thank you. But often the universe decides you have to pay the
piper for her tokens, and she's rarely inclined to negotiate them
in advance, or inform you as to what they are before you seal
the deal. Girl's got all kinds of airtight disclaimers in her
hidden fine print.
I expect sympathy from no one today. But I'd accept it if extended.
My kingdom for an aspirin. I'd say Tequila Bad, save that 1) it usually is just fine for me, even with quite
a bit of it, as it's my booze of choice, 2) I'm fairly pleased
with the immediate (but rhetorical, of course) results of its
group lubrication and 3) I don't think it would have been bad
had it not been for the beers which came before it. So, as any
smart cookie knows, it is and shall always remain: Beer Bad.
- (A Buffy episode which, oracle-like, contains the following timely
dialogue, though I gotta say I like my plot a whole lot better.
I also feel I'm handling my hangover with more grace and far less
monosyllabic grunting:
-
- Buffy: I'm suffering the afterness of a bad night of... badness.
Willow: You didn't. Not with Parker again.
Buffy: No. With four really smart guys.
Willow: Four? Oh... ow. Oh, Buffy, are you OK? Do you want to talk about
it?
Buffy: I went to see Xander. Then I saw Parker. Then came... beer.
Willow: And then group sex?
Buffy: Pffft... gutterface. No! Just lots and lots of beer. )
And that's all anyone is getting from me on that juicy tidbit
because as we all know, I am the very sole of discretion (and
to my credit, I do think I'm pretty damned good about being discreet,
given how much of my sex life is lived in public and that part
of that is how I make my living. And I'd REALLY, truly, honest-to-gawd, like to see a show of hands
for who out there would -- just as, you know, a rhetorical example
-- find themselves in a fantabulous, gleefully spontaneous, festively
filthy little chickpile, in the midwest no less, and not brag
about it the eensiest bit, discreetly, to... say, their 10,000
closest friends or some other captive audience they happen to
have lying around. You go on and raise that hand. I dare ya. Moreover,
the episode entire is hilariously funny AND smoking hot. As a
sex writer, giving up opportunities to fully mine and exploit
material that golden is a serious sacrifice. I'm bleeding from
my wrists and feet at this very moment, as a matter of fact, and
I'm certain that somewhere out there, right now, someone is building
me a shrine, readying my place in some half-baked canon or other
as Heather Corinna, Patron Saint of Sexual Im Propriety.)
So, on to the stuff I can blab about indiscreetly.
Gray headed home today, and it was a great visit. Our friendship
has, over time, developed into a very sibling-like thing in the
best possible ways. I think of him as a brother, one I really
like, who I not only have a really good time with, but with whom
I find a lot of mutual comfort, good discourse and processing.
We seem to do good work together to boot.
Gray has documented some of this already (and with photos, no
less, whereas I was happy as hell to have a few days away from
mine completely, save using it to capture Sofia the other night
when the poor pup was chilly and strongly resembling someone's
Czechoslovakian granny -- will grab off the camera when I'm more
coherent), but just to reiterate, add on or fill in the gaps:
• The shows this weekend were, hands down, the best of them I
have yet to see, especially last night's show, in which the quality
of the audience totally matched the energy and quality of the
performance. It's a beautiful thing that happened the month we
were doing the videotaping for the webcast (which will likely
start to happen a month from now, maybe a bit sooner). Gray and
I sat with the footage from last night's show over breakfast at
the BLB this morning, recording our director's commentary, but
since I think I was still tipsy when we started, despite a few
hours of sleep in between, and worked my way into Hangoverville
during, I'm afraid my end of the commentary isn't very thrilling.
It's mostly me saying "Oh, my head," and "Uuuuhhhhnngh" a whole lot, with the occasional comment about how cute someone's
ass is, what a cool shot Gray got of a given thing, and possibly
one or two borderline witty comments if we're lucky. Go figure
that the girl who can never shut the fuck up becomes mute the
times she's supposed to be talking.
There is also ample footage of me showing my total irritation
and discomfort with having to be on video doing any sort of live
performance, so the whole world will likely get to see what a
big dork I really am. That kind of intimacy we don't need, I assure
you.
• Becca rocks. I know that's probably a given, I don't tend to
choose best friends who don't, but it stands to be said, and needs
no further explanation as far as I'm concerned.
• Took Gray with me training Saturday morning, but Dante was out
that day and the class flatly sucked, so after that hour, we went
to the park for another half hour or so so I could have him hold
the pads for me and do my drills to actually feel like I'd worked.
Not only did Gray take a couple snaps of this (in keeping with the big dork theme), he made some comments with
the snaps that really made my day. Gray rocks too. Everyone rocks
pretty hard this weekend, when it all comes down to it.
• Gray also helped me with some minor -- but important -- studio
additions in the sunroom that should make shooting in there a
whole lot easier. He was assisted some by my friend Chris' hilarious
and charming 9-year-old daughter, who visited w/me for a few hours
yesterday afternoon. She found a crystal ball and decided to play
fortune teller, which was the context for the following conversation:
- The Kid: "There will be a tall, dark, and very handsome man in your future
who will ask you to marry him, but he will already have a wife,
but you will want to marry him very much."
- Me: "Babe, your dad or I have maybe told you that I kind of only
date girls, right?"
- The Kid: "Yeah, yeah, but this guy is really sneaky."
Kids. Had a couple cool ones in my adventures this weekend. You
just gotta love'em. It's a helluva lot easier and less time-consuming
than trying to analyze them, anyway.
• Chris also arrived with an amazing photo printer I bit the bullet
and got from his place of employ on a very nice sale and discount.
Here's hoping it pays for itself in time. Was going to set it
up tonight, but I'm a little afraid of Hangover Heather and anything
too technical at the moment. Okay, of anything that involves much
more than my sitting on my ass and being able to space out mightily
for extended periods of time. Walking the dog tonight was risky
enough.
You know, I know there was more here that I was going to say and
more to recount, but fuck if my brain didn't just up and appear
to hit the meager quota of usable cells and synapses for the day.
Plus, the sitting thing is no longer working for me. The laying
thing has a lot more appeal. Of course, in my case, as far too
many people already know -- just, you know, rhetorically -- it
usually does. |
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