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October 17th, Two Thousand Three: So, I lied. Thought I'd have time to archive this page and do
a longer entry before I left, but that hoary bastard, Time, got
the better of me.
I did, however, crunch in two photo updates, one of which has
an entry with it all its own. And which was mega-carthartic; just
what I needed. The other are some cool shots of a truck post fire:
I lucked out in having a firechaser for a buddy. All of which
y'all can see for the low, low price of.... you know, that's the biggest nudge I can muster at 6 AM.
So, gone to Texas, to read about sex, to talk about writing for
your readers (a fine time for me to do that, lately I feel utterly
clueless when it comes to such, but I believe I get to confess
that), to model and shoot, to have a date or two, to attend the
Scarleteen benefit (once more: October 20th, starting at 9:30 at 219 West, on the corner of 4th
and Lavaca in Austin), to see both old friends I haven't seen in a while, and a big
spattering of folks I have yet to meet in person (including my
friend Cilla, who I've talked to in email, online and by phone
for years now, but have never met) and to soak up some sunshine
and humidity.
Sofi -- unbenownst to her, the poor girl -- is heading to Becca's
once more while I'm gone, and the kitties have my lovely intern
here to tend to them. Anyone else is just going to have to fend
for themselves. But Life Without Pug. Sigh. Makes me tres unhappy.
I love that little snorter to bits.
I also will get several extended airport and aircraft stays, during
which I'll both wonder why I cannot get used to flying and, in
the throes of DTs, why I have not managed to quit smoking yet
so flying isn't so damn miserable for me. Centuries from now,
my species will be listed in the anthropology books as Dorkus
Maximus.
And with that oh-so-witty-and-barely-caffienated prattle, off
go I. While scores of my previous airline experiences lead me
to believe that at some point during my flying adventures I will
end up half-dressed, I think it's best I don't start out completely
naked from the get-go.
(And it's going to be a helluva long day and night, so anyone
at the reading tonight at 9 who comes bearing an espresso shot
gets a smooch and my undying gratitude.) |
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October 15th, Two Thousand Three: A few weeks ago I noticed that Dar Williams, Patty Griffin, Shawn Colvin and Mary Chapin Carpenter were coming to town. I thought I'd missed it last weekend, but over dinner at the
BLB yesterday, Becca said something about it happening that night,
so on a whim, off we flew to see if we could catch it and last
minute tickets.
And we lucked out. My Dad would be puce with envy. If this group
is coming to your town, go. It's not a cheap show, but it's more
than worth it.
It was exactly what I needed. It's always a little bittersweet,
seeing amazing acoustic goddesses who became what I wanted to
be growing up, and sometimes hard to detach myself from the wistfulness
and slight sadness of not becoming who I wanted to be for so many
years. I have, for instance, this entire written dedication to
Joni Mitchell I have yet to finish, mainly because some of it
makes me sad because I feel a bit of a failure in the musical
department, and am so awed by women who plugged on through with
that life and dazzle me so greatly not just with their talent
and artistry, but with their total perseverance.
It was easy enough to get over that last night though, because
it was an incredible show, with all four in top form. They did
the show in a roundtable fashion, like a very casual jam session,
and most of the songs were interspersed by incredibly hilarious
girlfriend chatting. I was telling Becca on the way home how cool
I thought it was that she and I always seem to do these girlfriend-things,
but never seem to plan on them, we just end up in places or at
events where the only right person to go with is your best girlfriend.
Some highlights from the banter:
• St. Catherine's, where this show took place, apparently calls
these sessions where they bring in accomplished women artists/figures
a few times a year "Women of Substance" shows. Chapin subtitled
theirs, due to the flavor of the banter that night, "Women of
Substance: Trashy and Sad." She also shared that they all have
been calling their tour "Mail Order Brides From Hell." I should
add that I had no idea how outrageously funny Chapin was. To boot,
she's put on some weight and she looks fantastic. It's always
neat to me to see people who clearly look better heavier -- it's
such a natural protest to lame one-size-fits-all beauty ideals.
• While we're on the looksy stuff, Patty Griffin already got extra
points for having the chutzpah (and being kind to her nether regions
by eschewing pantyhose) to wear knee highs that were totally visible
beneath her dress hem. But she gets even more points for making
it look completely cool. I'm not talking opaque girl-socks here,
I'm talking granny knee highs.
• While we're on Griffin, in reference to gawd knows what, she
suddenly blurts something out about plushies, which causes both
an onstage and full audience silence, save one freckled sex writer
in the audience who is snickering uncontrollably whilst wondering
what the fuck it is that no place in the world seems safe from
smut while she's around (I'm starting to think it may be viral).
Suffice it to say, what I did NOT expect at this gig was to listen
to one of the players explain plushies and fetishes to an audience
and her collaborators, in the auditorium of a Catholic college,
no less.
• Apparently, the gang of four have agreed to a small group of
men whom they all approve of. Most importantly, they made it very
clear they are trying their best to send out signals that they
want Bill Murray to come to one of their shows, quite badly. So
Bill, if you're out there, you've a rather talented girlpile waiting
for you. They love you, Bill. Go, tiger.
• The most comical point of the evening was when Chapin pressed
Colvin to tell her *NSync story. On the way home, I asked Becca
if she thought it was okay for me to log it, but considering Colvin
told it to an entire audience, and likely this isn't the first
time, I don't suppose it's a giant secret at this point. That
said, and it given that personal narratives are never as funny
or charming secondhand, here's the tale. A couple months after
Colvin gave birth to her daughter years back, she got asked to
film a live Christmas special in Florida at WDW with *NSync and
a couple other artists. She took this as a sign from the gods
that she was thus thought commercially viable and hip, and so
agreed immediately. She explained that before the show, she hadn't
been out of the house for a few months, wasn't feeling she looked
her best, was "stacked for the first time" in her life, and betwixt
the lines, was apparently a bit on the horny side. At a certain
point, she said that Joey (I so don't know who these people are,
so parts of this story are lost on me), who she read as age-appropriate
to her 42 due to his having clear facial hair, was "twinkling"
at her ("You know, flirting all "twinkle, twinkle, twinkle"),
and she was flirting back.
On stage, *NSync started doing their dance moves while they all
played together (demonstrated onstage with very funny arm movements
by Colvin), and she told us that she was a shite dancer, but really
liked to dance regardless (to which I could relate). So, eventually,
as they really got into it, she started jumping up and down, only
to discover in the worst way possible how pregnancy weakens the
pelvic floor by peeing all over herself. She was wearing a skirt
and thus spared the worst kind of public humiliation, but it was
purportedly a serious wakeup call as to her little mid-life fantasy
lapse. Hilarity aside, it's pretty amazing to have a performer
sharing that sort of story with a public audience while laughing
with all her girlfriends; it creates an easy intimacy without
the pretension of VIP passes that's really pretty special.
• Colvin tale #2: Her five-year-old daughter's Nanny recently
reported the following: she had taken the daughter out for Chinese
food. During dinner, she farted. The nanny explained gently that
perhaps loud farting should be saved for home. Her daughter said
in response, "It's okay, they speak Chinese." Apparently, she
thought she had farted in English.
I'm sure there are other tidbits I've forgotten, but it was just
a wonderful show on all accounts. And the music was amazing. Griffin's
incredible "Sweet Lorraine" rocked seriously hard (In the battle
of time in the battle of will / It's only your hope and your heart
that gets killed / And it gets harder and harder lorraine, to
believe in magic / When what came before you is so very tragic),
and her "Mary" and "Tomorrow Night" were astonishingly beautiful.
I confess, Griffin was the artist I was least excited about seeing,
but her voice seems to have gotten way bigger (or I just wasn't
hearing her for what she was before), and I'm now utterly sold
on her.
Williams' "The Babysitter's Here," "When I Was A Boy " and "Are
You Out There " were fucking amazing. Chapin did songs mainly
from an unreleased album, so I didn't recognize any of them, but
her agility with chords and unpredictable phrasing is astounding
as ever, and she did a heartbreaking version of "This Shirt."
Colvin didn't do her hits, but instead chose some obscurer pieces,
some of which have been some of my favorites, like "Whole New
You," "Cry Like an Angel " (which was so what I needed to hear
lately) and "One Cool Remove" (w/Chapin), so that rocked. Their
encore started up with a full group cover of the Backstreet Boys
"I Want It That Way," in homage to the *NSYNC story, and was completely
hilarious. Always nice to see the traveling folkie games continue
even when you've made a serious life out of it.
Anyway, that'd be my verbose account of the evening, but it really
was just totally special, and I'm so glad I could catch it. One
can never be surrounded in enough strong, accomplished, honest,
fun, scrappy women. It's just not possible.
(I know the entries right now are scrolling pretty long -- I'll
fix that before I leave for Texas. And regarding the fracas in
the comments from yesterday, just a few words. Please don't piss
on me or my simple joys just because you can. It's mean and shitty, especially given I'm the one standing
up here all by myself and no one forces anyone to read me. I've
had a hard time adjusting to some things over the last year --
and no, not everyone gets all those details or the full story
online, so one just has to trust in me and remember that this
isn't the whole of my life laid out before you -- and I'm just
starting to feel like I'm crawling back into my own. Let me have
that, eh? If you can't -- and I say this as politely as I can
-- then fuck the hell off. And there's really no need for anyone
to defend my right to feel good about myself or simple things,
however well-intentioned -- it's pretty inarguable. Relevant to
the folk train in this entry, I have to say that on my playlist
here at home, the nights I'm sitting alone with my dulcimer or
piano, Dylan's "Positively Fourth Street" has been getting entirely too much play, and I'm singing it
way too sincerely. It's time for a new tune.) |
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October 14th, Two Thousand Three: I know I talk about this a lot, and at times, am on the verge
of sounding like some sort of religious convert.
But I just got home from some one-on-one training with Dante,
who I got to train with when he wasn't holding back, and when
his attention wasn't divided between a gazillion people and solely
on their workout, rather than his own and mine. In short, I got
my ass kicked. Big time. But I also got a few surprise hits in
of my own, and I whooped his butt when we were doing situps.
It so rocked. The long and the short of it is that boxing and
kickboxing just totally rocks my world. If I could find a way
to train with a partner every day of the week, I could probably
stop giving a shit about sex altogether. It's just that good.
Okay, so it's not. But it's seriously close. Closer than perfectly
ripe blood oranges, closer than seated meditation, closer than
good silver tequila, and even closer than good creative work.
That's saying a lot.
I was one of those kids who had but one or two sports in which
I would not get picked for teams dead last. Namely, anything with
kicking or hard-hitting, but even then, the good had to be taken
with the bad, so I was usually picked from the remaindered pile
of undesireables. One time my best friend got picked before me
when she was on crutches, for crying out loud. When I hit the ball in softball, it went
FAR, but I didn't always hit it, and I couldn't catch for shit.
Still can't. I rocked at soccer, but only when I could get a kick
in. Mostly, the ball got taken from me before I could get the
opportunity to touch it. But basketball? Dead last, always. Volleyball?
Dead last. Wasn't that I couldn't sock that fucking ball across
the room, but that apparently it's supposed to go in a certain
direction, and mostly, forwards, not backwards. Nitpickers. Gymnastics
was just humiliating, especially the time I figured those aerial
cartwheels appeared really quite easy: one just ran and threw
oneself in the air, right? Wrong. Only took one try with me laying
on my back with the wind knocked out of me to a Tabernacle choir
of preteen laughter to learn that lesson, to my credit. Don't
even get me started on ballet and the like. I was always a great
skater and a good yogi, but that's solitary stuff.
That given, finding something cooperative and competitive and
fierce and intense that is clearly my gig -- that I love AND am
actually becoming very good at -- has been so fucking cool. So,
I figure if I take the time to extol all its virtues in full,
maybe I'll get the need to talk about it obsessively out of my
system. Worth a shot anyway.
1. It's fucking amazing for your body. You get strength and endurance
training, balance and coordination work, increased flexibility
(I am known as Gumby at my gym), serious cardio and self-defense
all in one shot. Because it's constantly mixed up a gazillion
different ways, your body never gets used to the same thing, so
you burn the hell out of it. Further, because you have to keep
moving -- and fast -- the whole time while using shitloads of
power, you build a ton of muscle, but it stays very streamlined.
And it rocks your abdominals, this coming from someone who spent
years in classical voice training, mind you (I even managed to
pull an ab doing it once). All of which is why when you first
start doing it, you mostly want to die for a few days afterwards,
and may need to crawl up your stairs for a while. But at this
point, making me sore is not easy to do. And despite admittedly
not being the world's most graceful person, when I'm really deep
into it, I fly, man. Fly.
I've long been the owner of the world's slowest metabolism, thanks
to my gene pool and too many deep poverty years where I wasn't
able to eat often enough. Intense yoga tended to make me fairly
hungry. Years and years back when I bodybuilt, I could do some
serious damage to the fridge, but only right after a workout.
Working the markets for years did let me knosh more often. But
now, while I still am only a two-meal-a-day eater (or else I feel
draggy and exhausted and gross), at least once or twice a day
I can eat my whole house. I can order a big meal out and eat the
whole thing. It's the coolest thing ever, especially for someone
who loves food like I do. I can eat the whole world! Kickboxing
(and likely switching from a vegetarian diet to a vegan one) has
moved my BMI to a wickedly healthy 23 (in the 25th percentile
for my age, thank you very much) from where I was just coming
out of depression and a big adjustment to desk life two years
ago of 27-28.
2. Little girls think you totally rock. I walked by a group of them
on the way to training today, gloves tossed over my shoulder,
and heard them whisper "That's a GIRL boxer! Ohwowcool!" That is so monstrously groovalicious. I've had some ask about
it in passing, to the point that I've had to explain that no,
we don't just use it to beat up boys, and unless a boy is trying
to hurt us, we really should stick to bags and willing training
partners. Had someone put me in boxing training when I was in
elementary school, a lot of young boys noses might have been spared.
3. People stop fucking with you, often without you having to do
anything because some sixth sense picks up on the fact that you'd
be more than happy to go a round if you had to, and see if that
new backhand-cross-crescent-back roundhouse works as well on a
face as it does on a bag. A few weeks ago, I was out at night
walking Sofi, and three thuggy (not thugee) guys started tailing
me a little, being marginally creepy. All I had to do was look
over my shoulder and say once, slowly and calmly "Go right ahead
and try me," and they were gone. Like vaporized right on the spot.
Poof. I don't even know how they got away that fast, it was fucking
majestic.
4. After a workout, I can usually stretch my legs to my head. Standing.
Given, years of yoga undoubtedly helped with that, too, but the
Rockettes got nothin' on me, girl.
5. It's one of the few sports I have ever found where having a big
ass and big thighs is an actual asset. Outside the bedroom, anyway.
6. I literally do not think of anything else when I'm boxing but
boxing. Being a workaholic, hyperactive and somewhat ADD this
almost never happens. In seated mediation, I have to move something
repetitively, or I start to balance my checkbook or plan my social
calendar. Even doing that, I rarely truly empty my mind. I am
SO much less stressed out on days I train, and it's made a big
difference with my concentration overall. It's a suitable meditation
for Irish-Italians. Angst + Attitude + Kickboxing = Happy McDego
Zen.
7. Bruises are sexy. I get a lot of them these days. Cute girls
even ask about them now and then. Some, unfortunately, who are
in social work.
8. Like yoga, you can do a lot of it anywhere. You don't get the
resistance you get with a partner or a bag alone, but you can
shadowbox to your heart's content to up your speed and perfect
your form pretty much anywhere. This summer, I took advantage
of the park down the street on many occasions to just go train,
once I could get over people looking at me funny.
Mind you, there are lessons I've learned doing this over the last
year and half. For instance: my stone-bottom-you-can't-break-me-face
(likely enhanced by stoic Irish genes) is NOT helpful when you're
about to pass out, but your trainer thinks you look just fine
and can do WAY more drills than you really can. Like that no one
is kidding about blocking your face, and the longer you do it
for, the less slack you're given to remember. But really, those
are minimal.
Obviously, it's not for everyone, and I do wish that when I first
started there had been a little FAQ with some prerequisites, like
say, being able to do a good solid half hour of cardio easily
before training (I got up with that fairly fast, reverting to
past training, but I've seen more than one person throw up or
come close to it in the beginning). Or that sitting out at the
beginning when you start to feel overtaxed or dizzy IS okay. And
that flying halfway across the room and landing on your ass when
you toss a roundhouse kick may look stupid and make you feel like
a megaklutz, but it's also a good sign that in due course, you'll
actually have kicks to die for. Same goes double for knocking
your own self out (did it at least twice).
Okay, I think that's out of my system for now. And big fucking
thanks to Noel for getting me in there initially (even though
she doesn't go herself anymore, sniff). And to Buffy. Because you know, when you're just starting and getting into
it, it doesn't hurt to have the only show you've ever liked include
moves you know you can execute eventually. It does, however, make
for some troublesome snippets of conversation for non-Buffy-groupies
in your sessions.
There are not words to describe the look on the non-Buffy-aware-owner
of our studio's face during this exchange a couple months back:
- Him: You've got amazing reflexes, you know? They're like... like...
- Me: Vampire slayer reflexes?
- <insert long, freaked-out silence here>
- Me: Ummm... you know, theoretically.
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October 13th, Two Thousand Three: ... I can take any kind of job there is, and no matter how divorced
I think it is from sex, I am always proved wrong.
A notice I posted today for our tenants:
- Yo, tenants!
Tomorrow, between 11 AM and 1 PM, an agent (not the secret kind)
for the buzzer system will be here fixing the broken systems.
If you know yours is NOT broken, just call and let me know. Otherwise,
we will be entering the units for repair. If that's a problem,
or you have a pooch who doesn't bode well with guests (read: tries
to eat them), also let me know at: XXX-XXXX.
Also, pretty please do not throw foodstuffs away in the front
lobby garbages. Those are only for junk mail. Thanks.
And to whomever in #XXXX - XXXX got lucky in the hall a week ago?
Rock on with your bad self. But next time, let's throw the condom
stuff away inside your unit rather than leaving it on the stairs.
- Heather
I kid you not. I swear to gawd, this is a destiny I cannot ever
completely escape. |
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October 12th, Two Thousand Three: Being blown off makes me cranky. It gives me extra lines in my
forehead and makes me pout and scowl (my mouth is big enough that
I can do both at the same time -- how cool am I?).
I'm currently hoping there's an explanation en route fairly soon
for a second date that wasn't (who knows, I may get a call later
-- benefit, doubt, you know the drill), because I had a fun time
on the first one and liked the chick muchly: funny, laid back,
seemed very comfy with herself, hot as all get-out. And good kisses.
But for the time being, I've been trying to convince myself that
a nice morning with Scott (my gay boyfriend who's been doing my
hair) over coffee and foils (no base color anymore, still letting
the grey come in at the base, but loads of red, chocolate and
blonde streaks, for those who care about my silly hair vanity
in the audience), a fun late lunch w/my new friend Julie, and...
I'm ending this sentence. I have no idea how to finish it the
right way without it going on for miles. So.
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That all of the above, plus a total boutique sale score which
includes the cutest sweater of all time (marked down from over
$100 to $30, corset attached), a fun shredded black lace top,
and a pair of Hollywood geisha pants I've wanted from Lip Service
for two years trumps being blown off. Especially because I got
the way over $100 pants at a paltry ten bucks (Ten. Bucks.) due to a minor zipper repair being needed, and
seemingly because the owner was floored by my charm and expansive
knowledge of the entire line.
(Using a colon would not have helped, for the record. That first
sentence attempt will just have to go in the grammar lost and
found where all the other abandoned sentences live and wait, forever
in vain, for a rescue which never arrives. So sad.)
I've been bemoaning of late that the one thing you can't do with
yourself sexually, or even come close to replicating is making
out and kissing. See, in my book, that's the stuff. I may have
mentioned this before because I'm somewhat obsessive and intense
about it. You just can't makeout-sterbate. No seriously, I've
tried. You can't. And that bites, because you know, if I could
do that, my life would be far less complicated and filled with
less disappointments.
Making out is a big deal for me. I know not everyone is into it,
but I'm the type who can make out for hours and hours. I could
go without other kinds of sex if I got good makeout (and sugarplum,
when I'm making out full-stop, it IS sex). When I have dates,
one of the first things I'm looking for are good kissers who mean
business. When I'm in relationships that are on the fritz, it
often first becomes clear because the extended kissing slows and
eventually grinds to a dead halt. With some possible exceptions
and the clear disclaimer that I cannot promise everyone will get
kisses of the same length or intensity, doing the kissing booth
for the Scarleteen benefit next week should not only be a total
breeze, it should be rather enjoyable. Yum. Kissiness.
... that's just how philanthropic I am, see. I have negotiated
a rate for said kisses at $5 each. The original estimate was $1,
but I felt like since I'll already probably look like a cheap
hussy, and be acting like a cheap hussy, we didn't need a price
tag that cemented me as being a cheap hussy. I mean, a dollar. Really. One might as well make
the sign read "Kisses: $1... or best offer." |
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(That'd be me being goofy at home whilst digging my sweater because
Audra asked and I cannot deny her. And I love the sweater. And
I always forget to put candids up here like I promise to.)
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(That dog in one of the photos, by the by, is not a Photoshop-stretched
version of Sofia. It's Kieffer, Becca's dog, who I've been dogsitting
over the weekend, an endeavor which has produced mixed reviews
, one of which may be evident in the bags under my eyes and my
missing rug. But so it goes. Dogs, like dates, can be unpredictable.)
Addendum: Oh! I forgot to mention some good news. My boxing trainer and
I went out for tea after training Saturday, and I was whining
about the fact that save Saturdays, all the other training times
are evenings, my least favorite time to train. Turns out he wants
a training partner so he can get his own workout without teaching
or a big class, so starting tomorrow, I get an extra morning a
week, a good hour and a half to two hours of one-on-one work w/him,
for free no less. I'll be having a lot more bruises than usual
given his size, but it's exactly what I've wanted. Hilariously,
every time we talk, he asks what I do, and he's politically and
personally conservative. While he's fine with it in his way, he
always gets pretty visibly uncomfortable. And yet, he always asks.
It's charming, really, but I can't make sense of it.
... lastly, a word about tracksuits. I don't care if they're made
out of velour, have a saucy little low-rise, or are paired with
a Gucci bag. They're tacky and hideous and best kept at home,
if they must be kept at all. |
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October 10th, Two Thousand Three: Huh. I apparently already have two dates while I'm in Austin.
And that'd be before I even got there. I heart my friends. I may
soon heart Texas as well. That'd be a shocker.
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I must, however, remind myself of lessons learned while flying
to Seattle this last time, especially since I have the longest
flying days ever, involving two flights each way, and it's all
a bit of a time crunch.
#1. Do not dress like a Russian immigrant, wearing all of your heaviest
things so that you don't have to carry them. Why? Because you're
going to have to take all of them off, and in public, no less.
I'm not really sure what my karma is that I can go nowhere without
having to get naked in front of people I don't know, but there's
something up. Maybe I was a yucky, sex-shamey nun in a previous
life. That'd not only explain the "you must be half-clad at all
times" thing, but maybe also why I don't get laid as often as
I like. It'd certainly explain the Irish-Italian gene pool I drowned
in.
In any event, guess how good an idea it wasn't to be wearing my
huge, lace-up-to-the-knee shiny combat boots, my cords with the
rivets, the jean jacket with the rivets, my big belt with matching
big-ass buckle, a hair tie with a metal circlet, an underwire
brassiere, and already have piercings and a finger with a metal
rod for a bone on the day they had the metal sensitivity at a
maximum? |
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Photography: 10.10
members (33 photos, guest model) • (1 • 2 • 3) • more photo updates |
When it got to the point where I had the boots off, the belt open,
the pants open, the hair down and was down to my baby tee, the
slightly butchy security gal asked if I was wearing an underwire
in a serious whisper, like wearing brassieres is something super-private
no one else can know. I tell her that yes, as a matter of fact
I am wearing a bra (Mom would be so proud) with an underwire.
She says she needs to run her little beep-beepie machine around
it, then feel around its edges.
Now, this woman seemed clearly not fully comfy with her identity,
and had sweat on her upper lip that formed while executing this
endeavor, and was touching my breasts like they'd set off an alarm
of their own. Not sure whether she was gay and that was the uncomfy
part, or if she was straight and uncomfy with the butchy part.
Maybe it was both, maybe it was none and I was just making her
uncomfortable. I suppose when she asks most folks if she can feel
them up in plain view they probably don't throw up their arms
and say "Whoohoo! Knock yourself out! I have a load of time before my
flight."
So, it wasn't all bad. I did get felt up, however clumsily. Everything
else goes next time, but the underwire stays.
#2. A friend (who really needs to get a journal name soon, this is
getting silly) suggested I do what you can do now with e-tickets
and print my boarding pass at home, which I did. It looked official
enough, bar code and all, but I was just not trusting it.
At the airport, I checked my duffel at the curb, then checked
in via the little e-ticket verifying machine. While I'm doing
this, a laid-back looking, kind of slouchy, probably mid-thirties
african-american guy starts circling behind me. He's not being
scary at all, just doing that bob-and-weave thing where he's checking
me out head to toe from several angles before he exhales and says
"Whoo girl, you are FINE. Do you have a man?" I don't want to get into the whole rigmarole that is the Dostoyevsky
novel of my sexual life and identity, so I just say, "No dude, I'm gay." He steps back, looks me over once more, then his eyes land and
set up camp on my tits. After an extended minute of boob-gazing,
while still looking at my boobs, he says "Well, you sure don't LOOK gay," to which I reply "Most folks boobs probably don't." He steps back again, does the whole bob-and-weave once more and
as he's walking away says, "Well, you're still fine."
Good answer, baby. The guy was seriously alright. I love people
sometimes.
Anyway, when I go to board the plane, I hand over my home-printed
boarding pass, preparing myself for it not to work. But it does!
Damn! So, which girl without any sort of filter on her mouth squeals
out in surprise, "Wow, it worked!?!" Uh huh. Suffice it to say, I had to stand there for five minutes
while they then held it up to the light, ran fingers over it,
the works, all the while muttering "That's not the kind of 'Wow, it worked,' I meant," and wondering if I'd have to get naked one more time before I
could leave the airport. In a word, don't do that.
Wonder if I can find a muzzle that won't set off metal detectors. |
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October 9th, Two Thousand Three: Getting settled back in here at home. of course, I'm leaving again
for Austin in about a week, so I'll have to do it all over again
shortly, but so it goes.
Before I prattle on and fanny about with about anything else,
a short note on why I'll be in Austin next weekend, what I'm doing
there, and why you should join me in some of that.
For starters, I'll be there for the Web Writers Weekend, where I'm leading a saucy sex reading to open up the gig, then
collaborating on a panel about writing for your readers (in which
I can certainly add plenty about how since I seem to piss a lot
of mine off all the time, I may know less about that than I thought).
Registration for the conference (AKA Journalcon) is closed, but
if you're already signed up to go, find me (it's not exactly difficult)
and say hello. Better still, buy me a drink, then say hello. I
really do only bite if asked very nicely.
What you CAN come to is the Scarleteen benefit the lovely and talented Mintpink has organized on Monday evening, October 20th, starting at 9:30
at 219 West (on the corner of 4th and Lavaca) in Austin. There
will be drag kings. There will be burlesque. There will be belly
dancing. There will even be a kissing booth with yours truly,
wearing some slinky something-or-other, who will have loaded up
on a stockpile of vitamin C to avoid catching anyone's cold. There
will be everything one's heart and nether regions might require,
and it'll all benefit Scarleteen. So, if you're in pilgrimage-distance,
you should come. If you're in Austin proper and you don't come,
count yourself unforgiven.
I'll also be visiting, chilling, partying and sun-soaking with
Mintpink, Todd and Debby, with Evan, with Lee and Lauren Stranahan,
and will be doing both some shooting and modeling while I'm there.
I am also presently accepting applications for dates while I'm
up there as well. All insanely delicious butch girls in Austin
are highly encouraged to apply. I am, for the record, a highly
proficient multitasker. Just sayin.'
I find myself in a bit of a difficult spot lately when it comes
to the journal. The big things going on in my emotional life are
largely private right now, and I want them to remain so, but it
feels a little weird not to talk about them.
Not that talking about other important things, like work, is filler.
In fact, more and more lately I'm trying to come to a certain
level of acceptance with the fact that it's very likely that for
most of my life, my creative work is, and will become even more
so, my primary partner. There are a few reasons for that. One,
because it's time consuming and really requires my total dedication,
especially at this point. Two, because it seems to scare the hell
out of a lot of people especially women who I might date. I've
had a lot of almost-dates lately that reached a total standstill/no-go
when my work was seen. It intimidates people (though some folks
have their shit together enough to state openly that it or I intimidate
them, but they want to meet me all the same, gods bless'em).
Jane and I were talking about it a bit while I was in Seattle.
It's a funny switch for me, because when I dated men, it was ANYTHING
but a red light. In fact, quite the opposite. Jane posited that
was because men were assuming what I did meant they would get
laid. Mind you, we're talking about me here, and I have no qualms
admitting that when I get to the date stage, I'm a pretty sure
thing, so that may be moot. Or I may have been (and still) unwittingly
reinforcing the belief that anyone who works in sex is easy. To
anyone who has suffered because of my possibly doing such, my
sincere apologies.
Okay, my half-assed apologies. I like being easy (save the tailbone
fractures), and only care about what stereotypes it may reinforce
because I feel like I'm supposed to.
Point is, at this stage in my life, it's an obstacle. And I don't
want to change what I do in terms of the genre and subject of
my work until (and if) it shifts by itself or my own interest
shifts. I certainly don't want to change what I do to try and
make myself more palatable to other people because what I do is
a lot of who I am. tricky business, though, the whole lot. Who'da
thunk working in sex would make it harder to actually get some.
Life and its witty little surprises, I tell you.
A friend recently asked me what I was looking for in terms of
partnerships. And what I told her is that right now, I'd like
to have some good sex a couple times a week, some nice dinners
and outings and good camaraderie and friendship with that someone
or someone's. And that's true. I'm not looking for big loves of
my life because I don't want them, but because in my experience,
those things organically happen and grow. You can't look for them,
save being open to them happening. I'm not closed to that sort
of thing at all, I just find that when that happens it's always
a bit of a surprise that slowly reveals itself to me, usually
when I least expect it, rather than something I actively seek
out.
But having something deeper than sex/dinner/bowling is also riddled
with obstacles right now beyond my work. Like my very much wanting
to remain living alone, preferably always from here on in. It
isn't that I don't like living with other people romantically,
it can be really lovely. But ultimately, I've come to a conclusion
that it's truly better for me and the quality of my relationships
long-term when I live by myself and have a lot of private space
and time.
Ever done dyke dating with a total closed door on possible cohabitation
from the onset? Boy, is that an adventure, lemme tell you.
Here's my other big favorite of late. I have somehow become a
bicurious, straight, femme girl magnet in the worst way. I'm at
the point where my personals ad is getting those kinds of responses
almost DAILY. I'm, in fact, considering finding some organization
to let me host monthly seminars for bicurious women. Not only
could I fill the room from personals ad people alone, I'd be compensated
for my time, AND all the bicurious girls could hook up with each
other and be each others petrie dishes. It'd be the best of all
possible worlds for everyone. And it'd actually be fun. I mean,
with such topics as No, Gina Gershon is NOT Butch or Lee Press-On Nails, That Tattoo on Your Ass That Reads "Dick"
and 28 Other Ways To Make Dykes Run Screaming in The Opposite
Direction (or at least need extra time in the ER or therapy) or Dyke Dog Years: The New Math and Other Sapphic Mysteries or I'm Okay, You're Okay, and It's Really, Totally Okay, I Swear
To Gawd, That You Don't Like the Indigo Girls who wouldn't want to sign right up?
Look, I'm not going to diss sexual or romantic curiousity in the
least; better an open mind than a closed one in my book, and the
more love anyone can bring into their lives, the better. And I
can envision limited scenarios in which I'd be totally fine fiddling
round with someone in that scenario. Bicurious I might be able
to get past. Femme, in some scenarios, I can also find attractive.
But. Functional illiteracy I cannot bypass. Total dismissal of my
wants and needs from the onset I cannot bypass. When nearly every
letter or introduction starts with "I know you said you're looking for a dyke, but..." which seems to end with the unsaid ".... I don't give a flying fuck what you want or need because
this is what I want to sate my curiousity/lust up my marriage/make
me feel like a slut for a day/come out as bisexual with as little
risk as possible at your expense?" AFTER I have made very clear I'm not up for bicurious experimenting?
I can't get past that. It makes me all pissy. I start snapping
my hands around and jutting my neck out like a total queen gene-spliced
with a chicken.
(And reminds me that I still need to make the t-shirt I've been
wanting which reads, "It's Not Me, It's You.")
While I'm not willing to change myself to make myself more appealing
to anyone, in this instance, if someone could tell me what it
is about me that is creating said magnetic bicurious pull, I'd
seriously consider changing it to make myself less appealing.
Did I mention that I got to start my day in an argument at the
Scarleteen boards from a young woman who finds that I'm not a
good pro-choice role model or a good choice activist because I
don't use the fresh-out-of-women's-studies lingo and approach
that's this year's model and because my experiences with abortion
and how I express them aren't how she wants them expressed? Told
I use anti-choice rhetoric and was clearly infected with such?
Which is comical, really, considering that when I formulated most
of my opinions about abortion there wasn't an Internet, nor any
broad forum through which to hear said rhetoric at all, save when
one volunteered to help outside of clinics. But I guess one wouldn't
know that when one was nearly in diapers at the time. (Do you
think some of us, present company included, use our age or experience
as a seniority-status thang to try and make up for some of the
shitty parts of getting older? I mean, I can't exactly brag about
the charming effects of gravity, but I can say I remember John
lennon being shot. I think it may be possible.) Bitter, me? Nevah.
Sick of bullshit being hurled at me just because I'm available
and visible? You fuckin' betcha.
Yeah, so, I'm a little pissy today, period. I think I need more
coffee and some training to let off some steam.
But, stuff isn't all bad, I'm just being a bit of an Eeyore this
morning. I had a really nice dinner last night with a friend (and
got to take some cool photos of a burnt-out truck, post fire),
followed by an evening of hanging out here at home drinking wine
with Becca, and started that day with good coffee time with another
pal. I have training Saturday morning. I have some amazing photographic
work to start editing, and the test prints I did on the fabulous
new printer yesterday kicked it utterly. Checks I was told were
in the mail actually were in the mail. We're having an indian summer right now. I have
a bathroom stocked with more Lush goodies than should be legal.
My gay boyfriend has time to do my hair Sunday so I no longer
have to look like Cousin It (or maybe so I look like a more stylish
Cousin It, hard to call that one).
Oh, and I have a date tomorrow afternoon. With someone with the
cajones to say from the onset she's a bit intimdated but still
wants to meet me, gods bless'er. |
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