Today is Transgender Day of Visibility (or something?). And I've seen it all. Here's a throwback to prove it. It's not PC, but real deal life rarely is...
I took a day trip to visit my favorite tranny prostitute. When I got to her place about noon, she was banging out a trick in the front window of her library. Some neighbors had gathered across the street to listen to her talk shit and watch the scene. I thought about setting up camp with them, but all her material is old to me so I let myself in and helped myself to her medicine cabinet. When her work was done we had a margarita lunch and headed down to the beach to make people uncomfortable. We offered a number of men the opportunity to show some penis, cat called all the daddies, and made sure to praise the girls that were givin' fish. A few ladies suspiciously eyed my bathing suit no doubt wondering if everything they saw was God given. My friend discovered a man in a wet suit with push for days and left me to my own devices while I gave eyeballs to a dyke standing outside a cheap novelty store.
I'm glad my nasty fish cut it short to attend her evening church services and get to choir practice--all in all it was a relaxing day, nothing too eventful, and it went on just long enough to remain enjoyable.
I hope you're givin' it to that congregation tonight in that YSL dress, bitch...
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Sunday, March 27, 2016
The Weekly Walk With Me
I was probably about 12 when I discovered Patti Smith via the Easter record. A lot of people will poo- poo this record because it was her most commercial thanks to 'Because the Night', which has a murky history all its own--written by Springsteen first, discarded and given to Patti, Patti rewrote it and recorded it first, then Springsteen would perform Patti's version for the rest of his career. But sometimes commercial is necessary. If it hadn't been for Easter's success, it probably would've taken me much longer to hear it, see it, learn it, pick it apart. And fall in love with Patti Smith.
6. The cover. Here was this woman in a simple, almost bible-slave-ish muslin dress. Simple, effortless. Is she posing, or putting up her hair? She's not pretty, doesn't seem to want to be, but the pose could be an attempt at sexy. But then there's the armpit hair. For a 12 year old girl learning what girls are supposed to look like, begging her mother to shave, it should have been off-putting. It wasn't. It seemed completely normal and obvious, subtle. And every female artist I've seen since then showing off her armpit hair always seems to be trying too hard to "shock" me.
5. The liner notes. Photographs by Robert Mapplethorpe. Yep, that one. I would later learn that Patti and Robert were in fact lovers, but before I knew all that it was strictly the photographs. There was no sheen, no sexuality. Just the opposite actually. I was so confused by what this was. Here were these paragraphs of religious references and imagery paired with photos that invoked something sinister and offensive for some reason I couldn't quite figure. I felt like I was doing something wrong by unfolding them, as this were a centerfold in the hands of a teenage boy. I had to hear this record because of those liner notes.
4. The reaction from my Dad. Easter was released in 1978, and here I was 11 or so years later asking my father what he knew about the Patti Smith Group. The look on his face was sort of asking "who do I know with a Patti Smith record, where did she hear this?" I will always be sure that I also saw a little bit of terror, but he was never one to censor music for me. It was that look that told me this was something I should pursue. There were no used record stores then, and no internet, so I couldn't go out and scour the racks for more records. I couldn't google and find out all there was to know about her, hear more of the catalogue, order it up with a push of a button. So it took some effort to learn what I could and try to find more. I probably haven't had to put that much effort into anything since.
3. Rock n Roll Nigger. There is nothing I can say about this song that hasn't already been said. It's been picked apart and analyzed. The pros and cons broken down--more so in recent years than when it was released. As a kid I was horrified. Here were these words being spat out by a woman, words that I'd been taught shouldn't be said at all-by anyone. It was angry and raw and guttural and masculine. Is it racist? I don't think so. But I'm white so maybe it's not for me to decide. For the record, this song did not change my life the way most people will claim. But it did make me think about words, and how to say them, and how to use them, and it validated how I thought about them in a way.
2. My copy cost $6.00. I had to listen to the schmuck who sold it to me try his best to act like he knew all there was to know about the records in my stack. He tried to sell me an old Time magazine because it had Bowie on the cover. He explained what Instagram was as if I were mildly retarded because I told him I didn't use it. He smirked and asked "what was up" with me buying Easter and skipping over Horses. And then had the nerve to ask if I knew what Horses was. I wanted to walk away without giving him a dime of my money, but I gladly stole his near-mint copy with complete liner notes for $6.00.
1. My copy has this autograph. I. Live...
Six Things I Love About Easter
6. The cover. Here was this woman in a simple, almost bible-slave-ish muslin dress. Simple, effortless. Is she posing, or putting up her hair? She's not pretty, doesn't seem to want to be, but the pose could be an attempt at sexy. But then there's the armpit hair. For a 12 year old girl learning what girls are supposed to look like, begging her mother to shave, it should have been off-putting. It wasn't. It seemed completely normal and obvious, subtle. And every female artist I've seen since then showing off her armpit hair always seems to be trying too hard to "shock" me.
5. The liner notes. Photographs by Robert Mapplethorpe. Yep, that one. I would later learn that Patti and Robert were in fact lovers, but before I knew all that it was strictly the photographs. There was no sheen, no sexuality. Just the opposite actually. I was so confused by what this was. Here were these paragraphs of religious references and imagery paired with photos that invoked something sinister and offensive for some reason I couldn't quite figure. I felt like I was doing something wrong by unfolding them, as this were a centerfold in the hands of a teenage boy. I had to hear this record because of those liner notes.
4. The reaction from my Dad. Easter was released in 1978, and here I was 11 or so years later asking my father what he knew about the Patti Smith Group. The look on his face was sort of asking "who do I know with a Patti Smith record, where did she hear this?" I will always be sure that I also saw a little bit of terror, but he was never one to censor music for me. It was that look that told me this was something I should pursue. There were no used record stores then, and no internet, so I couldn't go out and scour the racks for more records. I couldn't google and find out all there was to know about her, hear more of the catalogue, order it up with a push of a button. So it took some effort to learn what I could and try to find more. I probably haven't had to put that much effort into anything since.
3. Rock n Roll Nigger. There is nothing I can say about this song that hasn't already been said. It's been picked apart and analyzed. The pros and cons broken down--more so in recent years than when it was released. As a kid I was horrified. Here were these words being spat out by a woman, words that I'd been taught shouldn't be said at all-by anyone. It was angry and raw and guttural and masculine. Is it racist? I don't think so. But I'm white so maybe it's not for me to decide. For the record, this song did not change my life the way most people will claim. But it did make me think about words, and how to say them, and how to use them, and it validated how I thought about them in a way.
2. My copy cost $6.00. I had to listen to the schmuck who sold it to me try his best to act like he knew all there was to know about the records in my stack. He tried to sell me an old Time magazine because it had Bowie on the cover. He explained what Instagram was as if I were mildly retarded because I told him I didn't use it. He smirked and asked "what was up" with me buying Easter and skipping over Horses. And then had the nerve to ask if I knew what Horses was. I wanted to walk away without giving him a dime of my money, but I gladly stole his near-mint copy with complete liner notes for $6.00.
1. My copy has this autograph. I. Live...
Friday, March 25, 2016
And Living Proof that Sometimes Friends Are Mean...
I’m not
really sure what Good Friday is, but I do know I’m gonna dance myself clean
this weekend. It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve had a proper bender. I’ve been having some work done—ink, not
eyelids—and attending committee meetings for “fun”, in an effort to be a
contributor to society who gives of her time and her talents. I also did a sit-up last week so I’m still recovering
from that. Not to mention how exhausted
I am from risking injury and reputation to save a life yesterday.
There I was
having a nice read and a ginger ale on a sunny patio. I was totally alone except for this
squirrelly little wire-haired man on the opposite end. (Probably because most people work for a
living on Thursday afternoon.) The wind
picked up so fiercely it started to move my cocktail ginger ale, and
suddenly I heard a horrid screech of metal and an awkward man-cry. A table umbrella had flown at my nerd friend,
knocking his table over on top of him.
Normally in
this situation I would pretend not to notice and keep reading as if a tornado
wasn’t happening around me. I don’t get
involved. I don’t help strange little old people across the street; I rarely
even look at traffic accidents. I just
keep it movin’. But I was having a
pretty serious moral dilemma here. I was
the only other person on the patio
and I didn’t see anyone from inside rushing to help… So I (reluctantly) went over with a
half-hearted “you OK?” and helped scrape the bits of shrimp and corn out of
Napoleon Dynamite’s hair. I righted
tables, picked up chairs. Cranked down
umbrellas, collected bev naps. I would’ve
offered him my stylist’s card, but I didn’t want to seem overly selfless.
Anyway, it was the highlight of my day, seeing someone’s life in shambles like
that. Not life-threatening or
permanently catastrophic—just those 10 minutes or so of ruin.
And so, to all
you detractors who think I couldn’t survive in the wild or be of any help in
your post-apocalyptic community, or that I’d snap my gum, roll my eyes, and
saunter away if I ever found myself on ‘What Would You Do?’, I am a good
fucking Samaritan, and I shouldn’t have to wait till last to get picked for
your disaster team. You’re welcome.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
The Weekly Walk With Me
Love it or hate it, mainstream radio is like a certain comfort food. Just like Memaw's daytime stories, you can turn it off for five years, come back, and still recognize the main characters. It doesn't even have to be throwback Thursday. Which always makes me wonder what will happen to golden oldies one day, and on what sort of format will the eighties be played? Until then...
Anything by Kanye. With the exception of Love Lockdown. That one's not really a rager. And I always find myself rapping the vulgarities over the radio edits. Yep-I just said "rapping".
Anything by Erasure. Anything.
All those Jay Z singles from that old Vol. 2 record. Just because it's fun to still hear them on white radio.
10 (and then some) Radio Songs That Make Me Lose My Shit In The Car
Anything by Kanye. With the exception of Love Lockdown. That one's not really a rager. And I always find myself rapping the vulgarities over the radio edits. Yep-I just said "rapping".
Anything by Erasure. Anything.
All those Jay Z singles from that old Vol. 2 record. Just because it's fun to still hear them on white radio.
Thursday, March 17, 2016
Your Garbage Style Used to Save the Night...
Today is
Thursday. I know this because yesterday
was Wednesday, and tomorrow will be Friday.
It’s also St. Patrick’s Day, but I refuse to sacrifice a specific sense
of style for swill-guzzling amateurs. So
the only green I’m wearing is the fading Sharpie ink scrawled on my hand. “DRY CLEANING”, it says. I know what day it is because I keep track of
things now. I have a schedule to
keep. And dry cleaning to pick up.
It hasn’t
always been this way. When this ‘knowing
the days of the week’ life started it was just another unexpected adventure. An
adventure whose outcome I was excited for.
But this isn’t new anymore. It is
familiar and droning. And I knew this
would happen someday. Realizing what I’ve
become. Another spoke in the wheel. Waiting patiently in line for the train, for
a meal, for a drink, to consume.
Yesterday—Wednesday—I
spent $88.39 just to live a day in this life.
On nothing of substance, on nothing that made a memory. On coffee, and
lunch in plastic, and pharmacy. And dry
cleaning.
There was a
time I could wake up and have someone tell me where I was, the time of day, the
day of the week. I rarely brushed my
hair. I didn’t care if I packed
underwear. I cried loud. I laughed louder. I got up and walked away—whenever I wanted.
But today is
Thursday. Today I wake up to an alarm
clock. I swallow seven (7) pills every
morning, with food. I use post-its, I
take note, I draft rules and regulations--the ones I never seemed to understand
before. The ones I was always on the
verge of breaking—I have a reasonable number of cocktails with dinner. I own
guest towels. I swallow one (1) pill,
sometimes two (2), at bedtime—with eight ounces (8 oz.) or more of water as
directed. And I settle.
Sunday, March 13, 2016
Not The Greatest Feeling Ever...
Worst Date Ever: Dude Edition
I encountered this guy in a chain restaurant. So I was already pissed. We exchanged some pretty serious fuck yous over his drunken douchery. And because I'm such a pristine lady, he was escorted out. Months later, in an 'only me' twist of fate, I ended up his manager. I knew him immediately but never said anything because he didn't seem to recognize me, and he was actually a likeable enough guy. Then we did that whole after work drink thing and it came out. From him, not me. Turns out he did know who I was and apologized for his atrocious first impression. He was going through things, blah blah...A casual friendship ensued.
Until one day he called and asked if I would see Nine Inch Nails with him. (Um, duh.) Then he wanted to be sure I understood that this would be a date. (Um...OK, sure.) I'd like to point out here that this was the With Teeth tour, so we were all grown adults by then. And I was no longer his boss, thank g-d for him.
The plan was to make a day of it--hang, pregame, dinner, show. The day of, he calls and asks me if I can pick him up-his car had crapped out. I missed the red flag, well because, shit happens. I get to his apartment in the middle of a very serious game of World of Warcraft. I sit quietly with minimal interaction so as not to shatter his brow-furrowing concentration. Like an hour later we head to my place. Where he proceeds to get so stoned he can't even talk. Like slack-jawed, fucking comatose, stoned.--So much for the getting to know you better time.
When he's finally able to utter a few syllables, we head out for dinner. I use this term loosely. I wasn't looking for four star dining, I'm a fairly low-maintenance gal, and we were doing NIN after all. But I thought there would at least be a bar involved. So we end up at Jersey Mike's. Yep. Where my knight in shining armor orders himself a sandwich, pays for it, then walks away from the counter to sit down. By the time I get to the table he's ripped through half his food like a savage. Mayo down his arm, shit dripping from his elbow. Talking (I think) with his mouth full. The only thing getting me through this was knowing I'd be just feet away from my future ex-husband Trent within the hour.
And then there we were. Two lines formed--boys and girls. Pat downs and bag checks. Girl line of course took eons because girls carry stupid shit around with them at all times. I finally get through the door and Casanova is nowhere to be found. Maybe he went to get a beer? I walk the perimeter of the coliseum with no sign of him, so I find my seat. There he is!! Already sitting and texting away like he couldn't be bothered by his surroundings. For. the entire. show.
As we walk out, a Maxim magazine cover approaches. Legs-a lot of them, boobs-a lot of them, blonde hair-a lot of it, blue eyes-both of them. Guess who this walking sex stick turns out to be... My handsome, attentive, romantic date's girlfriend. And there I stand with my good personality, in my combat boots and hair I hadn't brushed in a week. (Don't get me wrong, I can hold my own. But there was really no contest here, and I have no problem saying so.) A few mumbled words and glares were exchanged and before I knew it, Maxim was asking me for a ride.
We left Cyrano standing on the curb, and discovered we had a lot more in common than just horrible taste in men. We became fast friends-rarely ever talked about him-and went on to have even crazier stories to tell than this one. To this day she's one of my favorite people. And him? No idea, and as I started writing this I realized I can't even remember his last name...
Thursday, March 10, 2016
A Hustle Here and A Hustle There...
regret in missing.
white washed
flat. black.
this house that Zorn built.
big. black.
this lap that Jones wet.
seeing,
through closed lids
and feeling,
usually below,
this time though
someplace higher
hearing,
but for the whirring human machine
silence.
and the voice of these
bellowing muses
in my gut
coming to from this road coma
stale air on a stained street
(which is real?) what. is. real.
unclear
i choke myself awake.
somehow,
whole again.
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