Friday, July 31, 2009


I have, in the past, been accused of stealing $17K from an anonymous someone (who probably doesn't exist) who was "using that money for rehab" by a boy who claimed to hop from roof top to roof top wielding a missile launcher and shooting people in alleys in broad daylight to "protect my honor." I've been accused of stealing kazillion dollar heirloom diamond rings from grandmothers who died in the Holocaust. I've been accused of stealing wives, husbands, senses of moral dignity. I've been accused of stealing cars, motorcycles, heavy artillery, and once I was accused of kidnapping a child (not including all of the women I supposedly impregnated. Yes, I know. I don't get it, either). So, pray tell, why would I want to steal your shit? With a track record like that, I can already fund a small sized country, and even support a harem to boot. What could I possibly want with your things?

Also, I've garnered a shiny new insult to add to my record: predator. Now, I've got quite a roster list of insults under my belt. I've been called everything from heartless to heartbreaker, cocktease to slut, bitch to bimbo to ball breaker. I've been called an ice queen, a heathen, a harlot, a cunt, a psycho, a homewrecker, a prude. In the public's defense, I've also been called a lot of really nice things, but let's stick to the subject here. Predator? Really? I mean, I'm certainly not a pushover, but a predator? Predators are those people who stake out the badly lit areas of bars and wait for the first signs of someone getting just a tad-too-drunk. Predators drive windowless white vans and dangle candy from the locking slide-open door. Contrary to (apparent) popular belief, I don't need to engage in stake outs for human company. I'm quite content with the average, run-of-the-mill, "Hi, how are you?"

A friend of mine told me that I should wear Predator like a badge. He said, "Predator is a much better title than cocktease!" And, okay, I can see his point -- it's original (it's not every day you get to be called and entirely new derogatory term!) and it removes that whole heteronormative thing that ticks me off (just because I have a cunt doesn't mean I only like cock, you silly sex fascists of the world).

I wonder what kind of predator I would be, in the natural kingdom. And if you say black window, you deserve to sit through the Spice Girls discography on loop until your ears bleed.

And for something completely different: I have Apples to Apples. Who wants to drink whiskey and come play?

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Written on the Body

I have always been intrigued by the idea of the body as a text. How memories, actions, accidents, are reflected and translated by skin. Through scars, through body modification, through wrinkles and blemishes. How a sleepless night inscribes itself beneath your eyelids, how joy and sorrow are carved along the brow, the lips, the corners of the eye.

I've entertained the notion of having script tattooed all over my body. But what would it say? I am both aesthetically and erotically invested in the idea of language written upon my skin. The way desire is transmitted in the idle tracings over fingertips across my back, in the crook of my elbow, the palms of my hands. Heat pressed hard into my cheekbones, firm against my thigh, cradled softly and possessively along the sharp line of my jaw. There are certain types of touch that will stop my heart, steal my breath, and leave me dizzy and wanting.

I like the idea of Henna. Markings that are beautiful because they are temporary. The idea of messages being painted along the dark, secret places of my body that are only shown in moments of intimacy. Brands of desire in red, brown, and black. Or paint, something that smudges and smears as the body grows damp and hot with sweat. Gold, silver, bronze -- liquid metal that grows illegible, an analog to the loss of control and logic.

Not to mention, I like the way words look.

Thursday, July 23, 2009

This picture was taken over five years ago (I know, I haven't aged a bit. Call it dumb luck, call it the blood of virgins, whatever). I had just come back from a three hour drive after staying up for two days after working an eight hour shift after writing a term paper. And all of that without cocaine, or meth, or magic fairy dust that flits me off to Never Never Land. I don't think I've ever been that exhausted.

Except perhaps right about now.

It's been, yet again, well over a month since I've last posted on this blog. How stupid of me. Why even carve out your own little piece of the internet if you aren't going to use it? Well, let's see kiddos:

[ 1 ]

I work four days a week as a bartender in a 24-hour St Claude bar. If you don't know anything about New Orleans, let's just say that St Claude, and the surrounding neighborhood, is home to sleazy prostitutes, crackheads, and demanding dickwads who don't know how to leave a tip. Sure, we get our fair share of artists, interesting characters (remind me to tell you about Sir Leningrad), fellow service industry slaves, dancers, swingers, preachers, refined call girls, rambling packs of fetishists, travelers, anarchists, scholars, and all around fun people. But when you work the graveyard shift like me, more often than not, you're going to deal with crackheads.

If I were paid a dollar for the amount of times I've been proposed to, propositioned (was offered $100 just to take my shirt off, once; an all expenses trip overseas to let this bloke to put his face in my cunt), cat-called, offered drugs, got in a fight, kicked someone out, or played match-maker to a hook-up just to get some douche bag to leave me alone, I'd pay for a fucking Ivy League education within a month.

For now, I'll deal with the crumpled bra-dollars and the paltry cigarette cellophane as a tip.

[ 2 ]

I'm typically performing in two different shows each week, sometimes three. One show is on Bourbon Street, the other on Rampart. Both bars have their ups and their downs; on Bourbon, there's a bigger crowd, which is always fun: on Rampart, I never have to worry about appeasing anyone.

I'm still becoming accustomed to queer women's society here in New Orleans. It's far different than any other I've seen -- the gay bars here in NOLA are, of course, overwhelmingly geared toward gay men. It's been like that in every place I've ever been. But the gay women here in NOLA don't seem to really have a presence of their own, though there are some women trying to carve out a place for a queer women's culture. There are three different drag king troupes in this town (which, trust me, is a lot), but no real feeling of community. Everyone fights, everyone's a rival, an everyone's got to sign their allegiance somewhere. It's silly, and I'm not really sure how to deal with it, so I don't, and I stay out of it. Hence the Rampart show: I'm the first king to perform with them, and I can't say that I'm not proud of it, because I damned well am, but it's not a king thing -- it's a queen show that just so happened to let me hop on board.

Aside from those two main points, there are a million other things in my day to day life that drag me away from coming to this blog, but I intend to put a stop to that. I might not post every day, or every other day, but I'm going to make it a point to come back here. Treat it like meditation, maybe.

'Cause hell, I've got to do something other than sling drinks, scheme, and prance about on stage. At least every once in a while.