achtung! android

2011-05-03T03:00:00.000-07:00

Guess who can use this blog again, as well as my tumblr?

Well, isn't that kind of cumbersome. Two blogs?

What should I do about this?

2011-04-19T10:24:00.000-07:00

Hello, everyone.

I've been having some problems with this program, so I'm moving over to tumblr for the most part.

http://achtungandroid.tumblr.com/

Come on over, y'all!

Beautiful.

2011-04-01T15:35:00.001-07:00

via Al in Philly

DUDE: Or, Why Catalog Images Matter

2011-03-30T22:39:00.000-07:00

I love latex. I love men in latex. I love wearing latex. I've got no problem with people wearing latex. But someone please inform me why, in a catalog photo for a fetish clothing company, this dude is going for a brisk morning jog?

I AM MOTHERFUCKING BATMAN.

I don't even know, dude.

Imagine that stare at you. Just do it. Srsly.

And this, my friends, is GOLD.

WHAT?!

It's really important to take good catalog photos, y'all. Whether it's etsy, eBay, or your Spring couture line, presentation is important. Don't be these guys -- instead of looking at their handiwork, I'm too busy laughing at these ridiculous photos. Why do you think the fashion industry spends so much money on editorials? Presentation is everything.

I will return to posting about things that aren't absolutely ridiculous. At some point, I might even say something intelligent. But right now?

Think about that last image. Think long and hard.

Your life's not so bad now, is it?

That's what I thought.

*hey, laughing is what the internet is for. don't get all butt-hurt, now.

2011-02-21T08:00:00.000-08:00

For me, sexuality is as mental as it is physical, as sacred as it is nature (and who is to say nature is not imbued with sanctity, and vis versa?). The moment when two hands meet with the same electricity, when two people come together with mutual desire and respect and vulnerability -- that moment, to me, is ritual. I am in no way a religious person, but I cannot help but notice that every time we express ourselves erotically, something profound happens. Whether casual romping or the product of a long term love, there is something inherently breathtaking about the machination of giving another person pleasure, and learning to accept that pleasure from others.

I do not mean to say that sex essentially links our hearts or souls to another person, only that there is something about the nature of sexuality and sexual expression that tells us something about ourself, and creates a space for openness. I believe that, if given freedom from shame and fear, claiming our own desires allows us a richer world, and one in which we will more comfortably find ourselves. What better way to get to know yourself than to learn your body, to know what turns you on and what feels good?

I have often found it difficult to articulate desire plain-spoken. The nature of my arousal, my sexuality, my eros most naturally comes dressed in metaphor and lyricism: an elusive courtesan, humming madly beneath layers of silk and intention. In spite of my own verbal apprehensions, eros is a lens through which I see most of the world, a fuzz and warmth that informs and shapes my experiences as a person. Eros, desire and need are enmeshed in my life inextricably, each casting a glow to the smallest of details -- the feel of fishnet stockings against my thighs as I walk; a silk tie firm against my collar; the force of a bass beat or a smoke stained vocal line; a lover's penmanship, slurred with anticipation.

Owning your sexuality can be hard, especially if you come from a repressive culture, or if your desires don't necessarily follow what is considered mainstream. Hell, it's scary sometimes, even to yourself. Coming to terms with my own sexuality meant facing a slew of seeming contradictions, taboos, foreign territories, and many rejections. There are desires of mine that I have yet to speak aloud, but I have learned to say them to myself, to reassert their validity over and over as mine, and as okay. I think this is important, something we all owe to ourselves. And eventually, when we're ready, let it out in the world. Trust me, as I am learning to trust myself: it will be okay.

And kids, I know I went all heavy with this post, but this part is important: sexuality is beautiful, but it is also silly. Don't be afraid to laugh sometimes, don't be afraid to get messy, and for fuck's sake, don't forget to have fun. If you aren't having fun, you're doing it wrong.

The Immaculate Conception, or: Adventures with Sasha's Uterus

2010-07-28T12:30:00.000-07:00

photographer unknown

DISCLAIMER:
So, I normally don't bother with disclaimers. I mean, this is me we're talking about. I'm vulgar and direct and could really give a fuck what people think about it. But, heads up: this entry deals with blood, cunts, and sex. If you've got a problem with that, move right along.

So, I've got the world's bitchiest uterus.

I just started bleeding today. That might not be such a big deal, but it's early. Wicked early. Weeks early. What the fuck, uterus? Why are you such a hateful bitch? Why can't you just shed and bleed when you're supposed to?

Once, I was standing in the religious curio section of Wal-Greens (this is Louisiana -- yes, there is a religious section at the drugstore), and I spontaneously started bleeding. On the floor. In the middle of the fucking store. From my cunt. The look on the clerk's face as the blood spattered against the linoleum floor? Fucking priceless.

A few months ago, Chemlab rolled through town. It was a fucking fantastic show. They blew the fucking house out. I strolled up in that show in a three piece suit and enough red glitter to make David Bowie blush. And you know what? My vag starts bleeding a full TWO WEEKS EARLY. The next day? Nothing. I had a torrential downpour of blood from my vagina for one day, writhing and dancing to some of my adolescent heroes. I figure I must've started bleeding in tribute to Chemlab, because bloody cunts are FUCKING RIVET.

My sheets are black, not just because I've got a penchant for the dark and macabre (leave your spooky jokes at the door, please, I've heard them all), but because I've got a habit of waking up random days smeared and sticky with blood. Yep, that's me, the eternal extra on a snuff film set.

So, for Halloween last year, I was working at Kajun's on St Claude. Around then, we had a lingerie night every week. Halloween fell on lingerie night, and so I had to wear something scandalous and sexorific to work. I was perplexed. What could I possibly wear to work that is clearly sexual, yet also clearly a costume?

Obviously, back alley abortion nun was my first choice.

Short nun's dress, habit, a rubber fetus hanging from a coat hanger around my neck, and about a gallon of fake blood smeared between my legs. Yes, friends, it was fucking fabulous. After work, some friends and I decided to hit the road. While I was crossing the street, cocktail in hand, I watched the slaw-jawed, glazed eyed look of horror dawn on the faces of passerby. My response? "THE IMMACULATE CONCEPTION HAS BEEN CANCELED!"

Classy fucking bitch, this one.

I might be a little miffed at the whole gory vag thing, but truth be told, I find blood to be pretty sexy. It's raw. It's pure sex and instinct. It's visually striking. There's little I find more sexy than seeing my blood on my lover's skin, or licking the blood from their's (and I'm not just talking from my cunt, either). Yeah, it's kinda weird, but hey, I never said I was normal, after all.

Also, I've noticed that I use the word FUCK a lot. A whole lot. I've got an A-list vocabulary, and I always come back to good ol' FUCK. It's classic. Deal with it.

Cultivating Consent (or, ideas constructed in the wee hours of the morning)

2010-07-14T12:21:00.000-07:00

Image by Ruben Vega

Alright, kids. Sit down. Grab a drink, put on some mood music, get comfy. It's about time we talked about sex.

If we're going to do this, I suppose it's only fair if I give you a bit of background on me. In a nutshell, I am a certain brand of a feminist's nightmare. You know, the type that think porn is evil and breeds violence towards women (and is, itself, an act of violence)? You know, the type that think that a healthy spanking (by a lover) or some highly sexualized lingerie are ten steps backward in the liberation of society from the patriarchy?

Yeah, those. They hate me. If you ask me, what goes down between consenting adults is A-OKAY.

I, personally, have proclivities all over the place. Now, I'm not saying there aren't any fuzzy grey areas (my issues with the current porn industry are many, even though I do not think that porn is inherently evil – I'll go into these issues in a later post). But in a brass-tacks, simplified, boiled down narrative, my stance remains: What goes on in the sex lives of consenting adults is fine, awesome, totally rad, and should be done more and with more gusto and bravado as often as humanly possible, please kay thanks.

But there is an issue that gets pretty dicey, and is the reason I decided to write this damned long-winded blog entry in the first place: Consent.

Consent is, for sure, a Capital Letter Word when it comes to sex. It's a non-negotiable thing. Without consent, sex is assault. Period, the end. There are lots of variations and ways to consent, but at the end of the day, consent is not something you get to weedle your way around.

I'm not going to go through the innumerable list of different forms of sexual consent, but for the sake of clarity, I'll give you a bit of a 'most frequently used', or a 'short cut list' of ways consent can, and does happen, if only to show a brief glimpse at the vastness and delicacy of the situation.

– Verbal consent, each and every time sexual contact is initiated, where an individual can break consent at any time.
– 'Physical' consent, or consent that is understood through body language, and immediately revoked if the individual verbally breaks consent.
– 'Physical consent' of the previous sort, but consent is immediately revoked by a type of 'safe word' that has been chosen to indicate lack of consent (used in a role-play fantasy situation where 'no' does not mean 'no,' but some other word is used to indicate “no”: i.e. “grandma,” “bowling ball,” “daisy.”)
– Verbal consent, each and every time sexual contact is initiated, but where the individual breaks consent with a “safe word.”
– Verbal or physical consent, in which an individual breaks consent with a type of pre-arranged gesture, such as the dropping of an object in their hand (typically used if the person is unable to speak via some sort of gag or mask over their face).
– A contract, of which two or more parties decide for a certain duration of time that consent is inherently implied (often with highly restrictive parameters that neither party can breech, or the contract is immediately null).

We are taught that consent is a verbal agreement, that “no” means “NO.” For the most part, I am okay with this line of instruction – on a basic level of sexual experience, no DOES mean no, and it is important that people understand that very basic idea of consent. But in honesty, how often in our sexual lives do we verbally ask or offer consent? The first time we sleep with a new lover, maybe? The first few times? The first time we try something new, something we're not sure if our lover would quite get down with?

Sure, some of us ask pretty damned often (hey, it's pretty sexy to ask for what you want, just sayin') – but I'd be hard pressed to believe that verbal consent is the norm. So that puts us in what I believe to be the most common denominator of consent – physical consent. I think most people get busy with their lovers because their lovers do not push them away, and because – and this part is important – their lover responds in a way that is similar to their own. There has already been verbal consent prior. Their lover responds with some indication that they want to get down that is based in knowledge of prior experience between these two lovers. They've been here with this person, they've done this with this person, and when their grip gets tighter and their legs curl up and their breathing gets heavy they know, okay, this is game, I can proceed further.

I'm in no way saying that physical response is a fool-proof form of consent by any means, but I do think it is the one with which most people tend to operate. It gets dicey, of course, because of the whole 'precedence' deal: “Well, I had sex with you before, that means you are obviously consenting to sex with me now.” No dice, comrades. That line of thinking only gets everyone in trouble, and everyone hurt (not to mention that sometimes, the body responds in ways we cannot anticipate, but that is another blog for another day).

Other forms of consent (coercion/rape fantasy, contract, edge-play) I'll go in to later. I've seen some dumb shit lately prowling around the cultural psyche (and, of course, the Internets) about the harmful effects of BDSM and fetishism to the feminist movement. I'm not telling you how to have sex, so don't go around telling me what's right and okay about the way that I happily have consensual sex. If you feel like it's your place to tell me how to get down, I gotta say, you can blow me. I'll go buy a strap on and you can wear your best nipple clamps and we can have a party. It will be glorious. Of course, you don't HAVE to play with me and my not-yet-purchased strap on, boths and ladies and gents and others. But I'm sure it'll make my next entry about consent and coercion fantasy faaarrr more interesting. Just a thought.

Now, if you want some really well thought, intelligent articles on consent (and particularly, consent in the arenas a lot of people are scared about), you should check out Sugarbutch Chronicles (fabulous stuff, by the way). Here are some gems:

Yes, No, and Consent
Reconciling Feminism & Sadism

POSTSCRIPT:
Oh, by the way, I am not inviting the internets to have strap-on sex with me. Just so you know. Just sayin'.

2010-05-09T04:52:00.001-07:00

I was looking up things on eBay for buying: red eyeshadow (didn't find any I liked), knee high boots (gnar, all badly made), and CORSETS (want want want), and I found the picture displayed above.

Dude, that picture is fucking hilarious. It's comedy fucking gold. I actually quite like the corset itself (latex! buckles! what's not to like?), but the dude is god damned hysterical. Why the sunglasses? WHY DUDE? WHY?!

And are the buckles hanging off the bottom like garters? They fucking SHOULD be.

I want to go put on a latex dress and a pair of heels. Right now.

2010-04-18T09:05:00.000-07:00

Gorgeous.

I can't sleep, so I'm at work trying to wind down before trying (again) to fall asleep. Got off work at 6AM, came back for Sunday Brunch (I had the pesto pasta with marinated mushrooms -- fucking delicious) : having a glass of wine (Finca Malbec; it's delicious) : watching the Treme premier because I haven't seen it (neither has the morning bartender, so hey! I feel like every other person in the damned city has seen it, it's about fucking time).

God damn, I really love this city.

I've had some friends recently tell me that I need to seriously consider moving elsewhere to pursue some goals of mine. Drag, promoting, singing, DJing, art, etc. In some ways, I see their point: for most people, living in New Orleans means making a choice. You will never be as successful here as you would somewhere else. You will never make as much money. Unless you can telecommute, are from old money, have a very highly specialized trade skill, or are very lucky, there's a high chance you'll use an upper level college degree working in the service industry. If you do music here, it's unlikely you'll "make it" anywhere else but here (and good luck making a living playing anything but jazz). The city is a warzone, making anything happen academically or socially is next to impossible, and our politics are totally fucked.

But there are things New Orleans can offer that nowhere else can.

You will have music everywhere you go. No one will bat an eyelash if you leave your house in nothing but latex pants, an ace bandage, and enough glitter to make David Bowie blush (trust me, I've done it, and I was living in the St Roch neighborhood at the time). Your backyard is some of the most beautiful urban scenery you'll find anywhere. Street performers on every corner. Art wherever you look. We don't do somber funerals, we do second lines. We dance on our way to work. We treat our neighbors like kin. We say hello when we pass you on the street. We show strangers around town just because we can. We invite you over for a real home cooked New Orleans dinner, with cocktails at the corner bar where everyone treats one another like family. We kiss harder, we dance fiercer, we live life at a pace nowhere else in the world. If New Orleans is your home (and you will know it the second you step foot on this land), you'll feel it in your bones with a certainty that will match nothing else in your life. To quote my dear friend Kalen (roughly, keep in mind it is "late" for me and I haven't slept) in reference to her love for New Orleans and past loves in her life, "I choose New Orleans because it offers me more and breaks my heart less."

This city will break your heart, but it will also teach you to love, and to live, in a way you didn't even know possible.

So when people tell me I need to leave, when they tell me that I have a lot of potential that would be better utilized elsewhere, when they tell me I could take on the world if only I had a larger avenue/difference scene, I inevitably come back to one truth: How could anywhere, no matter how diamond studded, match New Orleans? This city has been my home for as long as I can remember, a wide-eyed child that immediately fell in love. This is a city of fairytales, not the rags-to-riches American fairytale of New York or Los Angeles, but the simple, humble, dirty fable that grows out of old swamp dirt and ghost stories. I can't imagine a payroll ever being more important to me than that.

2010-03-28T06:17:00.000-07:00

Damn, it's been a while. Again.

I still don't have the internet at home (and, due to cost, I don't expect that to happen any time soon) so I'm, of course, sporadic. And just damned lazy.

Recent developments:

+ Two of my lovely co-workers have offered to teach me to sew. Now it's just finding a time to actually make this work. When I've got a day to do nothing, I'm going to come down to work and talk to them and try to set up some lessons -- they've got really nice machines that they're willing to teach me on. I've got fifty thousand ideas for pieces and no way to execute them. That will be resolved soon.

+ I had my bike seat stolen outside my apartment. Yeah. Fuckers.

+ I've become increasingly jaded with academia and social movements. You call yourself an anarchist, so you feel you have a right to be a dick to me because I have a job (without even considering my politics or me as a fucking person)? You have a degree sitting behind your name, so you feel your theories and analysis are somehow more valid than mine? How 'bout you fuck yourself, buddy, and go limp away on the horse you stumbled in on. I'm over it.

+ I've become far less social, and far more read-y lately. I spend a good portion of my time devouring books; travel books, fiction, non-fiction, essays, gender analysis, manifestos, short story collections, comics (oh lord, the comics!). Aside from work and DJing, I spend more time with text than with people. I can't say I have a real issue with that.

+ I have ream after ream of blank wrapping paper. I have every intention of buying a lot of spraypaint and utilizing the gazillion pounds of Modge Podge I have and making some custom, one of a kind wall pieces and placing them around town. They'll be mostly text. You'll recognize them when you see them.

+ I think we all need to dance more often. I intend on flash-mobbing, full on with boom boxes, three-piece suits, and Daft Punk. I'm on the lookout for some old boom boxes (that work). Hit a bitch up.

I'm totally done now -- I'm at work, and pretty tired of typing. I just worked eight hours dealing with drunken assholes who couldn't help but spill their Crown and Sprite (TM) all over the bar. Repeatedly. So, forgive me if I am curt. It's a survival mechanism I've cultivated being a bartender in the great galaxy of New Orleans, Louisiana. At least it keeps my wit in good working order.

Major Tom, out.

This post is going to piss a lot of people off.

2010-02-19T05:31:00.000-08:00

Alright kids, listen up: I am exhausted. I just worked, entertained, and partied my hedonistic little ass off for over a week through Carnival. I just worked an 8-hour shift with a splitting headache dealing with (mostly) pricks all night. My legs, knees, and ankles scream in pain any time I take a step. I've been dealing with illness, crippling nausea, a wide range of sniveling douchebags, drama, and bullshit.

So, for the record, don't expect me to be especially articulate, or illuminating, or blah de blah blah blah. The only reason why I am here on this bar stool at work after getting off instead of high tailing my tired ass on my bicycle back to my tiny, leaky windowed, and wonderful home is because I was perusing the lovely world of the internet (I don't get much internet anymore as I only get internets at work) and was slapped hard in the face by a line, a single line, in an article, but it is a sentiment that is spread throughout most of feminist thought, and it pisses me off.

I'll quote the line directly:

Every family is different, and every pregnancy is different. Nobody WANTS to get an abortion and nobody takes getting one lightly (well, if you do on either count, you have far more problems than I can to go into in this space).

Alright, it starts out nice and strong. I totally agree that every family and every pregnancy is different. That, to me, is entirely obvious. I'd also agree that pretty much no body out there WANTS to get an abortion -- I've had two, and I'll tell you what, they fucking suck (figuratively and literally, in my case: ha ha!). But it's this, this lovely gem of a line right here:

..nobody takes getting one lightly (well, if you do on either count, you have far more problems than I can go into this space).

Um, WHAT?

Look, I'm half asleep, and when I am less asleep, I will go into a much deeper interrogation of why this kind of attitude is so damaging, but seriously, for now, just, FUCK THAT. I am really tired of feminists touting this party line of "god damn, it's so hard for women who have to get abortions, it fucks with their psyche, it messes them up for a long time man! they aren't monsters, because they feel incredible guilt at this thing they have done."

I think that this viewpoint is highly damaging to the idea that abortion is a perfectly acceptable medical practice that should not have guilt and shame tacked on to it. I have had two, yes two, abortions. I felt no guilt for either. I felt no conflict in the idea of aborting these cells from my uterus. I actually affectionately refer to both of my clinical abortion procedures as my "dates with the hoover."

Yes, I understand to most people this is crass. Yes, I also understand that not every person who gets pregnant in the world and decides to have an abortion feels the same way -- in fact, I am pretty certain I am probably somewhere in the minority. But my point is not that people should be waving around crude humor and irreverence as the banner of their own emotional response to abortion. My point is that this response to getting an abortion is viewed, even by most other feminists, as monstrous, inhuman, unwomanly. I have a much more sophisticated critique of this, with many other examples, but god damnit, it's 8AM, I've been up for 24hrs, and I'm god damned tired. I'll come back to this later. But people who tell me I am too fucked up to even talk about in a linguistic space because I don't carry around an emotion trauma that is mostly entrenched in us by a patriarchal, fundamentalist worldview based more in evangelicalism than science?

You know what? Fuck that.

2010-02-05T04:52:00.001-08:00

Get hot, get too close to the flame
Wild, open space
Talk like an open book
Sign me up
Got no time to take a picture
I'll remember someday all the chances we took
We're so close to something better left unknown
We're so close to something better left unknown

I can feel it in my bones
Gimme sympathy
After all of this is gone
Who'd you rather be?
The Beatles or the Rolling Stones?
Oh, seriously
You're gonna make mistakes, you're young
Come on, baby, play me something
Like, "Here Comes the Sun"
Come on, baby, play me something
Like, "Here Comes the Sun"

Don't go, stay with the all-unknown
Stay away from the hooks
All the chances we took
We're so close to something better left unknown
We're so close to something better left unknown

I can feel it in my bones
Gimme sympathy
After all of this is gone
Who'd you rather be?
The Beatles or the Rolling Stones?
Oh, seriously
You're gonna make mistakes, you're young
Come on, baby, play me something
Like, "Here Comes the Sun"

Metric "Gimme Sympathy"

This song is humming through my body this morning. I just got off work, having my shift drink (raspberry vodka mixed with sweet tea vodka mixed with water -- the only "sweet" thing I ever allow myself, as I've not much the sweet tooth, but damn it's divine after a long bar shift), downloading some new tracks to possibly DJ (I'm working EVERY WEDNESDAY THIS MONTH), and am being swamped by this song.

I don't know what it is about this track. I've liked Metric from the get-go. I like it all, from the catchy hooks of "Dead Disco" to the nearly slinky hip-hop undertones of "The Twist" to the hard-hitting epic beats of "Help I'm Alive". I like the singles, I like the b-sides, I like all of it. It's not the best music out there, but it's damn good music, good synths, good fun.

But there's just something about this song that hits me. I've had this debate with many friends before, the Rolling Stones vs The Beatles debate. I've never really thought about what your decision means, but for me (and most of the people I know), the answer is unanimously Rolling Stones. Hands down, no argument. Now, I know we're all rock stars, heathens, and hedonists, but could it mean something more than that?

Honestly, what does it matter? It's a damned good song, worthy of anyone to take one, five, fifteen listens to. It's a love song without being oppressively saptastic (not that there's anything wrong with that, but it's on the CD I'm going to make of "non-traditional love songs" -- there'll be a more in depth blog about that in the furture), it's clever, it's fun, it's danceable, and generally well around awesome. Go hunt it down, you won't be sorry.

2010-01-22T04:57:00.000-08:00

Hello, I am now a resident of the French Quarter.

I've been very busy -- with moving, new jobs, restarting my relations with Xtreme Illusions (a drag/andro troupe that performs weekly at Bourbon Pub), busting my ass with Corrosion (the city's best goth night, featuring none other than Yours Truly and your breathtaking cast of hard-hitting, let's-get-naked DJs), and gearing up for Carnival (guess who's bartending for the infamous Krewe De Vieux party? You're looking at it), I haven't had much time for blogging. I also only have the internets at work, so I haven't really had much access to the World Wide Web. I will say this:

YOU GO READ Written on the Body by Jeanette Winterson RIGHT NOW. This book tore my soul apart. It's that good. Were I to underline every single fantastic line in this novel, the entire book would be underlined. Also, the narrator has no discernible gender -- they could be male, they could be female, the book never lets you know. I like that.

Also: fuck my uterus. With a 2 x 4. Holy shit ow motherfucker ow.

I did get my greedy hands on a copy of Mythmakers and Lawbreakers, and I plan on starting it very shortly. I am quite excited about it. I hope the book lives up to my expectations. A comrade who read it, who hates fiction, told me that the book inspired him to try to start writing fiction. How rad is that?

Alright, I've broken the 7AM mark. The grocery store in the quarter is now open, so I'm going to bike my way over and grab some provisions. I'm making dinner tonight in my new house, and realized I don't have too much to offer beyond seaweed, rice noodles, and the weird Brown Sugar PopTarts that my previous tenant left. I am a bit frazzled with after work fatigue and my uterus making me lose way more blood than necessary, so grocery shopping will most likely involve me wandering around rather aimlessly picking up random food objects that have nothing to do with one another. Let's just hope I don't end up with peanut brittle, three fish, some grapes, and mayonaise. I think even in this sleep-deprived state, I doubt I'd end up with that kind of awful assortment.

Good morning, world. Wish me luck.

2009-12-18T04:29:00.000-08:00

That's right, bitches. I'm name-badged and all. New Orleans, guard your women and your whiskey. This is Corrosion: we don't take names, and we have no mercy. Throw us your fake restraining orders. Slander us. Try to play wicked mind games with naked photos and poor, unsuspecting tourists. See what happens.

Alright, apocalyptic posturing aside --

Good morning, heathens. A drunk dude left me $5 worth of credits on the jukebox just in time for me to get off work. I'm blissfully listening to this (don't mind the video):

It's been a while. Here's an update: I have a fabulous new job: I'm working at graveyard shift at Buffa's now, a nice little 24hr bar with a 24hr kitchen. I deal with far fewer crackheads. My coworkers are golden. I can't say I'm sad to leave the old job, even though there are some friends I see far less now due to scheduling. Ah well.

I still owe you an analysis of the Anarchism and Technology essay. I've been without internet access for a while, and have been essentially running with my head spinning like I've been possessed. I haven't done a drag show in months: I've been incredibly busy with Corrosion, as well as all the other social projects lurking in the wings.

But there are plans, my loves.

I've been doing a lot of editing lately. I've been working on some new projects: some art, some writing, some physical. I have designs on a keytar. I've got a two-day trip to my place of birth in the works, along with a lot of mischief while I'm there. I've decided to write a 'debunking sex books' book. I've lived off of Japanese pestle cereal, apples, and caffeine for longer than any human should. I've survived The Great December Flood of New Orleans. I am set alight with beauty and rage.

It's only the beginning.

2009-11-11T02:17:00.000-08:00

Also, GO READ THIS NOW. It is short, sweet, and full of bad-assery!

2009-11-11T01:53:00.000-08:00

It's been a little while.

I've been busy, and haven't had much time to read, blog, or even breathe, really. I still want to finish reading Anarchy and the Politics of Technology, but as I only have internet at work, and I haven't had time to be on the internet, well, shit happens. I'll probably try to finish it tonight.

For now, chew on this morsel of awesome, taken from Minor Compositions:

As a novelist and fiction SF writer, JG Ballard developed one of the most dynamic (and disturbing) exploration of collective psychopathology, excesses in organizational life, and the collapsing of the Western imaginary. From the fetish of the car crash to obscene hidden violence of the business park, internment camps to masochist fantasies directed through the mediated form of Ronald Reagan’s body, Ballard’s work ventures into territories that are disconcerting to explore, but from which one can learn a great deal. Rather than assuming that disorder and excess is a condition that management and organization must respond to, this event will explore the proposition that what might really be psychopathological is the desire to impose order upon an inherently ungovernable and excessive condition.

More later, my darlings. For now, know that I love you.

2009-11-06T05:33:00.000-08:00

I just got off work, and I'm totally exhausted.

BUT! Listen up: I'll be DJing alongside MARTIN FUCKING ADKINS. Yes, you heard me. Martin Adkins, of Ministry and Pigface fame, will be occupying the same dj both as yours truly. We will be leading dance floors into gritty, dirty, raunchy boot pounding bliss. It will be absolutely glorious.

In other news!

I'm randomly trolling through my photobucket, and I found this photograph of myself:

I was trying to sell this stuff to fund my I REALLY DON'T WANNA GO TO JAIL fund, but holyshit I look weird. As in, emaciated high-dollar socialite weird. As in, my bitch ass can sneak in to any red carpet party and cause a fucking ruckus weird. As in, who the fuck is that person?! weird.

Considering the fact that my brain is far too fried to post anything in this blog of actual worth, I'm going to give you a rambling tour of my photobucket. Like all great (i.e. ridiculous) chronologies, we're going to start from the last page onward. Because that's just how I roll.

Year one of drag. This is the first time I ever strapped my tits down on camera. It was a photo project a friend and I were working on, showing the transition between girl and boy. There are more photos, but this one is the gem.

Again, year one. This is a rather iconic photo of Aleksandr. It's low quality, and not a great shot, but even at that point in my performance evolution, I think it shows a fair amount of bravado and hypertheatrics.

Everyone's got one. Don't lie.

The second evolution of Aleksandr. More balls, more bravado, more makeup, more androgyny. I've been told that, in this suit, I am "the devil's lawyer." It was Valentine's day. I prowled the campus causing havoc. I figure, if anything, I wouldn't be the devil's lawyer, I'd be the devil's fire-under-the-ass.

Cocaine shoot. My friend wants to be a photographer. She wanted to do a shoot. I was all about it. The blood on my face is actually tattoo ink. Totally doesn't look like me, but whatever.

Oh hai, I'm a strange looking high-fashion model. OH WAIT. I'm Oscar Wilde. OH WAIT!! Identity crisis OH NOES. In this photo, I was on my way to a shoot, and asking a friend for advice. This photo also got me in a lot of trouble later on, but that's a story for another day.

Right.

So, there's my photobucket. I skipped over the random images of bright glaring things, grafitti, street signs, comics, and vhs cover jackets of nunsploitation films (if you haven't taken an internet look at the, YOU SHOULD). But there you go. A history of me in film.

There are more recent photos of me (that last photograph is about, eh, two years old), but they're already on here. SALUTE.

To quote the man beside me, "would you like to be in a cubicle somewhere, just typing away..?"

Because apparently, being on a machine means being in a cubicle.

2009-11-03T15:15:00.000-08:00

I just got out of an employee meeting (I know, ugh: but really, it wasn't so bad. Kajun's doesn't work like other places), and opened up an essay I've been trying to read while on my shifts (I get all of my internet time whilst working).

Anarchism and the Politics of Technology

It's a bit lingo-dense, and the academic language is a bit heavy, but I've never been turned away from that kind of thing. I've only read up to the end of the articulation of Promethean and Primitavist arguments for technology, and thus far, I think this essay has a lot of illuminating points. I'm just now getting to the build up for the meat of the essay, which is a theory of anarchism and technology that goes beyond these two modes of thinking.

I've got some more reading and thinking to do, but I'm pretty interested in this essay thus far, and would like to analyze it further (you know, when I actually *finish* the essay, perhaps? I've got a problem with getting really excited about things and wanting to gear up for discussion prematurely -- but hey, at least you have all been forewarned about it now, so you can be prepared to discuss with me!)

This piqued my interest:

As technologies are being built and put into use, significant alterations in patterns of human activity and human institutions are already taking place . . . the construction of a technical system that involves human beings as operating parts brings a reconstruction of social roles and relationships. Often this is a result of the new system’s own operating requirements: it simply will not work unless human behavior changes to suit its form and process. Hence, the very act of using the kinds of machines, techniques and systems available to us generates patterns of activities and expectations that soon become “second nature.” (11–12)

I also get the feeling that there's going to be some Cyborg Manifesto re-reading very soon.

I am deeply invested in ideas of technology and the evolution of the human in general. Figuring out how to apply that to class relations and social structures as a whole is something I'd like to think about and work out more. The idea of 'posthumanism', an evolution of the human being from what it once was, integrating ideas of modification, technology, tearing apart and refiguring the structures of what we are and what we could be has been on my mind a lot lately. Watch closely. We're going to blow this shit apart.

2009-11-02T05:53:00.000-08:00

MICHAEL IS MY HERO KTHNXBAI.

you may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

2009-11-02T04:09:00.000-08:00

I'm at work, and incredibly zonked from Halloween and all of the festivities (I'll try to find photographs from someone, but let's just say I worked a shift and sauntered around the French Quarter dressed as a back-alley-abortion-nun, blood covered rubber fetus on a coathanger and all).

I'm doing what I do best when the bar is dead: prowling the internet. And I found this great little site for a collective in New Zealand. They've got a lot of great things to say, but I was particularly moved by this part:

Yanked from Beyond Resistance:

We reject patriarchy and fight for the empowerment and liberation of women. We stand in solidarity with feminist struggles, and believe that actively challenging the personal and interpersonal manifestations of patriarchy is equally as important as working towards structural changes. Both need to happen together to create a new society free of male domination.

With this in mind, Beyond Resistance aims to have a radical feminist perspective, in several ways. Firstly, we need a radical feminist analysis of our society that challenges male dominance, compulsory heterosexuality, and the bipolar gender system. Secondly, our internal operations (organizing structure, roles and responsibilities, meeting procedures, decision making, etc.) must ensure women’s participation and be strongly aware of practices that tend to favor men’s voices over women’s, and we must work to overcome them. Thirdly, we must not neglect radical feminist political struggle, particularly those kinds which connect struggles against sexism with the class struggle and building dual power. Finally, our future vision must be feminist. It should imagine a world not only without sexism or homophobia but one in which gender relations are completely transformed and liberated. Toward this end, we recognise resistance to masculine/feminine gender borders and encourage people to critique and explore their desires rather than repress them.

Word, word, and AMEN.

A world in qhich gender relations are transformed? Where gender borders are smashed just as sure as nationalist ones? Where we are free to explore our desires instead of beat them into silence?

My kind of world.

Sexism, Anachism, and Men.

2009-10-21T05:47:00.000-07:00

Man, I really need a computer.

So, I think I'm going to start reading this eBook: From the Kitchen: Sexism, Anarchism, and Men

Unfortunately, right now I am keeping my computer at work, and don't have a printer to get a copy of this to read on my own. And most of the time I really have to read is after I get off work (or in bits and pieces during my shift when it's slow -- good for reading smaller essays, harder to really analyze a longer work). But I really, really want to read this. Just take this quote from the introduction:

This zine has been produced by a group of anarchist men in Otautahi as part of an on-going process of working on our own sexist behaviour in our everyday lives. It is not just for men to read but the primary function is we hope, to encourage more debate and more discussion about issues of sexism amongst ourselves.

Now, that's something I can get down with. As a androgyne culturally raised as female (with a penchant for drag and a sometimes-boyishness, or Aleksandr), "male-ness" is a frontier I'd like to know more about. Men in feminism is rather dicey territory: there is, of course, the male privelege issue, as well as the cadre of feminists who believe that a men can never be feminists: at best, they can be 'male dissidents.'

What would make me, an androgyne who feels no real affinity toward either gender as a whole? Who feels more neither than either, who feels like both a dress and a three-piece suit is equal drag? Who has a more fully carved out 'male' persona than 'female'? Aleksandr has a bit more of a defined gender role than 'Sasha,' -- I feel more 'male' as Aleksandr than I do 'female' as Sasha, and I was born a female.

I'd say, of course, that I am a 'gender dissident', but not just against patriarchy. Though, in a way, I guess it is. Patriarchal systems have certainly lent us an oppressive binary, though who is to say that might not've happened in a matriarchal power structure?

No gender -- trans, non, girl, boy, androgyne -- should have any more power than the other. We, at our best, should all be fucking dissidents. I might not be a 'girl,' but god damnit, I'll call myself a feminist if I want.

You want to try to stop me? You'll have a pair of ass kicking combat boots aimed straight to your face. And when it all topples, I'll be here on the other side with you. And I'll offer you a hug, a shot of whiskey, and pie.

Binary Systems: or, ASSIMILATE OR DIE.

2009-10-20T19:17:00.000-07:00

So, I was reading over Mike's blog (Hi, Mike!), and laughed out loud when I read this:

Of course no one thinks of the poor as more than one thing. Nope the poor is unified, we are the poor, we will assimilate. Poooooor.

It is an incredibly valid point, but I emphasized this because I admire the way Mike can talk about really serious things while keeping his sense of humor. It's a trait I think most of us should cultivate.

Annyway, to continue on his point:

It is a bunch of crap and I really hate it when people talk about the poor as singular and solvable. They are people and their various situations are as varied as they are.

Amen, anyone?

The ideas of class and privelege aren't something we can lump together in one great big fucking box of 'disenfranchised' and 'evil as fuck'. There's more subtlety to it, more nuance, and it'll do us a lot of good to think of things as more of a spectrum of experience than a binary system set in metaphysical stone.

Binary systems, as an enterprise, are flawed from the get go. The roster list of facisms we inflict on one another due to binary systems is staggering: gender, sexuality, morality, and the more amorphous bunches like truth-claims (things are "true" or "untrue", without the possibility of multiple truths and fictions or evolutions of truth-forms) and memory (something "happened" or it "didn't", and memory is always "concrete", a "static" thing, or it is not memory: when really, memory is something that is constantly refigured in our own minds). Binary systems, as a rule, I find to be limiting: the very act of definition is, in a way, a microfacism (though one that is often necessary), and to define something with only two variables seems, to be frank, ridiculous.

On fictions

2009-10-20T03:24:00.000-07:00

I'm at work, yet again, with a mostly-quiet bar, which of course means I'm piddling around on the internet. While prowling through various message groups, I found a book review about this:

Mythmakers & Lawbreakers looks like a book I really want to read. As someone very invested in the power of fiction and the study of literature, it seems only natural that I'd be ridiculously excited about this.

I haven't read the book yet, so I've got no commentary of my own, but the review of the work got me thinking about some things. Let me give you a snippet of the review:

A third theme to come out of these interviews wasn't so surprising: politics. Anarchist fiction writers grapple with politics all the time. The politics of writing fiction when the world is dying (see the Derrick Jensen quote, above). Creating an anarchist utopia that is more reality and less utopia. Accurately reflecting the political struggles of everyday life-- including the lives of punks, traveler kids, hackers, pagans, earth first! eco-warriors, and direct action activists. In every interview, Killjoy asks what it means to be an anarchist and a fiction writer. The responses he gets demonstrate how fiction is a political act. While most anarchist writing of our day is limited to real-life ("boring as fuck" -crimethinc.) theory and analysis, anarchist fiction writers play the important role of dreaming what could be and distilling useful stories from what is.

What does it mean to be an anarchist fiction writer? Do we have responsibilities, and if so, what are they? What of 'art for art's sake'? Could it not be said that any true, honest articulation (that particular breed of honesty that is only possible in fiction) of the human experience can, in some way, be an anarchist act? That to look at the world, to relay experience with an unflinching eye toward the real core of truth, is itself a pure distillation of anarchy in action?

In some ways, I believe that fiction can do just as much towards the illumination of truth(s) as "real life.. theory and analysis." I would agree that fiction does indeed play a pivotal role in the oh-so-vital part of our literatures that, I have previously said, we seem to be lacking -- hope. Possibility. Lights in what sometimes feels like an endless void of set-backs, betrayals, fascisms, and heartbreaks. Being able to connect with one honest experience, even if it is seeded with vice, let downs, and unrealized potential (hell, perhaps it is even more valuable if it is), is immesurably important toward creating a new world, even if that experience is one learned through the pages of a novel.

The role of story tellers and fiction weavers is one that I feel we, in our propaganda-saturated, lie filled world, have delegated to the sidelines. In many ways, I feel we don't trust fiction, because we are force-fed it by the media, by those in power, by the very people who claim they are here to "protect" us. But in fiction's defense, I don't believe that every fiction is a lie. Just because we haven't reached that horizon yet doesn't mean that dreaming of it is an act of deception.

How can we create a world if we cannot dream?

B-I-N-G-O!

2009-10-20T00:00:00.000-07:00

For now, that is all.

Click on the image to see the whole of the awesome.

Occupy, Resist, and Produce

2009-10-19T05:23:00.000-07:00

"There's only so much protesting can accomplish. At a certain point, you have to talk about what you're fighting for."

While at work tonight (tending a mostly dead-bar: amidst the occasional dance-party, I was essentially paid to read essays -- my kind of salary), I read this essay: Are We Addicted to Rioting?

I think this essay makes a lot of good points and, more importantly, asks a lot of really vital questions that some of us aren't asking.

If you roll a dumpster at the police, why are you doing it? To prove a point? To block a street? To open a street? To cause a diversion to pull off another action? To impress the media? To impress your friends? To get it out of the way? To get it in the way? These are relevant questions, far more relevant than whether or not it's morally acceptable to roll a dumpster around. But then you must ask yourself why you are trying to achieve that tactical goal. Are you blockading a meeting? Are you causing chaos to make the summit look bad? Are you trying to get media attention? Do you want revenge on the police? Then you must ask yourself why you are blockading the meeting or causing chaos or trying to get on TV. Who are you trying to effect? Who's your base? If you want media attention, who are you trying to reach out to? What is your message for them? If you are trying to cause chaos, what is the purpose? Who is it serving? How is it advancing your goals? What effect will it have on your movement next week, next month, next year? What is the follow-up to all of this?

I think these are the kind of things we need to be asking ourselves. As individuals, as comrades, as we gather up arms in solidarity, I think we need to be thinking about why we're doing what we are doing. How our actions will ricochet and what effects and after effects those actions will have. We need to take good, hard looks at ourselves and really ponder our own motivations, what pushes us to fight, and how hard we are willing to do the grit in the teeth, backbreaking, hair pulling, tedious day to day work. The work that makes us feel like our tongues are bleeding and our fingers are breaking. The work that makes us feel like, sometimes, we're taking two steps backward with every step forward. The work that is bleary-eyed and anything but glamorous.

So, while writing this blog entry, I'm watching this:

The Take

There's a slogan that comes from this video: Occupy, Resist, and Produce. Just recently, I was talking with a comrade about the state of modern literature about anarchism. I mentioned how disheartening it is to me that so much of the language we use to articulate the struggle is entrenched in negativity, in destruction, in "smashing the state". There is nowhere near enough literature out there based in positivity, in creation, in joy and wonder. Where is the joyous outpouring? The sense of hope? I know it's out there, and I find it saturated in many of the late-night conversations we have with one another, shoulders tense with passion, leaning toward one another like parentheses holding tight a well guarded secret, stumbling over our words and shaking with fever and the possibility of what-could-be. But where is it in our literature? It is a sprinkling, an echo.

While I understand that criticism is necessary, that serious inquiry and investigation are of crucial import, I think we need to take more time to revel in the glorious madness we call life. We need to dance in the streets, to embrace with earnestness and without fear, and to come to live with both a tenderness and a fire. That's the only way we're going to win: it's love, not hate, that will get us through this.

"It's a dignified struggle, full of beautiful experiences. But we have a big obstacle. The same people who dragged us into misery and unemployment, those who took everything from us, are now trying to come back."

We can't fucking let them.

Breaking the Spell

2009-10-16T06:08:00.000-07:00

Do I even need to explain the absurdity of this?

"Men's" and "Women's" bathrooms have always bothered me. I think all restrooms should be gender and sex neutral. Making the assumption that there are only males and females is, alone, pretty fucking insulting (where do the intersexed people use the bathroom, the fucking hallway?). But the entire massive scale of gender, from transpeople to androgynes to non-gender specific people -- how and where do they apply?

I say we all start pissing in hallways. If I were more comfortable with showing my ass in public, I probably would.

In other news:

Might I say that this image is positively fucking bad ass?

Seriously, I'm making a petition for this now: MORE FUCKING NINJAS ON THE FRONT LINES OF THE REVOLUTION. Seeing shit like this makes me want to get back in the habit of lifting weights and running. I want my body to be in the utmost of physical strength endurance for the fight that will come.

I intend on carving out time in my (admittedly ungodly hectic) schedule to start physical training. Between work, drag, DJing, and the novel (which I've begun again -- I've even got myself an editor now: Hi, Mike!), I must admit I don't have much time. But I'm going to need to make it. Admittedly, I could be lifting weights right now, but I'm killing time before dealing with the Evil Entity of Regions Bank. Besides, I did promise to start writing in this little thing more.

I've been listening/watching this while writing this blog post:

I recommend it. Go watch it, and let it put the fire under your ass.

I've got thirty minutes before the bank opens. I think I'm going to talk with my coworker for a bit, and try to get some editing done on the novel.

Until then, comrades, beauties, harlots and heroes: I'll see you in the streets.

Tango

2009-10-04T19:35:00.000-07:00

Hello, internet. I'm back again.

That picture was lifted from the website of my current place of employment. Kajun's Pub has just put up a website, and it's totally unfinished, but whatever. It's rare that I find a picture of myself that doesn't make me want to set fire to the world (Aleks is far more photogenic than I, the bastard), so there you go.

Story of my life right now:

I'm on the prowl for a new place. I'm crashing with a friend for a while (I lent him $250 towards the deposit for his place, so it's not like I'm abusing his generosity). There's a place in the works I should be looking at tomorrow. It's in the ghetttooooo, but I'm down with that. Makes the 7th ward I just left look like the fucking Garden District, but hey, I'm a big alien. I can handle myself.

I've started DJing with Corrosion now every other Wednesday (or, at least, it seems like every other Wednesday). I'm still doing drag show at the Bourbon Pub. I've amassed quite the collection of glitter. I also work in lingerie once a week at the bar, so for the first time in my life, I've got quite an assortment of frilly, girly underthings. I'm not really sure how I feel about that. This is coming from a person who knows more about sporting a shirt and tie than a well accessorized cocktail dress. My version of accessories tends to be random stuff assembled from craft stores and street corners. I never said I was classy.

I've got some goals in my head now. I'm going to spell them out here, so I can be held accountable by the Iron Hand of the Internets:

o1]: Pay off debt. I've only got about $700 left, then I can start chipping away at what I owe UWF.
o2]: Get my sorry ass back in school. I'm so close to being done with my undergrad, it'd be ridiculous not to.
o3]: Start working on the novel again. I've left it untouched for so long, it's pathetic. I really need to get cracking on that.

There are other goals I am going to be working towards, like lifting my body weight (I want to take aerial circus classes), learning to tango (because every android in a three piece suit should have an ace up its sleeve), and getting my license unsuspended (because who knows when I'll need to drive someone's car in a pinch).

I've been so busy lately, I feel like I have no time to sit still. I'm going to invent time. I'm going to take a fucking bath for the first time in years (there's a claw footed bathtub at my friend's house, and I figure the new house could likely have one as well). I'm going to buy a bottle of nice Spanish wine and get a quart of raspberries and sit on the porch and read comic books. I'm going to have picnics. I'm going to get a warm jacket and ride my bike in the middle of the night when it gets cold.

I'm going to create time for the holy moments, because god damnit, life is too short to stay out of breath. But there's always time to be made breathless.

Apples?!

2009-07-31T13:41:00.000-07:00

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?

Written on the Body

2009-07-28T18:09:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-07-23T11:19:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-02T09:37:00.001-07:00

Wow, it's been a while.

Needless to say, a ton has changed. I have a weekly drag show at the Bourbon Pub, which affords many chances for fabulous glitter and feather extravaganzas. I've booked another show at a small local bar next week. I've moved, I've gotten a job as a bartender, and I rarely sleep anymore.

But, of course, sleep is for the dead.

I don't really have any photos of me recently, but here are some photographs of me from Mardis Gras. My costume is part Siouxsie, part doll, and all together creep-tastic.

The dress is actually from the late sixties, and is for a little girl. Buwaha!

So, I'll write more later. I think I'm going to actually start trying to do the blog thing again. Woah-hey!

2009-01-26T13:07:00.000-08:00

I know it's been a while. I'll really get back to blogging shortly, I've just been incredibly busy with my actual writing work that I haven't been able to come on and blog for fun!

But, in other news, my dream has come true -- Gareth Pugh and menswear.

I'll do a real, step by step of what I loved from this line later, but for now, let's just say that I need some wealthy patron of the arts to buy Aleksandr the above costume for my show this week. Seriously.

DO. WANT.

Ren Faires and BOOK WIN!

2008-11-30T20:05:00.000-08:00

Holy smokes, I found a functioning camera!

Why yes, there is wind in my face. Maybe if I scowl hard enough I can be in a music video!

Ah, turning away from the wind! Why hadn't I thought of that sooner?

You DO realize it's freezing out here in these thin-ass pants, right?

Why yes, there IS a bow on my jacket, how kind of you to notice! Time to go inside now, yes?

So today, I went to the Renaissance Festival.

It's out in Hammond, which is a bit more than a hop, skip, and jump from here (but not far enough to not easily drive yourself -- it's just too damned far for a bike). I really wasn't impressed.

First off, why do people dress from the early Medieval period at Renn Faires? I mean, yeah sure, everyone wants to dress up as a wench, or a pirate (you would not believe the amount of pirates at the Renn Faire, or maybe you would..), but seriously? This is supposed to be the Renaissance. I want giant skirts, and corsets that are stiff as concrete walls (and none of this under-bust crap; yeah, sure, underbust corsets are pretty awesome, but it's the Renaissance, damnit), along with those huge itchy collars that look like something exploded from your collar-bones. I want netting made of gold and quilted fabrics of puffy satin and, most of all, I want a court masque!

Did I get these things? Nope. Now, I'm not saying I was dressed up like this, but if you're paid to work at a Renn Faire, you should! I am just a paying customer, after all.

Oh, and today, GUESS WHAT I GOT?!

THAT'S RIGHT, BITCHES!

I finally got it! I found a 40% off coupon for the bookstore, and I totally zoomed over and nabbed this baby! Ohboyohboyohboy! I am so ridiculously excited (as if you couldn't tell by all of the exclamation marks). Quantum physics and feminist theory? Now that's my idea of a good way to spend a cold, November night!

Suits, rosaries, and decadence!

2008-11-27T15:35:00.000-08:00

The show was She Wants Revenge, I believe. I think the song was Pretend the World Has Ended. It was a good show.

So, I found this rather spectacular and awesome link with instructions on making a rosary out of real rose petals. I adore rosaries, despite not being Catholic (what can I say, I've got a thing for icons and iconoclasm). There's something incredibly lush and decadent about rosaries. I'm particularly fond of wearing multiple rosaries on my wrist.

Oh, and prowling around the Craftster forums, I found this beautiful, beautiful piece of work by alli.illektro that I fully intend on reproducing. It's very Velvet Goldmine meets Marie Antoinette.

I think I'll hang watch pieces from mine instead of shiny rhinestone chandelier type pieces. And use brass and copper wire instead of gold. Because god damnit, I'm still waiting for steam-powered spaceships.

A Loveletter, a Manifesto, a Hymn for November

2008-11-25T04:04:00.000-08:00

I am often accused of the crime of having my head in the clouds, of being swept away by a world of senseless idealism and infantile dreams. I'm often told that I "just don't get the real world." But I do get it. I understand completely that we live in a world that demands we sacrifice our precious time for safety, for shelter, for the luxuries of food and clothing. I am fully aware that we live in a world that tries to convince us that we are only capable of small feats, that we are bound by unspoken laws that dictate how we should feel, when we should dance, the volume of our laughter.

I am not blind to the pain in our small and beautiful corner of the universe. I am not stupid enough to believe that the whole world is just a merry-go-round of roses and giggles. We have genocide, we have famine, we have disease, we have bigotry and hatred.

But I am not so weak, so dejected, to believe that the world is merely a series of cogs and wheels bound up in pain and grey. I am not so foolish as to believe that monotony, prejudice, and fear is all this world has to offer.

I see the world, with its scars and blisters and cracking paint, and absolutely refuse to let go of my love and wonder for that very world. I understand the argument for apathy, for nihilism, for hopelessness, but I cannot, and will not, side with that argument.

How can you deny beauty when you've felt an ocean against your skin, or seen the birth of the universe reflected in the glowing algea under a fishing pier on a cloudy night in July? How is it possible to harden your heart to the world when you've danced senselessly with someone you love in a cold living room in February, figuring a bottle of cheap wine and a good album is a mighty fine way to keep yourself warm when your heat's been shut off? How can one not be humbled by the magnitude of color and shadow connecting in perfect harmony on the canvas of a lover's skin, or that unsent letter you forgot you wrote tucked snug in a book you thought you lost?

To reject that beauty, in lieu of living a life of bitterness and disgust, is the only true blasphemy. To be a part of this world, and refuse to acknowledge its heartbreaking grace, even if only in small moments (especially in small moments), is the only sin I care to give a name.

It's all in the details, baby!

2008-11-24T23:53:00.001-08:00

I was given a link by my lovely friend Sharon today, sent from Jezebel.com, featuring false eyelashes. Not just ANY false eyelashes, extravagant, gorgeous, and some downright odd, false eyelashes.

I absolutely, positively, need these for going on the stage.

Okay, so it's hard to imagine this look working for a drag-king, but take it out of context a little bit. Imagine all the (fucking ridiculous, and most likely photoshopped) diamond makeup gone, the soft pink lips replaced with heaps of gold glitter, delicate cat-eye makeup usurped by jarring shades of green and gold, all topped with crazy cropped hair and the most outrageous (faux) fur coat you've ever seen.

Now tell me that isn't Ziggy or Gary Glitter material.

Okay, let's face it, I need these eyelashes for more than just the stage. I need them for my day-to-day life. Yes, I am the kind of person who will don feather eyelashes, skin-tight vinyl pants, and a pound of glitter to the grocery store. Maybe not just to the grocery store, but I don't bat an eyelash (feather-enhanced or otherwise) at doing seemingly mundane things while dressed to the nines.

The way I see it, the world is a stage. Not saying that the world is JUST a stage, or that the things we do aren't real, and don't have very real consequences. More like the age old, "life is not a dress rehearsal" type thing.

I mean, if I own delicious cocktail dresses and flashy suits, why not wear them for all they're worth?

Bookstore glee!

2008-11-16T17:29:00.001-08:00

So, today I'm not feeling so hot. My body is currently in "attack womb" phase. My comrade had a lovely suggestion for the attack womb blues:

The bookstore!

Now, I can't just roll off to the bookstore in my bedclothes (which were, I admit, an oversized button-down shirt and under-roos). Here's what I did to become semi-presentable:

And THIS is what I have to say to really inconvenient sun + Sasha geometry!

I really, really love that jacket. Photos don't do it justice. Here's a close-up of the spectacular pattern:

Isn't it fabulous? The shirt underneath it has little graphics of cassette tapes, which I also find glorious. Fuck your iPod, long live mixtapes!

So, on to the bookstore. I spent an inordinate amount of time in the Philosophy section (which just got two new Deleuze books in stock that I oh-so-desperately want!), wandered through the Lit section (way too much stuff to even list), and hunkered down in the Women's Studies section (I am very proud of them, they took the Lesbian fiction out of the Women's Studies section, and gave it its very OWN section! Yay! Maybe they heard me ranting about how stupid it was to keep the Lesbian erotica in the Women's Studies section, while the non-Lesbian erotica was in the "anthology" section. I mean, really, stereotype much?)

But the real gem of the bookstore experience today?

The science section, of course.

Look what I found!

It was in the Physics section (yes, an entire section devoted JUST to Physics! Oh, how my heart leaps!). It's an interdisciplinary book on Quantum Physics and Feminist Theory! How much more awesome could you possibly jam into a book?! It also received a raving review from Donna Haraway, the glorious and infamous mother of the Cyborg Manifesto, which just makes me want to explode with academic glee. Oh, how my brain and loins burn with such lusty desire to read this book right now.

Unfortunately, it's 30 bucks, and I am flat broke. I am, however, going to order it very, very soon.

Dish lust, and other tales.

2008-11-15T12:15:00.000-08:00

What do you do when it's just about to start raining?

Be very glad you decided to wear tights, that's what!

And, the darling photographer's favorite shot:

I realized yesterday, while getting dressed, that I'd never, ever, ever worn that skirt. Had it for over five months. I love the pattern, like putting Houndstooth through a Xerox machine. Oh, I know why I hadn't worn it. Because this is fucking New Orleans, and the last thing in the universe I want to wear in the summer is tights. And, as you can see, that skirt is impossible without tights (one of the unfortunate side-effects of being 6'2" -- hemlines will often dangerously approach harlot).

Now, I will wear a full three-piece suit in the summer, no problem (yes, I know I'm insane). I even wear vinyl, if the need is dire (drag, for instance). But thick tights are a 100% autumn and winter thing for me.

Yesterday was a fun-filled day of spice browsing, electronics store prowling, trinket browsing, and cooking. I drooled muchly over the dishes at World Market (brass plated engraved cocktail shaker? why, of course I need one. Or five.), wine, and other assorted kitchen gear (why, yes, I DO need that huge clay brick to put in my oven. yes, I absolutely require all of those cute little serving bowls and square shaped plates and fancy chopsticks and gorgeous martini glasses. Why hadn't I realized this before?).

I have an insatiable love for kichenware. I do, I admit it. I adore plates and bowls in different colors and sizes, little appliances like zesters and presses, and those neat tea-glasses that contain a central glass strainer peice and are quite stylish in their transparent minimalism.

Do I actually own any real kitchenware? Nope. I realize that, for the most part, I don't actually need any of this stuff. Some of it would be nice (fuck zesting a fucking lemon by hand), but unnecessary.

Okay, to fashion: World Market was a serious disappointment in the way of any kind of jewelry. I've never been much of a jewelry wearer, but I'm trying to learn the ancient art of accessorizing (beyond the extravagant eye makeup and opera gloves I wear more often than I probably should). I don't think it's working for me. I don't know if the polished look is ever going to be my gig.

Oh, and since every single place I go, everyone is already playing Christmas music...

GIMMEGIMMEGIMMEGIMMEGIMMEGIMMEGIMMEGIMMEGIMMEGIMME

Gareth is my hero. Gareth, please design all of Aleks's costumes. Pretty please?

Alien meets android meets androgyny, what's not to love?

Hey, I make stuff!

2008-11-13T20:22:00.001-08:00

So, for a lovely friend's birthday, I made her jewelry. I don't have a photograph of her wearing said loveliness, but I DO have a photograph I took of it right after it was made. It involves a semi-nude chest.

Be afraid. Be very, very afraid!

I'm not sure why I decided it'd be a good idea to take photos of this without a shirt on, but as they are the only photos in existence, there you go. But really, what better backdrop for a multilayered necklace than a semi-bare chest? Let's just pretend I'm wearing a very slinky, VERY low-cut little black dress, k?

Well, hi!

2008-11-13T09:48:00.000-08:00

Hi there. That's Aleksandr, or me. My name is Sasha, most of the time. And most of the time, my hair is past my waist.

I wasn't exactly sure where to begin when I started this blog. To be honest, I'm still not. So many things to write about, how do I decide? Do I want to talk about books (I always want to talk about books)? Shall I prattle on about my seemingly endless (and constantly growing) collection of blazers (Hello, my name is Sasha, and I'm addicted to menswear)?

All in time, all in time.

But today, I show you this. I really, really love this shirt by Steampunk Couture, and would actually wear it (you'll probably see me post a whole lot of things I adore, but rarely wear. I stick to mostly suits and their derivatives, though I've got half a closet full of dresses, because you never know when the mood to carry a cigarette extender will strike). It's very feminine for something I'd wear, but I don't care -- I want it.

Oh steampunk, how I love thee.

(I wouldn't mind the girl beneath the shirt, either.)