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?

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.

via Al in Philly

DUDE: Or, Why Catalog Images Matter

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.

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

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)

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'.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

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.

MICHAEL IS MY HERO KTHNXBAI.

you may now return to your regularly scheduled programming.

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.