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.