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[20 Oct 2004|07:57pm] |
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I am now a bartender.
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| Sonnet XVI |
[22 Aug 2003|05:35pm] |
If I'm in love with you, what does it mean?
In my whole life I've never been the type--
Coffee at 6 AM, lunch right at noon,
the same man there to fuck me every night.
OK, so I know that's not what you want
either. And as individuals,
we've gloriously, violently shunned
the sticky pit of the conventional.
I sometimes think that love is the last test,
the final trick in society's deep bag.
I can rebel as me-- can we as us?
Avoid the archetypes that claw and drag?
Oh, love, here is the challenge that I set for you:
Remain unique, and strange, and fearless. I will too.
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| once upon a time... |
[17 Aug 2003|10:35pm] |
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mood |
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tender-hearted |
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music |
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Louis Armstrong "Makin' Whoopee" |
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I have so many stories to tell that I'm just not ready to share. Why is it I have so much more trouble writing about good things than bad? When life sucks, I update my journal all the time. Now, I can't even write. I've got a diamond in my hand and my fist is closed around it. Can't even look at what I've got. Don't even believe it's there.
Got a job today. I'm doing phone sex. The orientation was a trip. All of the things the FCC forbids phone sex operators from talking about-- it was basically a list of my own sex life. And I learned so much. Did you know that transvestites may not actually be gay? Amazing. It was all I could do not to giggle throughout the whole presentation. Had to do three live calls as a test before they hired me. The third one I had to pretend to be an 18-year-old girl and pee in this 45-year-old guy's mouth. His name was Al. I'll never forget you, Al. I'm such a perv-- doing those dirty calls turned me on. Hope I don't get jaded after a few months.
I'm at Velocity's. One of her new birds died and I had to extract it from the cage. In return for which I got a filet mignon dinner and a matinee tomorrow. I would've done it anyway. Dirty work to do? Call the dyke. I'm not such a good dyke these days, though. My operating license is under review due to an excessive number of violations.
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| Post photo shoot |
[12 Aug 2003|03:32am] |
We just spent several hours taking new pics for the website. It was our best photo shoot yet. Everyone was enthusiastic and willing to go through all sorts of vinyl costume changes. No easy task in August. I got to be the pimp while the rest of the band dressed up as whores. Amazing the power of the pinstriped suit.
I wish I could get my financial life together. I'm so broke all the time, can't seem to get a real job. Most of the time I don't care because I always seem to scrape by. But I'm sick of scraping by. I need to make some real money.
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| Appetites |
[05 Aug 2003|07:03pm] |
I'm hellfire with vanilla frosting
I'm a whirlpool with rubber duckies
I'm powdered sugar on the barrel of a gun
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| Appetite Suppresants |
[22 Jul 2003|11:28pm] |
The more I smoke, the less I eat. Isn't that healthy?
Shouldn't even be indulging myself with LJ right now because I have 6 days to get ready for this show. Being in charge of the strings... I was telling Flow that it feels like a battlefield promotion. But I love this motherfuckin war. I am a soldier from the House of Love, working to rebalance the powers between the genders and obliterate the guilt that they force us to feel about our sexual expression. And we will conquer. Because you might be able to push us down, even for 2000 years, but we will rise. We will show women how to express their considerable force in ways that are not subverted and manipulated.
And we will do it all in very high-heeled shoes.
Fuck for freedom!
Fuck for magick!
Fuck cuz you like to!
And fuck anyone who tries to make you feel bad about being you!
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| I've been busy |
[21 Jul 2003|03:36am] |
Visit our updated "Which Member of Vulgaras" are you quiz and see if you have the balls to qualify as...
You are Horus, dark lord of rhythm guitar. Your
sordid history and deep understanding of your
own deviance means that you fear nothing and no
one.
Which Member of Vulgaras Are You?
brought to you by Quizilla
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| One more day |
[16 Jul 2003|11:14pm] |
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mood |
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 nauseated |
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one more day
one more day
Well, not even one more day, I leave tomorrow at 2. Finally, I won't feel this tightness in my chest anymore.
They try so hard with me, to be kind and tolerant. But I can feel the strain of their trying. And then if I seem uncomfortable my mom gets defensive because she's TRYING she's TRYING. Too much trying. Too much tolerance. Too much loving me in spite of who I am rather than because of.
Good news: Mom knows a lot about the band now. Even saw some of the web page and knows about the Hustler article.
"But why," she asked, "do you want to apply yourself to such a narrow range of art that nobody will notice?"
Nobody will notice? We're talking about rock 'n' roll here. This is what makes me feel like "I'm taking crazy pills" like Mugatu. I AM NOT CRAZY. I basically told my mom that she was the one with the limited life. This is the same woman who was ashamed to pick up a print of Picasso's Guernica at the mall for me because she thought it was some heavy metal poster. But see I am the freak and the one to be ashamed of. You should see her tense up when we go out in public. But everywhere I go people compliment me on my hair.
Mom: "But it's mostly young people, have you noticed?"
I've probably gained 10 pounds this week. Go me. All there is to do is eat.
Oh, and guess what I got to do on the hottest day in the central valley? Help my cousin MOVE. Anyone who knows me knows how many fucking times I have had to move over the past month. Now I'm carrying a thousand pound fucking fern into her ex-husband's pickup truck because even though she made $90,000 on her house she's TOO CHEAP TO HIRE MOVERS. I'll help my friends move. You know why? Because we don't have any goddamned money. But coming out to fucking California for my first visit in 2.5 years and having to help my cousin move and be nice about it was just about the last fucking straw. And was there beer involved in this move? No there was not. Can't drink in front of Mom. Guess what I got out of this experience? Guess guess guess? That's right-- DINNER AT APPLEBY'S.
Mom: "Do you have an Appleby's in New York?"
Me: "I have no idea. I think so. I've seen the commercials."
And all there is around me is sky and highways and cars and fields and bad chain restaurants. Blockbuster only has one VHS copy of Frida and it's out.
And what do we talk about? What do you think? Real estate. What else does one talk about in California? The ever-rising price of houses. Velocity will understand this quite well, I'm sure. I have these fantasies where I tear the eyes out of my skull and eat them from sheer boredom. Closing costs. Escrow. Percentages. Re-financing. My cousin's new house is so big her kitchen and family room together are bigger than all of Headquarters. But it's in the blandest, dullest, ugliest tract home district I have seen since leaving Bakersfield. It's so hopeless and artless that it makes me want to cry, but I have to seem enthusiastic because she is so proud, because we were so poor, and she used to pick lettuce for a living. Now she has a 2300 square foot home in an ugly tract house district with a swimming pool, and she has to drive over 50 miles to get to work in San Jose. That means she's made it.
Driving down Highway 101, you can still see the migrant farm workers out in the fields. I hate it as much as I ever did. This sick, medieval place.
My mom talking about her Mexican co-worker and their tight-knit family. Each child has a "good job," and the youngest daughter, a CPA, stays home with the family and helps with the mortgage. "They're a model for all Mexican families," Mom said. Does she have any idea how she sounds? My chest gets tighter and tighter.
Where are those goddamned Ruby Slippers when I need them?
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| Sherman, Sherman, Sherman, Sherman, Sherman! |
[14 Jul 2003|12:25am] |
I am the Invisible Woman here. No one asks me anything about my life or what I'm doing. They all tell me stories about their lives, at which I smile and nod and listen, but the minute I try to talk about anything, anything at all, and the subject gets changed.
They asked me about what Tyler spoke to me about. I told them he wanted to talk about the Towers and where I was when it happened and blah blah. They changed the subject to talk about Tyler's precociousness. Goddess forbid they ask me about anything relating to my life. They don't want to know.
I feel really alone and homesick and invisible. The boys are back with their mom and dad (who actually calls french fries "freedom" fries). I did my best to instill some of my ideas into them, but Tyler's so far gone he can't even call Glinda the Good a witch. "She's a FAIRY," he said. Because there's no such thing as a good witch. They're also not allowed to see Harry Potter or Lord of the Rings. Because it's evil.
Tyler had recurring dreams of a small green devil that looked like it would be fun to play with, but he knew if he touched it he would become "hateful to God." His words. I remember dreams that like too well. It made me sad to hear the disease spread to another generation.
Only a few more days. Feel like my real life is only a dream, and this is how I really live, trapped and alone.
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| Song lyrics by Timothy and Tyler |
[12 Jul 2003|02:25pm] |
Ok, this is totally wrong to impose on my friends but I can't seem to help myself.
I brought Phyllis, the bass, back to my family's house. The boys, almost 8, love to play with it. They strum it and make up songs. Here is a sample of some of their work.
Kylie
by Timothy Stump
I like my friends... my friends like me
but I only have one friend, her name is Kylie
She has a lot of toys
She likes to play inside
she likes to play outside
She likes to play with both of us
She likes to play with me and my brother
She loves to play with us
She likes to sleep with us
And she is a beautiful girl.
(Kylie is their 3-year-old sister.)
The Flower Song
by Tyler Stump
I went down the road
To pick some flowers for my mom
And then I saw the pink one and I said
Ah chooooo, hoo, hoo, hoo
Ah chooo, hoo, hoo, hoo
Then I saw an orange one in my eye
I picked it up too
Ah choooo, hoo, hoo, hoo,
Ah chooo, hoo, hoo, hoo
Purple one fell from the sky
I picked it for mom and I started to cry
I said
Ah choooo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo
Ah chooo, hoo, hoo, hoo
The yellow one burst in my eye
I picked it for mommy and I didn’t know why
I started to say
Ah choooo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo
Ah chooo, hooo, hoo, hoo, hoo
A white one was a surprise
But I guess I picked it up and I started to say
Ah choooo, hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo
Ah chooo, hooo hoo, hoo, hoo
Ha, ha, chooooooooooooooooooooooooo
Lsst night I watched Rio Bravo with John Wayne. Currently I am being shot at by nerf darts.
Soon: The Rug Rats movie.
I have had 2 cigarettes in 2 days.
If I don't make it, tell all my friends I love them.
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| Today I went to a truck pull |
[11 Jul 2003|01:08am] |
Last night, Velocity performed at Cabaret Magique, very fun. For various reasons, she had to do her bathing piece to Hosebeast, and Diana and I were her human mike stand. It was a classic piece of improvisation. We hung out and drank for another hour or so after that.
The only dark storm cloud on the horizon... I was supposed to be on a plane leaving for California from Newark at 6AM. At 345, I was stoned, drunk, and in the middle of a bar downtown.
415AM. Port Authority, trying to find the bus for Newark Airport. So high am I, have to return to the ticket seller twice to reconfirm that the bus I am getting on indeed goes to Newark airport. Then I ask the bus driver again.
Problem is, the bus leaves at 5AM. I get to the airport about 25 minutes before my flight is supposed to leave. I'm so out of it I'm not even nervous-- the whole thing is like a bustling little playlet being acted out in front of me. Oh, and did I mention that I did an e-ticket and I have no confirmation number with me? I lost it. dooo dooo dooo, hello, excuse me, I have to be on a plane to Chicago in 20 minutes and I don't have a confirmation number for my e-ticket. Whisk, front of the line, whisk, boarding pass in hand, next thing I know I'm seated on the plane, passed out cold before take-off. When I woke up I thought I was still on the bus.
Transfered to another plane in Chicago, slept through most of that flight, too. My mom and dad look about the same, although I could see their reaction to me was just, oh, god, here she goes again. But they were game about it, and suddenly we're in the car on the way to Sonora (3 hour drive) to pick up my nephews so they can stay with us.
But first, we have to go to the fair. Tyler and Timmy have been dying to go to the county fair, so before we take them to my Mom and Dad's house in Salinas, it's all about the fair.
First, the frisbee catching dog show. Liked that. We were in the shade.
Then, the rides. Kiddie rides mostly. Great deal of spinning involved with that.
Finally, the piece du resistance. The truck pull. Now, having never attended a truck pull, I did not know what to expect. Turns out you pull this plow thingie into the ground. The further you pull it, the deeper the plow goes in so it becomes progressively harder to pull.
Announcer: "How many FORD people in the house?"
Audience: "ROAR!"
Announcer: "How many CHEVROLET people in the house?"
Audience: "ROAR!"
I didn't even know there was a difference between Ford and Chevrolet people. And I need not mention that Toyotas or BMWs were not brought up.
The announcer also mentioned that there were some "lady drivers" for the first time that night. Almost lost it. Didn't.
There is nothing so boring as watching trucks pull a sled thingie into the ground. I got off on it because I knew that less than 24 hours ago I had been on stage at Cabaret Magique with Diana holding a mike for Velocity.
But so far I am not killing myself. Spending time with the twins is making everything okay. And my parents are holding up well to the changes.
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| he emailed me back !!! :) |
[09 Jul 2003|02:15pm] |
My email from Gregory Maguire:
Thank you so much! I can't even remember a passage comparing Shiz to the Emerald City, but that just goes to show how long a life books can have. It is almost ten years old now and that book just has a certain bite in the minds of the readers, I have to say... Thank you so much for writing.
Gregory Maguire
I am now officially the coolest nerd on the planet.
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| Wicked |
[08 Jul 2003|08:19pm] |
I'm reading Wicked, the story of the Wicked Witch of the East, by Gregory Maguire. Velocity loaned it to me.
There's a quote by Tolstoy in War and Peace, about how so-called "great men" are merely pawns in the flow of history. A sort of take on fate, that we're all given our roles and have to fulfill them, but the actual course of events has little or nothing to do with the individual efforts of these "great men." Based on this theory, Tolstoy does some great psychological profiling of Czar Nicholas and Napoleon; some of his internal dialogue of Napoleon is excellent. You really get the idea that these are thoughts Napoleon would have had while rolling across Europe in 1805 and 1812. Maguire uses this quote at the beginning of his novel.
In any event, this Maguire character, who is a complete genius, decided to apply the same theory to THE WICKED WITCH OF THE WEST. He treats her like one of those "great men;" a complex individual with little or no control over her role as despot over the lands of the West. He takes a fairy tale and brings an incredible level of richness and political insight.
There is one point at which Glinda the Good is talking to one of her old friends, comparing Shiv (a city of Oz that Maguire apparently made up) with Emerald City; and it is EXACTLY, EXACTLY like a character in War and Peace comparing the old culturally superior St. Petersburg with the upstart despotic town of Moscow. So exact, and so clever, like when you're listening to jazz, and suddenly you hear a little riff and realize that it's a melody from a folk song or a popular radio tune. They said that Charlie Parker, when doing a solo, saw a sailor walk in the bar and integrated "3 sailors went to sea" or something like that into his solo. That was exactly the feeling I got when I recognized the riff on Tolstoy. I started dancing around the room, laughing like a madwoman. Moscow and St. Petersburg! The Emerald City and Shiv! Brilliant! Funny! Perfect!
There's nothing better than good writing. Except maybe good music.
I'm going to find this man's email address right now...
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| Why oh why am I awake |
[06 Jul 2003|10:53am] |
It's not even 11 AM on Sunday and I'm already up and moving around and the coffee is on. What kind of crazy bizarro world is this?
V. and I are going to be bikini extras in some sort of movie being directed by one of the guys from the Toilet Boys. Hee, hee. Me and Velocity. Bikini extras. Be afraid. Of course I'm PMSing like a mofo and my belly's distended and I have acne on my forehead. At least my boobies are a little bigger... just in time to be poppin' out of the bikini!
Deliberately curtailed substance abuse last night because I was tired and because I didn't want to be PMSing and hung over in a bikini. It actually worked and I feel human, even though I'm awake while the sun is still in the east. Which is never a good sign.
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| Happy Birthday to Me |
[04 Jul 2003|03:25am] |
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mood |
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 jubilant |
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music |
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Yankee Doodle Cracka |
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Everytime they say we're celebrating Ameryka's birthday on TV I get all happy. I know it's a corny pun, but if yr going to go to all the trouble to call yrself Ameryka you should be able to enjoy the perks that go along with it. Now I have 2 birthdays. I always wanted a birthday in the summer anyway.
So where my gifts, crackas!?
Suggestions:
Cordless bass
Anal beads
Mushrooms
Complete Works of Anton LeVey
New sheets
Camel Cigarettes (not lights you crackas)
Beef
Beer
Cocaine
And I also like those little fancy soaps for the bathroom.
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| Thoughts on the Marilyn Manson Secret Film |
[01 Jul 2003|04:53pm] |
There's a secret movie on the latest Marilyn Manson CD-- a heavily futurist/dada influenced tone poem accompanied by black and white S&M imagery. One of the most interesting tricks of the movie is the way in which he will repeat the same phrase over and over again, merely changing the emphasis to a different word or even a different syllable. Like I said, very dada. The technique forces the listener to pay attention to the same set of words over a prolonged period of time. It can give the lustre of importance to any phrase. Try saying solemnly over and over, "the sky is blue. THE sky is blue. the SKY is blue. the sky IS blue. the sky is BLUE. theskyisbluetheskyisbluetheSKYisblue." Suddenly a cliche has become a meditation on color or space. The words become a canvas for the listener to project his or her thoughts onto, with the only parameters being the nature of the phrase. It's poetry as sensory deprivation. Because there are few words to hold onto, the human consciousness begins to create meaning or connection where none may have existed before.
What is interesting is that in the movie, Manson says something like, "I want you to know that the audience is a screen upon which I project my images..." Something like that. The important part is that he sees the audience as a screen, a canvas. And yet the poetry technique he is using is one in which the experience will be highly subjective for the listener because the words and images are ambiguous, the way in which he says them open to all sorts of interpretation. Does this mean that by presenting ambiguity, he is able to put in motion the reponses of his audience in order to create an art experience that is unique for each individual? Are the responses in and of themselves part of the art? Why in the world would he classify his audience as so passive and receptive (i.e., a screen) when the art he has chosen to create on the video is one which demands participation in order to create meaning?
"The young are too senile..." he says many times, mutating the phrase with his pronunciation until it becomes, "The young Sieg Heil."
So maybe the point is to agitate the listener out of apathy (which is what I interpret "senile" as in this case) by forcing them to make connections out of barely-there lines of poetry. Apathy leads to being easily led ("the young sieg heil").
If the audience is a screen in this case, it must be a living screen, made up of each individual interpretation of his words. It is as if the screen is made up of billions of different neurons, making unique connections based upon their own backgrounds and experiences.
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| OCD Cracka, Part II |
[30 Jun 2003|12:37pm] |
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'Sup, dude dere, I's gots'ta be drowin' dis email, cuz' Mama T advised me t'say some doodads dis way. Slap mah fro! De issue be my room. WORD! I rent dis room. WORD! ah' do pay some lot uh rent some mond. I equipped it mah'self wid mah' own bre'd. I supply it mah'self, ah' do not use Mama T's supplies. I paid some lot uh bre'd fo' de new bed, couch, cross, lamps, rug, equipment. Man! I told Mama T, dat da damn staff be allowed t'use mah' room durin' times, when ah' ain't around. I do not gots any advantages fum it. Man! I do not dig any uh de bre'd made fum de sessions by de staff. So, dis be plum to do de staff some favo' so's everybody kin make some 'estra bre'd. However, even dough Mama T put down several notes regardin' de use and treatment uh de room, sucka's gots been treatin' it totally widout respect. Man! Several times ah' had t'wipe off cigarette ashes off de cabinets and tables and remove it off de rug. What it is, Mama! I found FULL ashtrays left fo' me t'clean dem down. So, fum now on dere be no mo'e smokin' allowed in mah' room. WORD! Den, some fool gots'ta have climbed down on de brand new bondage bed wearin' spiked heels. Dat be plum unbelievable. Well, two holes gots been poked into de vinyl wid dose heels. Dis happened about two weeks ago. 'S coo', bro. De sucka', who climbed down on de bed in heels gots'ta know, so cut me some slack, Jack. Dis sucka' gots'ta be responsible fo' fixin' it. Man! I gots'ta not fix de table. If de problem gots'ta not dig snatchn care uh and da damn holes dig wo'se, so's I gots'ta t'recova' de bed, ah' gots'ta lock de room, so's nobody gots'ta be able t'use da damn room any longer. Ah be baaad... Two o' dree nights ago ah' discovered HUGE 'cum'-stains on mah' new rug. What it is, Mama! Fust uh all, dig dis: Which Mistress lets ha' client mosey on down all upside de floo'??? Dat be plum disgustin'. Second, dig dis: If eva' nuthin digs 'spilled', no matta' whut it is, o' kindle wax ends down on de floo', it needs t'be cleaned down immediately afta' de session. 'S coo', bro. To leave it dere fo' me o' Mama T t'clean it down o' fo' mah' clients t'have t'look at it be also completely unacceptable. A kindle might be it fo' settin' 'de mood'. Dose kindles in de room is NOT fo' hot wax scenes. Finally, dig dis: ah' do not use Mama T's supplies. ah' have t'purchase mah' own supplies. So, please snatch supplies out uh Mama T's room if ya' do some session in mah' room. WORD! Dank ya'. And ah' hope doodads gots'ta wo'k betta' from now on. 'S coo', bro. What it is, Dio'
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blueeyesnyc's journal
