This is the best description of me EVER:

They don't know the true You...the 5 feet of wrathful spite, wrapped up in cute and boobage that wants nothing more then to fuck Your ocular socket with a 20 inch jelly dildo.

I fucking love my friends.

I'm going home I'm fucking tired.

Stumble It!

Silly quizzes bitches.


Which Evil Criminal are You?
A Rum and Monkey crime.


What Kind of Drunk Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey


Which Famous Homosexual Are You?
Brought to you by Rum and Monkey

Stumble It!

Since I keep crashing my Outlook while trying to clean it out I'm going to stop doing that now.

In a fit of adventure seeking I just got a different coffee drink from what I usually get. I got something called a caramel machiatto. Yeah no. It's a fucking vanilla latte with a spritz of caramel on top.=20 Fuck that.

I'll stick to my vente americano with half and half and two sugars thank you. If I want to get fancy instead of sugar I get a spritz of vanilla or almond syrup.

For the last few months I've taken to reading the NYTimes online and as I was reading in the arts section the other day I had an attack of 'what the FUCK is going on here?' Apparently Oprah is backing a Broadway rendition of "The Color Purple".

Granted I'm not a huge Broadway buff but, the trend in the past few years has been over the top type comedy. 'Hairspray' 'Spamalot' etc.=20 The Color Purple is serious subject matter. I find it disturbing to see it turned into an all singing all dancing thing.

I don't know what it is but, it just bugs the hell out of me. Leave it alo ne.

I feel the same way when books are turned into movies for the most part. 'American Psycho' is a very good example.

The book is a terrible mix of violence, sex, greed and a good indictment of the society it takes place in. 1980's corporate America. However for all of it's startling violence it's a beautifully written book. The violence and sex is interspersed with moments of lucidity and in depth musical reviews. One of my favorite books.

The movie was ok. They had the ubiquitous ratings battle (more over the amount of sex rather than the violence- Go America) but, it didn't really capture the book to me. The film did not leave me with the same 'What the FUCK just happened?' feeling that the book did.

I resist seeing the movie versions of books I've already read. And tend to be disappointed when I see the read the books movies are based on. There's a richness in the written word that movies fail again and again to find and keep in my mind.

That's probably why I'm more into books than I am movies.

I had a different point to this entry but it's gone now.

Maybe more later. I have training to do and some crappy coffee to finish.

Goodnight Sally.

Stumble It!

So yeah I'm feeling better today. Despite my lack of sleep. Maybe the walks are helping.

In other news.

I've been thinking a lot about culture (as in my own personal culture as opposed to the culture of where I live etc. Small culture not Big Culture) and I'm realizing that as I get older I'm finding it more difficult to really want to make the effort to seek out like minds.

My thoughts come mostly from the fact that I think I've developed too high hopes for some of my fellow humans.

I have to remind myself constantly that no Virgina not everyone wants to flex the big brain as frequently as I like to. And sometimes I just feel let down. Partially it's because I've had some damn good friends and cohorts in my life.

My few close friends have in common that we can talk about things and really talk about them. It's not just, 'Oh yeah that was cool.' and the conversational equivalent of a circle jerk. I'm fairly positive if someone read some of my im conversations and emails with people they'd be mystified by all the pissing references interlaced with talk about books mythology and whatever else.

I crave that kind of contact. I crave people I can talk about art and culture with, without the blank look or worse yet having it glossed over. I crave people who understand when I'm indignant that (insert book/song/etc here) has in my mind been tainted by (insert thing here).

I crave people who'll say to me, 'what the fuck are you talking about that (book/song/band) is fabulous.' I get tired of head nodding, and bumhole kissing.

Most of my frustration is online since I spend 8 hours a day in front of a computer. I get enamoured of a community and either I lurk so I don't ruin it for myself or I just stop going because I get disappointed.

I'm not the sort of person who'll sit and bitch and piss and moan that someone else's community sucks. If I don't think I can make it better in a constructive sense I'm going to keep my trap shut. Unless someone asks me then yes I'll give my two cents but generally I am not one to piss on someone Else's parade.



I don't know what my point is exactly. Aside from I feel the need to blabb er.

I suppose I'm just a little itchy. Restless inside. I have this want to do something but nothing I come up with seems to feel satisfactory. Or it costs more money than I have. Hopefully someday I will figure out how to sate this restless hunger I have. Maybe that'll keep me occupied enough that I'm not sitting staring disconsolately at my computer screen and craving something I can't even name.

So yeah.

I'm going to go smoke and read some poetry.

Goodnight Sally..

PS...the tag in my jeans is making my butt crack itch and I should've worn underwear. And ignore the misspellings I test drove gmail's spell check and it's weird.

Stumble It!

I'm feeling a little random anger. Not sure why. It's just kind of there. It's a little grief over knowing now that I'll not see Liz again anytime soon and just general 'what the fuck am I doing?' sort of angst.

Some of it comes from this physical feeling of ugh. The fact that the cheap mary jane's I bought at Rite Aid are every bit as comfortable as their 7 dollar price tag would infer. No one to blame that on but me. I know for a fact I'm causing half of my own discomfort.

How's that you might ask? Glad you did here's what I'm doing.

There are some things I am in desperate need of.

My Kmart Kicks have gotten worn to the point of being uncomfortable. Granted they are 12 dollar sneakers, and I've had them for upwards of 4 years with a lot of wear and they've done well.

I need at least one pair of decent pants that fit properly. I have 2 pairs of jeans neither of which fit right or are very flattering. I have 1 pair of fuzzy-ish lounge pants and a pair of worn yoga pants.

I need one or two good bras. The one I'm wearing the wire pops out and one of the hooks is broken. I have 1 other one I've had for years and years and it's just tired, and the other one I got I have no idea when doesn't fit quite right. The cut is very uncomfortable and makes my boobs hurt after a day of wearing.

Here's my issue with all of this. For those things. I'm looking at around 150 dollars or so for quality things. Or I could go back to Kmart or Payless shoes, back to Walmart for a pair of ugly pants.

Or the other popular option I could stop thinking about it and use that 150 to pay a couple of bills. Or buy groceries. That is probably what I'll do to tell the truth.

Ok I really hate talking about this. I feel a nasty gut ruining mix of guilt, stupidity and shame. I'm ashamed because for whatever reason I've just not been able to dig myself out of the rut I call my life. I hate that I don't have the (insert whatever here) to pull myself up by the bootstraps as they say.

Yes I've been able to keep my head above water but barely. Yes, considering my situation and income level I've done mostly ok. But it's just not enough.

I shouldn't be coming back to decisions like this again and again.

I hate that my friends get so sad about my life.

I know that I clam up and don't tell anybody anything. I hate it. But I can't always make myself be open. I've been asked why and it's everything. I hate that look, tone etc that people get when I know I'm hurting them in some way and there's nothing any of us can do about it. It's because I'm embarassed that I've not done better for myself. I'm embarassed because fuck up after fuck up I'm still right here where I've been all along.

I might not post this.

I will, I changed my mind. Most people who know me that read this probably know all of this already.

It's hard for me to even write about it anymore. I get so frustrated that even journalling becomes an exercise in some stupid shame cycle I've put myself in.

I can't blame my parents and I can't blame anyone else. I do this to myself. I'm trying not to. I'm trying to know the line between doing right, and doing right by myself but it's hard. I'm struggling trying to find the middle road and find something/someway to work it out.

So there you have it. The drama of the day.

I hate feeling like that girl. Always some issue, always something to bitch about.

It's days like this I don't want to have the need to write in any journal. I feel like I should keep it to myself.

Goodnight Sally

PS...ignore my whining. Kthnks.

Stumble It!

When I checked my old email address today (one I've kept mostly for old contacts, long lost friends etc) I found an email telling me an old friend of mine passed away last month.

How to start. I met her and her wife when I was 20 and had just started dating the evil ex gf. Daddy Liz and her wife. One stone butch lesbian (who I fell ass over tea kettle in instant lust/awe with) and her beautiful sweet hippy wife. They were both 40 and older than my Mom but to say I would've crawled on the floor to lick the soles of eithers feet is an understatement.

At the time they were the kind of lesbians I wanted to grow up and be.

Though my ex knew them both before I did I got very close to Daddy Liz. I lusted after her, flirted with her, made her laugh, made her cry once. She adopted me in a way and taught me things that have in the years between then and now solidified my comfort in my queer identity in a way that nobody else had been able to do.

Daddy Liz was the first person to talk to me about being gender queer. She was the first to acknowledge and understand my own inner butch/femme/dyke/fag/straightish girl self. She helped me understand that regardless of what who says whatever I feel inside I am, that's what I am. Fuck the dumb shit.

She didn't laugh when I wanted to be a hot femme packing a big dick. She never once told me that it wasn't the type of behaviour lesbians engage in. She understood my (then) new understanding of and enjoyment of power struggles and exchange. She taught me how to wear a strap on without chafing. She took me on my first long motorcycle ride. She hugged me and treated me like one of the bois when I needed it. She smacked me around a little and I liked it. She praised and adored just how femme I can be. Laughed when I refused to wash dishes after a party because I'd just had a manicure.

Daddy Liz held me and rocked me when the evil ex dumped me. She let me lay on her floor drunk for 3 days wailing and howling with her dog until I could get up. She didn't laugh when her hippie wife took me along on one of her hippy gatherings and I ran around naked with the flower children and their children.

She had one of her younger studly butch friends court me in a delicate and genteel way when I was hurt and pissed off. She yelled at me when I did stupid things. Spanked me on her 41st birthday. Let me give her a pedicure. Cried when I sat her down in her backyard and spent three hours professing my undying love and respect for her.

In the years since I've thought of her often. Remembered the value of knowing someone who helped me discover, understand and embrace the whole of my sexuality and who I am.

Her wife told me she'd been ill for some time and neither had been able to remember my last name or anything. It wasn't until her brother had gone through Daddy Liz's computer and found some very old emails from me that they decided to take a chance. She said Daddy Liz passed quietly and with her dignity intact. Her wife is going to take their life savings (they were together for over 20 years poly gay and happy) and move to Italy with her sister.

She said they still had the photo of Daddy Liz and I on her Harley. Filthy and exhausted from the trip down the Oregon coast and back. She said if she could find it she'd send it to me. I told her she didn't have to. That I have that picture and all the rest tucked safely in my heart.

Goodbye Daddy Liz.

Stumble It!

Ever have that 'How bout I stab you in the eye?' sort of feeling when some stranger talks to you?


No? Ok must be just me.


Last night on my way home as I was digging into my book Timeline by Michael Crichton this jackass decides I must look ripe for the inept hitting on.


Yeah no.


Little tip for those of you looking for your next hunka burning love. If said hottie is nose deep in a book they probably don't want to have a conversation with you about how cool it is that maybe someday they'll reanimate some dinosaur DNA. Shut up.


I'll digress for a moment. I've actually read this before. I listened to the audio book a few years ago and enjoyed it. I'm not a huge Michael Crichton fan but it's decent. And it was free since my nonbudget has not allowed for new reading materials.


Where was I? Eye stabbing right.


So I make it onto the ferry only to be waylayed by a nice but doddering old man who was complimenting me on my fancy silver nails. And extolling the virtues of diversifying the Island (as in Bainbridge...keep up). Yeah great go away.


And yesterday I started bleeding. What the fuck? 3.5 week cycle? What am I in puberty? Fuck sake I fucking hate my reproductive system sometimes.


So I'm very cranky. Hurting. I left my last two Pamrpin's at home. Those were the only thing to touch the backache, knees ache, cramps, bloating and churning guts.


Ok something less cranky.


I was crawling around in Twice Sold Tales and between playing with a fat gray kitty who if you walk away from her first looks hurt then will hook a paw in your pants leg until you give up the belly rubbing I found my next few books I think.


First The Persistant Desire: A Femme Butch Reader edited by Joan Nestle. It looks interesting as we all know I enjoy the HLA (hot lesbian action) and reading about it gives me a tingle in my bathing suit area.


I'm tempted to order myself some used books on gender. Maybe Transgender Warriors: Making History From Joan of Arc to Dennis Rodman by Leslie Feinberg. Or maybe Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality by Anne Fausto-Sterling. But I know myself and I might get over into it and go on another streak of sex politics.

I don't know. I've been reading some excellent fiction (excellent not light) and some lighter reading might do me well. I don't know.

I had a depressing moment yesterday. I subjected myself to looking at some classes I'd sell my left tit to a.)afford and b.)qualify for.

this class. I will admit though that I find the idea of taking some writing classes to be a good one however, I find it daunting in a way that's hard to describe. You'd have to see my face.

It's all intermingled with a lot of fears I have surrounding school in general. I don't really feel like giong into it.

I think that's about all I have to say right now. I'd rather not trot down the depression road at the moment. I'm just hormonal enough I might start crying while trying to kick someone and that would probably get me fired.

Goodnight Sally...

PS..more on the education issue later.

Stumble It!

Ever have that 'How bout I stab you in the eye?' sort of feeling when some stranger talks to you?

No? Ok must be just me.

Last night on my way home as I was digging into my book Timeline by Michael Crichton this jackass decides I must look ripe for the inept hitting on.

Yeah no.

Little tip for those of you looking for your next hunka burning love. If said hottie is nose deep in a book they probably don't want to have a conversation with you about how cool it is that maybe someday they'll reanimate some dinosaur DNA. Shut up.

I'll digress for a moment. I've actually read this before. I listened to the audio book a few years ago and enjoyed it. I'm not a huge Michael Crichton fan but it's decent. And it was free since my nonbudget has not allowed for new reading materials.

Where was I? Eye stabbing right.

So I make it onto the ferry only to be waylayed by a nice but doddering old man who was complimenting me on my fancy silver nails. And extolling the virtues of diversifying the Island (as in Bainbridge...keep up). Yeah great go away.

And yesterday I started bleeding. What the fuck? 3.5 week cycle? What am I in puberty? Fuck sake I fucking hate my reproductive system sometimes.

So I'm very cranky. Hurting. I left my last two Pamrpin's at home. Those were the only thing to touch the backache, knees ache, cramps, bloating and churning guts.

Ok something less cranky.

I was crawling around in Twice Sold Tales and between playing with a fat gray kitty who if you walk away from her first looks hurt then will hook a paw in your pants leg until you give up the belly rubbing I found my next few books I think.

First The Persistant Desire: A Femme Butch Reader edited by Joan Nestle. It looks interesting as we all know I enjoy the HLA (hot lesbian action) and reading about it gives me a tingle in my bathing suit area.

I'm tempted to order myself some used books on gender. Maybe Transgender Warriors: Making History From Joan of Arc to Dennis Rodman by Leslie Feinberg. Or maybe Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality by Anne Fausto-Sterling. But I know myself and I might get over into it and go on another streak of sex politics.

I don't know. I've been reading some excellent fiction (excellent not light) and some lighter reading might do me well. I don't know.
I had a depressing moment yesterday. I subjected myself to looking at some classes I'd sell my left tit to a.)afford and b.)qualify for.

this class. I will admit though that I find the idea of taking some writing classes to be a good one however, I find it daunting in a way that's hard to describe. You'd have to see my face.

It's all intermingled with a lot of fears I have surrounding school in general. I don't really feel like giong into it.
I think that's about all I have to say right now. I'd rather not trot down the depression road at the moment. I'm just hormonal enough I might start crying while trying to kick someone and that would probably get me fired.

Goodnight Sally...

PS..more on the education issue later.

Stumble It!

Ever have that 'How bout I stab you in the eye?' sort of feeling when some stranger talks to you?

No? Ok must be just me.

Last night on my way home as I was digging into my book Timeline by Michael Crichton this jackass decides I must look ripe for the inept hitting on.

Yeah no.

Little tip for those of you looking for your next hunka burning love. If said hottie is nose deep in a book they probably don't want to have a conversation with you about how cool it is that maybe someday they'll reanimate some dinosaur DNA. Shut up.

I'll digress for a moment. I've actually read this before. I listened to the audio book a few years ago and enjoyed it. I'm not a huge Michael Crichton fan but it's decent. And it was free since my nonbudget has not allowed for new reading materials.

Where was I? Eye stabbing right.

So I make it onto the ferry only to be waylayed by a nice but doddering old man who was complimenting me on my fancy silver nails. And extolling the virtues of diversifying the Island (as in Bainbridge...keep up). Yeah great go away.

And yesterday I started bleeding. What the fuck? 3.5 week cycle? What am I in puberty? Fuck sake I fucking hate my reproductive system sometimes.

So I'm very cranky. Hurting. I left my last two Pamrpin's at home. Those were the only thing to touch the backache, knees ache, cramps, bloating and churning guts.

Ok something less cranky.

I was crawling around in Twice Sold Tales and between playing with a fat gray kitty who if you walk away from her first looks hurt then will hook a paw in your pants leg until you give up the belly rubbing I found my next few books I think.

First The Persistant Desire: A Femme Butch Reader edited by Joan Nestle. It looks interesting as we all know I enjoy the HLA (hot lesbian action) and reading about it gives me a tingle in my bathing suit area.

I'm tempted to order myself some used books on gender. Maybe Transgender Warriors: Making History From Joan of Arc to Dennis Rodman by Leslie Feinberg. Or maybe Sexing the Body: Gender Politics and the Construction of Sexuality by Anne Fausto-Sterling. But I know myself and I might get over into it and go on another streak of sex politics.

I don't know. I've been reading some excellent fiction (excellent not light) and some lighter reading might do me well. I don't know.
I had a depressing moment yesterday. I subjected myself to looking at some classes I'd sell my left tit to a.)afford and b.)qualify for.

this class. I will admit though that I find the idea of taking some writing classes to be a good one however, I find it daunting in a way that's hard to describe. You'd have to see my face.

It's all intermingled with a lot of fears I have surrounding school in general. I don't really feel like giong into it.
I think that's about all I have to say right now. I'd rather not trot down the depression road at the moment. I'm just hormonal enough I might start crying while trying to kick someone and that would probably get me fired.

Goodnight Sally...

PS..more on the education issue later.

Stumble It!

It's Monday and I'm not pissed off surprise surprise. Actually I'm in a fair mood. Except that I'm dressed way too warm-weather. Oops. The prospect of a dollar chicken sandwhich screwed up my judgement.

In other knews I saw Shrek 2 and it was fucking hilarious. That might replace Monsters Inc as my favorite animated movie. I need a screen cap of Puss in Boots doing his little sad kitty face.

I also saw Underworld which I thought was ok. I'd have liked to see a little bit more of their take on the whole vampire/werewolf mythology but it was interesting. It reminded me of my favorite vampire series of books. The Shadow Saga by Christopher Golden. That is an excellent trilogy of books. Magic, vampires, politics, religion. Got it all in a nice package that isn't too sappy and/or lengthy. Good stuff.

So I'm thinking about Nanowrimo again. Unsure if I'm doing it this year or not. I could do it however as usual I have no idea what I might want to do. Last year I did a vampire-ish thing. This year who knows. 50k is a lot of verbiage.

I'm thinking I want to make a new template but the computer I use at home doesn't have photochop and I'd really like to make my own cool graphic of some sort. That is why I have no new banners either I've been meaning to change my clix one and forgetting.

I've been thinking of making one of those girly silhouettes that instead of being some cut out might actually be yours truly. And no you can't see any of my naughty bits.

I realized the other day that my hair is actually longer than it's been since I was in highschool and I have no idea what the hell to do with it. Aside of course from wear my ponytail and uh....yeah. So I'm thinking I'll be needing to get a curling iron or something out of storage. But I'm a little reluctant because my hair is really really healthy and I don't want to start using a lot of heat on it.
In other news I gave myself a shiny silver manicure and I do really like the Sally Hansen Chrome series of polishes better than the Revlon. The Revlon dries fast but isn't quite as shiny as I'd like. That's two coats of topcoat when I get home. After a body fatigue/relaxation bathbombed bath and another mask since my skin is acting like I'm 14 again.

Enough of my babble.

Goodnight Sally.

PS...My pants keep sliding southward and I'm afraid someone is going to see my crack.

Stumble It!

6 Pages and 2k or so words later finally the damn thing is done. Next time I am tempted to think about the evolution of (insert mythlogical..did I spell that right?.. creature here) someone should just tell me no and hit me with a rolled up paper.

Right on the nose.

But I think it's pretty good. Very laden with music, my whole goal isn't really to get people thinking about sirens but more to get interested in the music. I have yet to edit it but the thing is done.

And I feel better. But I'm spent. Ye gods.

If you have no idea what I'm talking about look back an entry I don't feel like going into more detail than that.

Goodnight Sally...for reals this time.

Ps....that last entry there I accidentally saved as a draft earlier. Glad I noticed or this one wouldn't make much sense. Not that I ever make much sense but yeah...uh...ok.

Stumble It!

Ever noticed that when I get all frothy round the mouth I can fuck up some links all to hell?

Yeah me too.

So right now between playing this nerdy online game and sipping a crappy energy drink I am typing up the story I wrote most of last night on the ferry.

Laptop needing has been fully highlighted by this experience.

It's been a pretty long time since I really wrote out an entire short story by hand. My handwriting is bad and has always been bad. ( did horrible on penmanship in school, back in the day I would've never been able to be a librarian.) I mean it's bad even when I print unless I write painfully slowly. I think it has to do with the way I hold my pens, what kind of pen I'm using and just how fevered I am. Last night was fevered. I had missed the 10:05 ferry by about two minutes so I sat outside hunched over my little purple mini legal pad scribbling away while banging my head to the Soulfly (Prophecy is a really good album and the one I was listening to. Probably didn't help the pace of my writing;) album blaring away in my headphones.

On the bus I had been listening to Santana and the song on that cd with Citizen Cope called Sideways got me to thinking. Now about two months ago I read a shitload of stuff on Greek Mythology for fun and last night I had sirens running around in my head. They have been for weeks see here for some visual cues as to the story..I'll explain that later on sometime. And finally it just hit me.

Sirens evolving, a cautionary tale and a big fuckin dog.

So I spent the 50 minutes I had to wait for the ferry scribbling, then the 35 minute ferry ride. Then my 35 minute ferry ride here and it's about done. Now just to get it all typed up. Unlike many authors I've read and spoken to I'm not very good with the handwriting. Poems yes, those strange prose-ish natterings yes, but stories yeah not so much.

I'm going to come up with a plan to find a laptop for super cheap. My Byootiful has some of his friends on both coasts and a cross country truck driver looking out for me. And I am fairly sure that either by Giftmas or earlier I will have said laptop.

Ok back to the salt mines. But you get an excerpt.

~


The dog Magus looked at the two men and craned his neck at Merle, drooling and tail thumping against the couch.

‘Better go on and pet him. He’ll cry like a baby if you don’t. There’s a table over there next to his couch you can pull the chair around right up there close.’

Merle got up, he loved dogs. Especially big sleepy looking dogs. Magus wagged his tail with a little more vigor while Merle pulled the chair up close and began administering the much appreciated ear scratching.
~

Goodnight Sally..

Ps..my boy drawers are in a twist and I think I'm going to have to remove them and put them in my purse.

Pps....show me your boobs.

Stumble It!

The title is from the movie Super Troopers that is some funny shit go watch it.

I am a ranty little beast. I did all that spewing yesterday and forgot to actually rant about something else.

So I didn't tell anyone (mainly because I forgot about it) that a month or so ago I applied via email to be a book reviewer for a new (I'm not linking them keep reading you'll see why) wimmins ezine.

So I wrote up three reviews. Granted they weren't super fabulous but they were pretty good. Now I was turned down for the position not because I wrote bad reviews but, because the main editor didn't like the books I was reading.

Prior to that there had been no mention of a preferred genre, no favorites listed. But as it turns out what she wanted was Chick Lit. (Can you feel me twitch?)

I tried reading chick lit. I really did. And I have yet to find any that were held my attention in a way other than a, 'you silly bitch shut up and go make me a sandwhich'. Kind of way.

Then even after I said I'd consider it she went and made a serious mistake. Either she googled my name or the editor who I'd originally submitted to sent her links to my other works or whatever she found my other works and I assume my photos.

She ever so politely said something like this.

"Since you're African American maybe you should review some of the hot new urban romance novels and urban literature."

(Insert moment of silence as my head fills with steam.)

So because I'm black I must be dying to read 'urban' literature. No.

I have read some of this and found it terrible. A dumbed down stereotype embracing systemic commercialization of a lot of things that are wrong in black culture.

I replied as politely as I could that if she wanted a black reviewer to review black literature I would be reviewing Maya Angelou, W.E.B Du Bois, Zora Neal Hurston, Octavia E. Butler.

The list goes on but you get my point.
I was so amazingly pissed off. There is nothing worse to me than when someone assumes that because of the color of your skin you must be into whatever. Screw you asshole.

So yeah. Needless to say I won't be taking part in that.
In other non ranty news I promised Wes that I'd post some work safe subversive type stuff to look at.

Courtesy of the fabulousMei. Homo Penguins. That should clear up any doubts as to who's fault global warming really is. I mean it's TEH GAYS I TELL YOU IT'S TEH GAYS!

Ok theeeennnn...

Next up UnderGround Voices Magazine. Mental Illness, obsession and chock full of damn good writing. They also have featured artists every month and poetry. In all one I keep up with and will be trying to get published in.

Cherry Bleeds. Another fine literary magazine. Not updated as often as I'd like but one I read often. Always solid quality writing and the Drinks with Tony feature is very good if you like downloading and listening to interviews.

Quantum Muse. If you've beenr eading me long enough you'll remember they published a story of mine this past year. They specialize in sci-fi, fantasy, alternative, and some good artwork. I have made it a point to keep up with this website. As I have I've noticed my enjoyment of Sci-fi as a genre has actually increased.

Thug Lit. This one is a new magazine. Puply hard boiled fiction. I'm not entirely sure how I feel about it just yet. It's got a good flavour but, I'm not sure how much it's suited to my palate.

That should keep you all occupied for now.

As for me I'm going to settle my crankiness with some green tea and hope my fucking ear/throat stops hurting. The worst thing is it isn't hurting like throbbing hurting more like a stabby type pain every now and then that makes me wince.
But those vitamin c/zinc lozenges I've been dutifully let melt in my mouth aren't so bad. Save for the slightly assy taste.

I did say...slightly assy.

Say it to yourself..slightly assy.

That could describe any number of things huh?

Ok I'm really done.

Goodnight Sally.

PS...Your fly is down.

Stumble It!

I'm listening to the new Disturbed song and think I like it.

I also am discovering that my tolerance for the abject retardication (HA! I stole that word) of some people just makes me grind my teeth. I decided last night after reading an article in the NYTimes about how the movie "March of the Penguins" is supposedly some super cool thing for some freaky religious/conservative thing.

What the FUCK?

They are fucking penguins people.

Cutest things ever yes, noisy yes, but they are penguins.

Not everything is a political fucking statement you assholes. That is something about America that makes my head want to explode. Why is it so many people can't just appreciate something for what it is? Why make it into some uber-THING when it's not necessary?

It pisses me off. Americans have a very hard time appreciating art for arts sake. Instead we get all up in arms about someone seeing a naked ass or god forbid a boob.

Instead of teaching our children to look at something be it a photo, painting, statue, book etc and appreciate the craftmanship, the beauty of, the effort it took to create etc. We cover their eyes and turn them away.

Instead of talking to each other about the beauty of the lines of a womans naked back or the beauty of a naked man in a certain pose all of a sudden it all has to be about perversion or prurient and obscene.

Or it gets turned into yet another stupid homo debate.

OH THE FAGS ARE GOING TO TAKE OVER THE EARTH!! SHEILD YOUR CHILDREN FROM THE WICKED WICKED GAYS.

Give me a fucking break.

I very truly cannot stand people who because of whatever ideas cannot appreciate art. Not only that but they try to fuck it up for everyone else.

As with EVERYTHING else in life you have a choice as to what you do and do not want to see. If you don't approve of something don't support it. It's not that hard of a concept. Do people seriously think if they picket an art exhibit or burn a book that people are going to stop enjoying them?

Grow a brain and a conscience. Just because it's not your cup of tea doesn't make it wrong, or bad. It's just not for you. If not that's great. Just don't fuck it up for the rest of us.

I totally just lost my original train of though while I was foaming about that.

So instead I'll warp your minds with some subversive art. Fair warning there will be nudity and whatnot. Open at your own risk.

This will warp your mind Beware the wicked ways of artists.

Now go look at some neat stuff have a wank and relax.

It's just art.

Stumble It!

If you don't feel it fake it til you do.


I remember being told that at a hair salon in Texas when I was a little kid. I was there getting my very first press and curl (Ok minor divergence here) I just tried finding a how-to or what is guide for press and curl for the napturally challenged and couldn't find one. Weird) anyhow.


So we're all on the same page. And this may vary but here's what I remember.


A press and curl (press n curl etc) is when you have natural (often virgin-meaning never been relaxed) hair you have your hair washed, conditioned then blow dried. After blow drying your hair is combed with a hot comb (or these days I imagine people use flat irons) to flat straight shinyness. You avoid water and humidity like the plague and go the next week.


So yes as I was saying at the hair salon the lady doing my hair was explaining to me that sometimes even if you don't feel fabulous act fabulous and then you'll realize all of a sudden you feel fabulous.


At that salon I felt fabulous. I remember feeling a distinct sense of honor that I got to sit under the dryers and in the big chair with the grown up ladies. I was fascinated by them. (You can see the seeds of my love of all things beauty related were sown here). I painted my nails and toenails, asked for but was denied having my eyebrows shaped. I learned the differences in different kinds of emery boards. I loved the stink of the hair salon. Perms, colors, singed hair. I loved it all.


I loved those Dallas society women with their big hair and strange clothes. There was nothing better to me than sitting in the sweltering pink universe with my glamourous and beautiful Grandma and her beautiful and glamourous friends.


It was thrilling to me. In ways I can't even quite describe.


I got older and felt that way again the first time I hung around drag queens. They were a couple who my Mom worked with at Seagalley (Does anyone remember those restaurants aside from me? My Mom was in the commercials). I loved them. They'd have me at their house and dress me up in sequins and feathers. They made me feel like a doll in the best way possible.


They also bought me my first wig. It was a huge Peg Bundy style wig.

I LOVED that thing. I'd put it on, along with this red slinky dress my Mom had and a pair of her snakeskin pumps. Then of course make up. At six I did better make up than most grown women. I'd sing and put on fashion shows.


When my drag friends went to the Fireman's Ball and won a contest one of them had borrowed my wig. They returned it perfumed, set and with a goody bag of little lip glosses and things.


And I got older still.


As I got older I fell in love with my Mom's stylist. She was a model at the time and a spokeshead for a hair care products line. I called her stylist Ramone because I thought he looked like a Ramone. I have no clue what his name was. He'd let me into his enormous make up kit while he cut my Mom's hair. I never made a mess.


So you see how I got to where I am now.


When we moved I threw out probably at least 5 pounds worth of make up. Not because it was outdated but because I didn't feel like moving it.


So back to my original point. (If you're still reading give yourself a gold star because I'm positively sure this is really boring.)


Given my emotional wibbliness of late I decided today to look good even though I'm not feeling so hot. I relaxed my hair on Sunday and left conditioner in it overnight. (That is the BEST fucking thing in the world, when I rinsed last night after my shower my hair felt like silk) and am wearing my ponytail in a cute updo. I put make up on.


I'm wearing a mostly cute outfit. Black slacks, black tank top and my black hoody. Black mules.


And yes I actually am feeling better especially since I got several compliments.


What can I say I'm vain.


Ok this entry has gone on for too long and I've yet to share something. So I'm going to end it for now, make myself a cuppa and probably try to convince my guts to stop with the rumbling.


Goodnight Sally


PS....Send lotion my feet are ashy.

Stumble It!

I just inadvertantly read what is supposedly Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note. I feel a little nauseated now. I hate the feeling of reading something like that. Not only because of my complicated feelings about suicide but because it's fucking personal.

I'm not feeling real good and I'm cranky.

Emotions all awibble again.

Lots on my mind no clear way to communicate any of it other than to grunt and flail my arms while drooling on myself.

That's a sexy mental image innit?

Now for a book review.

I'm just about finished reading Summer of Night by Dan Simmons. It's been a very good read thus far.

The Amazon page linked above is a little misleading. The Publisher's Weekly blurb says: "Hugo Award-winning novelist Simmons pens an outstandingly eerie horror story about a group of Midwestern boys stalked by an ancient evil."

Which while accurate doesn't really give you a good idea of the scope of this novel. Simmon's has created a group of kids who, in addition to not all being best buddies are really kids we all might've known at that age. The thing I like about Simmon's books is one of the things I like about Stephen King. He has an extraordinary ability to make his characters stories believable because they aren't caricatures or cartoonish. They are regular people who in the midst of doing regular things their lives get fucked up by the big evil.

Simmon's successfully wrote kids. Reading it didn't feel like reading it from an adult perspective. I highly respect that.

The supernatural elements are also done very very well. I'm not a huge fan of BIG BANG BOOM! Type progression. Especially when the main characters of a book are not people who have any real reason to have specialized occult knowledge. Matter of fact that really irks me in some horror.

I far prefer either the characters having some knowledge for a reason or none until they stumble on it.

The book is hefty. A substantial sized paperback at just over 600 pages. I've enjoyed it very much and will probably reread the sequel A Winter Haunting (which I read first) again. I can see how reading this will give me a better understanding of the protagonist in A Winter Haunting.

And now for my smooth segue into my own writing.

Hot damn I am smooth like a mofo.

In reading some of my older stuff I realized that I have a serious love for the 'OH GOD that's fucked up.' kind of characters/stories/situations. I like the outside edges of things. I enjoy going past the point of reason. I like to go there because a good part of my psyche is there.

Did that make any fucking sense what so ever?

So yeah.

I was going to paste a little from that spec fic/slipstream story I had published last year but don't feel like it now. If you want the link ask.
I'm done for now. I'm going to eat my donut and hope my tummy calms itself down before I hurl.

Goodnight Sally...

PS... Note to self: plz stop with the angry guts. kthnks

Stumble It!

YOU CAN SUCK MY DICK AND FUCKING LIKE IT!!! Faget-J.Davis

What is that all about? Well in what I'm pretty sure was my fever breaking dreams.
In the dream I'm (as I've been dreaming of for years now) a bass weilding banshee fronting a hardcore band of some sort.

Playing a club packed full of sweating heaving bodies, faces upturned towards mine. Some contorted while they scream along with me. Others grinning like fierce angels.

I could feel the vibrational tug of that many bodies and souls. Felt them mesh with and around me. We became a single entity bent on destroying something and rebuilding it with words and pain and release.

It was beautiful.

Then I woke up with music still on my lips. The opening line of my entry was what I was screaming right before I woke up.

My throat still hurts. And I'm singing. Good plan huh?

So yeah what was I saying? Sickly...dreaming...yeah.

I don't know how often I talk about it here but I love to sing. It's truly one of my joys in life. I've been known to sing all sorts of music. I have a deep voice. My most comfortable range is a mid-low tenor. Occasionally (enough whiskey and cigarettes in other words) and I can do some passable bass. Get me warmed up enough and I can hit a mid alto.

Just lately I've had a hankering to sing the blues. Interspersed with my hardcore banshee wailing fantasies.

Maybe someday for fun I'll write some songs and record them. Find myself some old equipment then make my Byootiful work some studio mojo on it.
I've also fancied doing a little spoken word. Maybe I'll see if I can work that out tonight and post it for the amusement of the masses.
Emotionally I'm feeling a little more stable. A little better in general. The truth is one of my biggest faults I think is my need to live up to a set of standards I've held for myself for a long time. Not the standards I hold other people to.

While I'm consoling to others I'm ruthless with myself. I've gotten better about it. Better able to know when I'm just being an asshole. But sometimes I find it so hard to just, let myself deal with myself. Rationally I'm aware when I'm just being unreasonable. Emotionally it's still hard for me to ease up and be a little gentler with myself.

So in the words of the lovely Ani Difranco-

and god help you if you are a phoenix
and you dare to rise up from the ash

Goodnight Sally...

Stumble It!

Untitled poetry.

Nanna swallow me.
Edin Na zu idimmu
Call me ditallu

~
My desire is
left too long in the sunshine.
Too small to be seen.
~

In dark room I
Grow like a hot-house flower.
Turned away from light.
~

Living a life
--what's the purpose of?
of only survival.
--what's the purpose of?
Where joy
--what's the purpose of?
is only an interesting idea.
--what's the purpose of?
~

Beyond the nefarious tide of rushing waters
inside my mind.
The sun is setting beyond
the stiff horizon.
Twilight is lowered
behind my eyes.
There will be no sleep
this night.
~

The battle cry of a woman unafraid to face down the dark.
Her eyes are open.
A muse made flesh.
She does not charm and does not whisper.
Hers are words of war.
Screaming raging lady.

I see her open mouthed face and know envy.
A sense of my own buried screams.
Buried beneath layers of bullshit decorum and flagging grace.
The strength I knew lays in an unmarked grave.
I dug it with my own two hands.
~

I lay in a bed of flames.
Cradled and revived by embers.
Curl up beneath the ashes-
of a life I never lived.
Waiting for the moment of my birth.
Flesh made whole by scouring fire.
~

Stumble It!

I woke up not feeling well at all. My left ear hurts as does that side of my throat. What joy.

I'm tired. Feeling a little limp and emotionally frayed.

I think I've discovered the niggling thing that bothes me about living on Bainbridge Island. What I don't like is the feeling of entitlement a lot of the people there seem to have. It isn't everyone but enough to seriously chap my ass.

These are people who cut in line to get on the ferry, who will elbow someone else to get off of the ferry, the people who give those 'what the fuck are you doing here?' kinds of looks.

More than once when I've said to someone in conversation that I live on the island there's been this moment of surprise. I don't feel like it's a racial thing. More like a 'you look poor' kind of thing. It's a subtle thing, more a tightening around the eyes, the quick flit of surprise that's covered by polite manners.

I don't really like that.

But that's what I get for living in a rich area isn't it?

In other news I have met some cool people. A couple of older guys I like to smoke with and shoot the shit. I have to admit it's a little bit of an ego thing. Mainly because when I told them that I am a network analyst at a telcom company they were very impressed. As if I've got some secret specialized knowledge. That's nice to have every once in awhile.

I also like some of the people I've met who work on the ferries. There's a lady who every night asks me how the book I'm reading is. She used to be a teacher and loves that I am such a book lover. Not to mention my highly varied tastes.

None of this is really very meaningful. And I'm annoying myself with it. There's a lot going on inside my head but, for reasons I can't even start to list I just can't get it out. I start to then as I've done all my life I put my head down and plow through my own emotions like a bull in a China shop.

Part of it is how I was raised and the 'rules' I've imposed on myself over the years. I learned from a very young age that I have to fend for myself. That I am not to bleed on other people emotionally. That while yes I might have problems there are people far worse off than I am and I shouldn't complain.

It's all mixed up in a work ethic that will probably kill me someday and a deeply seated sense of shame and need not to be stupid in my own mind. It's a long hard thing that I've been working on for what seems like ever. I backslide. Somedays I can say I don't feel ok right now. Others I can't.

I get tired of myself. I feel like I run around in circles chasing my tail because I don't have the something in me to make me strong enough to really face things. Along with it I feel guilty because I don't feel like a good friend. I feel like a liar. Secretive.

I'm feeling odd. Fragile and translucent. Probably because I don't feel good.

Goodnight Sally..

PS...send tea

Stumble It!

As is my habit after payday I tend to buy myself a little gift. Auctions sometimes, magazine, book, cd what have you. Usually nothing over ten dollars unless it's something I absolutely need. Today I got myself Joan Osborne's first CD 'Relish' 3.99$ I LOVE used music/book/anything stores.

I forgot how much I love this cd. I assure you I'll be singing very loud when people leave. One song in particular is one of my favorites. Crazy Baby reminds me of some of the good times with Pete.

For those late to the game Pete was my best friend for a number of years. We went through a lot together and our friendship was cut short as well as his life when he commited suicide. He was a drug addict off and on. Not because of some defect of character but because he had a fear of ending up institutionalized like his schizopherenic father.

I"m still pissed off about it. That's really all I want to say about that part of our relationship.

I remember Pete went out and bought this cd and we spent a night cuddled together in bed listening to it. He wrote out the lyrics to Crazy Baby and bothered me until I learned it. I used to sing it to him pretty frequently. Back then I didn't really think I could sing. My deep and often scratchy voice bothered me.

Pete was one of the few people at the time who really pressed me to sing. Around then I started playing in the swing band and he'd told a few of those boys I could sing but my death glare usually kept them from asking me to. And then after we lost our lead singer and band leader I did sing.

One of the things about Pete that I loved was that regardless of how fucked up either of us was he and I never really had to talk about it. We did but we didn't absolutely have to. We spent a lot of time together not speaking, just being together and appreciating something or other.

Aside from the music I saw a boy today that resembled Pete enough to make me stop and I probably stared. Pete looked a little like Jeff Buckley especially this picture:

Pete was younger, blonder. With a lot more hair. At that similar length his hair did whatever it wanted to. And very very green eyes. Had Pete lived to discover Jeff Buckley's music he would've enjoyed it a lot.

The things I remember most about Pete are very physical. Long skinny fingers, very soft skin for a boy, and the smell of his skin. Hard to describe but very memorable.

I suppose, maybe tonight I'll go home a little early and go have a drink in honor of my Pete.

I love you Pete. And fuck you for dying. Fuck you right in the goatass.

Stumble It!

So my vague feelings of discontent from earlier have merged and grown into what I can only describe as entire pissiness.

I'm tired again and finding that I really don't like some of the online communities I'm a part of lately. Some shift of culture finds me seeking online hermitdom.

On a good note I've been talking with an online friend who I'd lost contact with and that's really nice. I forgot how much I enjoy talking to him.

Bonus points for me.

It's kind of funny to think about. There are a handfull of people whom I've known since I got onto the net. Almost 7 years now or so. Amazing. I never really entertained the idea that I could have good friends this way before that. Hell I barely knew how to check my email back then.

I think it means a lot to me mainly because most of my friends outside the digital world aren't around anymore. They are dead, in jail, scattered to the four winds, at least one lost his mind and resides in some mental hospital in California last I heard from his sister. So friends, especially friends with whom I can not talk to or have contact with for months and when we run across each other it's easy and unawkward is a rare treat.

I forgot now what my original point was aside from being unhappy with some of the online areas I frequent.

Meh.

Fuck it.

I'm going home. My back hurts like someone booted me right above the crack of my ass, my neck hurts and my lump is growing, and well. I just want to go home lay down and maybe have a waffle.

So yeah.

Goodnight Sally.

Stumble It!

I'm drinking lukewarm coffee and realizing that it is going to be yet another long ass day. Listening to hip hop on Accuradio. (I love that website. Lots of variety and pretty much anything you might have a hankering to listen to.) And I'm looking at a bit of a story I wrote not too long ago.

I'm finding a renewed interest in short-short fiction. Under 1k in words. The appeal for me is mostly to capture a moment. Just enough to give a shiver but you are left to wonder what happened before and after. I like that aspect a lot. I realized that most of my favorite writing has that element. I don't particularly care to have it all wrapped up in a pretty little bow.

I've been feeling an itch lately. Something tinking away in the bowels of my psyche. I'm not entirely sure what it is. Maybe some combustible combination of anger, sadness and sheer 'what the fuck?'-ness.

I'm easy to anger these days. It's not my usual crochety crankiness. It's more a deep down need for something but I don't exactly know what it is.

Aside from just wanting change. Of small and large kinds. Moving will be the first step. The rest, I just don't really know yet.

I think I'm done for now. Here's an excerpt from something recent.

“Welcome to HEAVEN! It is super-fab that you’re here.”

As she squeals the words super-fab light up over her head in buttery yellow neon like letters. She’s like a cheerleader on an ecstasy and cocaine binge. And all you want is a drink and a smoke.

“Oh sweet Jesus.”

You don’t realize you say that out loud until she comes bouncing up to you.

“Oh I’m sorry he’s got a four o’clock but I’m sure he’ll be able to fit you in.”
~

Goodnight Sally.

PS...almost out of gummy bears, send more.

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This is really important. A good friend of mines family just escaped New Orleans and have nothing. If anyone has girls clothes size 14+ or any extra womens clothing size 10-14 and would be willing to donate it I'd really appreciate it.

My friend Sandy's sisters and kids will be here in Seattle in a few days and they have nothing left. No clothes no nothing. Anything anyone could spare would be great.

If you have anything at all please email me at weebeasty AT myway DOT com.

Thanks.

Also two of her step daughters are still missing:

Child's name~Ta-Tanya Williams
DOB Feb 8,1990
Her mothers name~ Tranette Williams
Fathers Name~ Raymond Rochon
Home address ~was in Iberville Housing development

Child's name~Antoinette Fairly
DOB May 26,1992
Mothers name~Tiffany Fairly
Fathers Name~ Raymond Rochon
Antoinette's Grandma Gwendolyn is in a Wheelchair to Diabetes

If you can help or know anything please email me right away thank you.

To make this easier please email me at weebeasty AT myway DOT com

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Is it rude of me to ask someone not to be so much of a penis?

Not that I don't love penises...peni? Good question.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah..penis.

Those are great. However if a man calls his own anything like 'Scud' 'Missile' and/or refers to his penis in the third person yeah no not cute.

See the above? I actually had a fucking point when I started this post but noooo. I'm tired and a little manic and it's just not working for me.

But while we're on the subject of cock I will say this right now. If you are over the age of 25 you as a man should not have unnaturally bald balls. I'm serious.

Stop with the full on Brazillian's boys. I like my men full grown. Trim if you like. Matter of fact that's great. Condition your fur, hell do a little topiary type thing with it.

But if you start to feel 8 again stop, put down the wax and back away from the razor. I 'm serious. Yeah it might make your dick look bigger but, for those of us who like em all growed up, not so cute.

Back to my original point then. Don't be such a penis.

Ok I'm stopping right here because I'm tired and I want to go home.

Goodnight Sally..

PS...Send beer.

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