"Crumping you can believe in"

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Is it just me, or is this kind of the funniest shit ever.

mermaids and drunken bigots and yes! a new car!

Jeez. Where to start. A friend of mine is starting a new blog and got me all inspired to write, even though I've got a million things to do before I head out to the west coast -- for almost a month -- on Thursday. Thanks, K. I'll be linking to her when she gets it up (no pressure :)

What I guess I'll do is treat you to a stream of consciousness about some of what I've been up to since I blogged last (which was quites some time ago. Summer is a cruel mistress). Maybe I'll throw in some photos. Maybe I'll have to stop in the middle. Hopefully I'll get to the wonderful, gruesome details of Mr. Man's (and my, though mine was much less dramatic) piercings, performed with expertise and love and humor by our friend Aimee, the Bearded Lady of PeeTown.

Let's see. Yes, we walked in the Mermaid Parade, as a marine-life shotgun wedding: Mr. Man the pregnant seahorse and I his mermaid bride. You can find photos on his Facebook, if you're a Facebook kind of person. Or you can ask nicely and I'll send you one. We couldn't have asked for a nicer day -- ok it was a little hot, but not humid. There were a lot of drunk people, and many of them were temporarily mesmorized by my large titties, even though I was wearing a full-coverage bra. A few of them lost their manners. They weren't all straight bio-men. I guess some people are just a little less mature than others.

The next day, we went down to Delaware for some much-needed r & r. Unfortunately I was due back in New York a few days later, and I was super down, so it wasn't as good as it could have been, especially when we nearly got in a bar brawl at the Frogg Pond, the supposed unofficial lesbian bar of Rehoboth, where a very intoxicated (and I suspect, coked up) homosexual white man harassed us beyond anything I've ever experienced (it started with him wanting to hang out with us and us wanting to be left alone and quickly went downhill, ending w/him walking around the bar screaming and that it "smelled like tilapia" in there, and then our friend threw some water in his face and then the shit kind of hit the fan). The main points are these:

• As a queer woman, I'll never go back to the Frogg Pond and would never encourage anybody to go there.
• The bartenders did not have our backs, even when we were being harassed in a very visible, very audible, very offensive way that also infringed on the other customers.
  
• The cops in Rehoboth (at least the ones who wound up questioning us) don't have a fucking clue about queer issues. When we told them about some of the weird shit he was saying to us even before things escalated ("I rape your sunglasses." ???) just to point out how fucked up he was and why we wouldn't want him hanging out, the cop said "Well, that's interesting because he just told us out there that he's a homosexual." Yeah, because rape is a sexual act, and not a violent one. Yeah, because gay men never harass dykes or trannies.
  

Anyway. Camp Henlopen is nice, although it's right next to some kind of pharmaceutical compound. The company was good (with the exception of one Mouthy Femme who is not much fun to hang out with when she's feelin' down -- sorry about that, guys.)

Our trip to Peetown was better, though not without its bumps. I don't think I want to recount our piercings in the same post as the yucky Rehoboth thing, but hopefully the inspiration (or a forward-thinking impulse to clear my camera out before my trip, so I don't get stuck standing in front of something I really want a picture of, deleting them as fast as I can) will get me back here before Thursday.

In other news, we really did finally get a car, and she is a beaut. I think we've named her Gretyl. She's a 1975 mercedes benz 240d. The former owner said he was running her, unconverted, on about 1/3 recycled veggie oil, and we will likely do the same, but I want to get all my facts straight before we go for it, and we'll get her converted before winter, so that hopefully we can run on straight veggie oil with no worries. Our friend N, who took us to Rehoboth and the Mermaid Parade and Peetown and about 100 other places before we finally got a car, now says she wants to help us bondo the rust so that we can paint her up nice. What an angel.

So things are going good.

McCain called his wife a cunt

Don't believe me?

Check it out yourself here and here.

Now, swallow hard (because I know you just threw up in your mouth a little) and gulp back your contempt for the big baby reporters in Arizona who witnessed the exchange and never reported on it--in fact, just ignore your contempt for the mainstream media entirely--long enough to forward those links to anybody you know who might be fool enough to vote Republican (you know you have an uncle or something) or anybody you know who might know somebody like that.

Ask them if they really want this dude's finger on the button. I mean, feminist politics aside, if he's hot-headed and foolish (and out of touch--trollop???) enough to say some shit like that in front of a couple of reporters, do we want him meeting with foreign leaders?

Try not to demonize the c-word; it's all in the context.

WWJWD?

Maybe I'll just make this a monthly blog. :)

So last weekend Mr. Man and I went to Honfest with a couple of friends. For those of you who are unfamiliar, Honfest is a marketing scheme for Cafe Hon a celebration of Baltimore's "hons," those bygone, beehived queens of kitsch who peer through cat-eye glasses and say stuff like "how you doin' hon?" Actually, everybody in Baltimore says that.

Anyway, in spite of the wicked heat, Honfest was a-buzz with hons and non-hons alike, enjoying crab cakes, pit beef, smoothies and beer, and treating themselves to summer dresses, t-shirts and kitschy souvenirs. For those who were inspired but lacked the know-how to rat up their own hair, there was an on-site, open-air salon serving up beehives on the fly.

One Bawlmer resident was quite noticeably absent. Mr. John Waters, arguably Charm City's most famous living resident (Mama Cass was also from here, Cal Ripken probably still enjoys greater fame in most circles) thinks Honfest is bullshit. Waters thinks the festival is a place for middle-class suburbanites to come and make fun of this working-class stereotype.

You know, the stereotype he's been exploiting for years.

The stereotype that he sold to New Line Cinemas so that they could dress John Travolta up like a fat drag queen, because I guess there aren't enough fat drag queens out there that they could find one to play Mama Turnblatt--oh wait, maybe Mama Turnblatt could have just been played by a fat woman--there are lots of those, too, but I guess that wouldn't have insinuated that fat women are as attractive as drag queens, an insinuation that is totally fucked up and offensive to fat women, trans women, and the people who care about them.

It kind of reminds me of how Perez Hilton likes to lambast Sherri Shephard or whatever her name is and people like her who air their uneducated opinions on trans issues, even though he himself makes fun of trannies incessantly (at least he did when I quit reading him). I'm not saying that all white gay men are hypocrites--they're not--but these are two relatively high-profile cases of the big fat (or creepy skinny) pot calling the kettle black.

Whatever, bitches.

"An awesome group of people"

So there I was today, laying down on the couch for a late afternoon "nap" (actually I was sleeping off the early afternoon beers--Mr. Man has been away the last few days, and I've found myself treating my menstrual cramps with daytime drinking, which is a pretty fun way to treat them, as it were) when I thought I heard something. Not a drunken neighbor screaming--too early for that. Not a police helicopter flying overhead--too quiet. In fact, the sound was a faint swishing sort of rumble, an otherworldly "am really I hearing something or am I drifting off" sort of sound.

Upon my waking, I sat up and opened my laptop to the Times and behold, my question answered: twas the sound of tens of thousands of dead soldiers rolling over in their graves.

That a person so clearly out of touch with not only his fellow person, but also with reality could be not only making this speech but running this fucking show, still boggles my fucking mind. Worse than that, though, it chills my heart, too, to recognize just how corrupt a system we've built, that could find a person so ineffective, mediocre, and asinine allowed to speak to any group of people, let alone represent a country.

I guess we should just consider ourselves lucky (knock on wood--238 more days to go!) that he hasn't managed to kill us all yet.

Anyhoo. Enough with this bit half-drunk, sleepy, depressing blather (a couple of friends came over after my nap, and I had another couple of beers this evening--good thing Mr. Man gets back tomorrow). Next time I blog (could be awhile--I'll be out of town on work for a few days this week), I promise it will be about something more interesting--possibly, my new Diva cup and the use of menstrual blood as fertilizer.

NYC lambs, I'll be up on Wednesday night so give a girl a call if you are free. Alternatively (I've got movie plans Wed eve, but all are welcome, and was thinking drinks and dinner after in Manhattan, but realize that it's short notice and all so) I'll be coming back through town on Saturday afternoon.

Oh yeah I have a personal blog, too

Long time no see, sexy readers. I am not sure whether I could get any lamer, but I've been covered up by paid blogging and other work, and often have a hard time getting down to it, so truth be told, I've been spending too much time on the couch with my laptop, surfing stupid news and playing stupid games. Then I feel guilty so I end up "working" 10 hrs but billing for 6 because I was so unproductive.

Blargh. I'm working on some "new rules" to remedy this situation, lest I become one of these dead bloggers. These new rules will likely include walking the dog first thing in the morning instead of going straight to work in my jammies (I do walk her, and get dressed, within a few hrs--I swear), trying to wake before 10am (and bed down earlier too), smoking less ganja, playing fewer games (this may involve removing Scramble from my Facebook apps, but I'm gotta finish the game my little brother started with me first) and putting the fucking computer down by a certain time each evening. Hopefully, this will make my worktime more productive and therefore shorter, and free up more time for...whatever.

Anyway. Now that you know how lame I really am, here are some updates since the last time I blogged:

• The Kitty Show was a ton of fun. I am now even more in love with Erin Markey (seriously. I don't toss the word genius around, but she really is) than I was after the Sex Workers Art Show. Also love love loved Nicole Reynolds and have been alternating her two albums with the Bonsoir Catin album I bought after I got back from New Orleans (yay lesbian music).
  
  
• Mr. Man and I bought camping gear that includes 2 cammo sleeping bags (traditional green for him, pink for me, though we expect to be zipping them together) and will be hitting Camp Henlopen in Delaware the day after the Mermaid Parade.

• Our recycling bin got stolen. The one we paid $6 for. This actually happened while I was in New Orleans, and I guess that Miss D (who has since moved back to Seattle) walked up and down the alley looking for it, to no avail. We should have put our fucking address on it.
  
  
• Roach season is in full swing. I also noticed some tiny black ants on the counter the other day, but the roaches are fucking cuh-razy. They swarm poor Bitsy's food atop the fridge, and when I go into the kitchen at night they are often all over the fucking stove. Ugh. I've never had kitchen roaches before, at least not to this extent, and not to be a baby or anything (they're not as scary as the eye-lash legged millipedes I had in my basement apt in DC) but they're grossing me out big time.
  
  
• The Bearded Lady is back in P-town. She's probably shoving a hollow needle through a nipple right now. We are not sure when we'll be up to see her, but are definitely hoping to get up there between now and Labor Day, when she closes up shop, to crash on her floor and make her spend her precious few non-working summertime moments with us, at least for a few days. Last year, Mr. Man and I went swimming there and saw a fucking seal, not 20 yards away, playing with a fish. The next day, I got pierced (in the nether regions) about 15 min before our ferry was supposed to leave and then we had to run down to the pier. We made it, though we'd rather have stayed. Ah...summer.
  

That's about it, I guess. June is right around the corner, and Mr. Man and I both have birthdays within the first 2 weeks of it. And we have, as yet, no plans! Pretty unusual for us...I, for one, am a little overwhelmed at the prospect of being in a town where I still have so few friends on my birthday (even though I feel like I should have outgrown the need to celebrate, especially on my birthday proper, by now). If you feel like kicking it, give a girl a call.

Back from the Big Easy (which should be called "the Big-easy-to-get-heartburn")

That's right, y'all...my recent lack of posts springs from the fact that I was in N'awlins for the last 8 days. I just got home last night, have now been in town for about 24 hrs, and have now caught myself humming I Wish I Was in New Orleans about 2,000 times.

Holy smokes. As luck would have it (good or bad, depending on your viewpoint) I launched a new blog for one of my clients the very same day I flew out, so I had to work kind of a lot, so I couldn't just go off the deep end and get trashed the whole time. I did go balls out (making me kind of a hypocrite after making fun of all the other drunk people the whole week) the last night I was there, though, and paid for it all day yesterday, from my drunken call to Mr. Man upon waking, to barfing in the airplane bathroom, to a painful lugging of my huge suitcase up our narrow stairs. In fact, I was on my second flight when I remembered eating a half of a mushroom chocolate at about 2am (my flight was at 11.30). Jesus. Note to self: you're 30.

You may know that I'm something of a has-been vegetarian who even now rarely eats meat. All that went out the window and a few days into the trip, I found myself counting on my fingers how many species I'd eaten in a 24 hr period, and there were at least ten. Crawfish, alligator, duck, quail, chicken, steak, fish, oysters, shrimp, and rabbit. And it's not like eating little pieces of sushi or lean jerky or something; this was shit like "alligator and sausage cheesecake." I'm pretty sure I blew all the food karma I've built up over the years.

I also saw a ton of amazing music, being there with cousin C and her husband, M, who both know a lot more than I do about jazz, and kept me running to shows pretty much every minute that I wasn't emailing, blogging, searching for wifi, eating some ridiculously indulgent shit, or (gratefully) sleeping. We missed most of the biggest acts of last weekend, including Allison Kraus and Robert Plant, and Billy Joel, and Sheryl Crow. Even better, though, I discovered a bunch of artists I'd never even heard of, like Bonsoui Catin, the female Cajun band who fucking rock, and Papa Mali and Henry Butler and Anders Osbourne (who chainsmokes and leans back when he's jamming on the guitar). We also saw the legendary Dr. John and the Wetland All-stars, at least until the huge grey cloud hanging over us opened up and starting pounding us with quarter-sized raindrops. We even saw John C. Riley standing outside the Chicky Wa Wa on Saturday night, looking fucking adorable in an all-black suit with black (bowler-style, I think?) hat. I kicked myself all the way to Tipitina for not telling him what a fucking amazing actor I think he is. Dammit.

Of course, all of this indulgent behavior was hindered by a constant nagging guilt about the shit that has gone down in New Orleans since Katrina (and before). A few of my dearest friends used to live there, and I saw how it broke their hearts--I guess it broke everybody's hearts, and filled us with rage and shame--when it happened. The day that I flew down there, that douchebag Bush was there, too, for some bullshit tree planting ceremony or something. That he has the audacity to show his face in that town boggles the motherfucking mind. I didn't make it to the 9th Ward, covered up with work as I was, but there was evidence of the destruction everywhere we went (except maybe the Garden District) including the fairgrounds where Jazz Fest is held, in the form of now unlive-able houses and in some places water lines. What I didn't see and couldn't judge is how the neighborhoods have changed--who is no longer there--but one of the cab drivers told us that the Marigny district, where we were staying, used to be a "bad neighborhood," one that was "predominantly black," before the storm and subsequent "rebuilding."

Sigh.

I was able, however, to patch up my bleeding heart (no place has ever made me feel like that place did before) manage to meet a great many people who have taken matters into their own hands, given up waiting for the help they deserve, and began to rebuild in earnest, in scrappy teams. People with awesome visions for a fairer, more sustainable, Big Easy. People who are growing copious amounts of vegetables in the middle of the city.

Plus I got to elbow some old man who thought he could feel up me and C while moving past us on the way to the bathroom.

I also saw alligators and turtles in the Bayou.



And beads hanging from trees and power lines.



And really cute old people dancing with umbrellas.



Let's all move down there and start a revolution.

Adios, Amigo

Yesterday, Mr. Man had an assignment (have I mentioned that Mr. Man is a schoolboy?) to write a bunch of aphorisms. In the midst of digesting the fact that Lambda Legal, a self-described LBGT legal defense fund, has ads running on Perez Hilton (who I've finally decided is too ignorant and transphobic to read anymore--read on), he decided to write some about the unspoken "lessons" one can learn about our culture from visiting Perez's site. Here's how our our gchat went:

Mr. Man: ow lambda legal is advertising on perez

me: omg

fucking idiots

!!!

???

that's cuh-razy

right?

3:26 PM Mr. Man: ya- it's crazy- but not too surpising

me: ya

no it's kinda smart

but not really

Mr. Man: there go the raises for thier employees....

me: pretty fucked up

no shit

not to mention who they're endorsing by their presence, and who they're targeting

3:30 PM Mr. Man: i am writing aphorisms inspired by perez hilton

me: haha yay

3:34 PMMr. Man: Things that could be learned from reading perezhilton.com

1. The young are the powerful, because they are beautiful, but the old can have power too if they get plastic surgery and/or have money.
2. Some women who are not transgender look like transgender people, and this is shameful.
3. A worthwhile cause is only worthwhile if it is endorsed by a celebrity.
4. What the rich and famous do is more important and meaningful than what everyone else does.
5. Everything is secondary to visual beauty.
6. Celebrity pop culture is nothing more than sensationalized mundanity.
7. Sarcasm is the best way to both make fun of and idolize people at the same time.
8. People who used to be celebrities, but aren't really any more are both funny and pathetic.
9. Appropriation of a radical queer style is okay if you are gay man, even if you are pretty mainstream, aside from your gay-ness.
10. Subscribing to strict gender roles is important is you want to be a celebrity- it's okay to be gay, but not too gay.

In one of my very first posts, I mentioned Perez Hilton and how I hated to love him but couldn't help it because he shared my love for Beth Ditto. Even back then, Mr. Man (the rascal who got me hooked on celebrity news, darn him) and I had noticed a disturbing habit Perez had of making fun of trannies, but we kind of just cringed and shook our heads in that "I'm disappointed but not really surprised" way, the way we did when that dumbass Dave Letterman (who I've always loved more than Conan or Leno) disappointed me so much a few weeks ago. Sometimes I'd post comments about how fucked up it was that PH would be such a hypocrite, not because he's gay, but because sometimes he champions the rights of trannies (or pretends to), most recently in response to Letterman's insensitive and trans-phobic remarks.

I should acknowledge that it's pretty fucking ridiculous that we visit this site at all. The whole celebrity thing is ridiculous, and although I like to tell myself that I need to know this stuff for work, or to better understand the mainstream, but I would have to admit that part of me enjoys it, in spite of being totally disgusted. It's like Diet Coke.

It's not just the trans stuff, either--Perez makes fun of people like Tina, the young girl who PH made famous for videos of herself dancing to pop music in her bedroom, who did appear to be homophobic, but is just a kid (who seems to have a learning disability of some kind). And he definitely tends to humiliate women much more than he does men...which is not so surprising, as that's kind of what people do in our culture.

PH often compares femme bio-women with MTF trannies, to insinuate that the bio-women are not femme enough, and therefore ugly. Nice. Sometimes, these bio-women are "villains," like Paul McCartney's now-ex, Heather Mills.

Today, he compared Ms. Mills to "Jeremy the out of control trannie," a homeless transwoman who recently crashed her car into a lingerie store who'd denied her application for a job. To get to those facts, I had to click through to the page where that expanded version (the post that lives on the main page is two pics with a teaser) lives, which is also the comment page. I tried not to read them, because Hilton's readers generally seem to be a shallow, xenophobic bunch, and they say some pretty offensive shit. Of course, today was no different, although there are a few people who chimed in to chide PH for his transphobic bullshit. He'd added his own commentary to the newspaper article he'd lifted, saying how no homeless person he knows has a car. I bet he knows a ton of homeless people. What a fucking idiot.

And that did it. Enough is enough. I'm through with you, Perez. I'll find some other mindless entertainment to rest my brain on when I need a break from being a productive person in the world. In fact, you can go fuck yourself Perez Hilton, and continue to be a hater and exploit the insecurities and prejudices of your (generally speaking--not us!) immature readers. It's not your fatness or your gayness that makes you ugly--it's the shit that comes out of your mouth.

Me-yow

For the first time in many, many years, this Mouthy Femme (would it be strange for me to start referring to myself in the 3rd person as "the MF?") has joined a club. In fact, I don't know that I've ever been in a club. I "started" a few clubs throughout my awkward years with groups of friends, but we just hung out in their basements or wherever and I don't ever remember them going as far as a second meeting. I might have been in the ski club for awhile in high school, but I only went to one meeting ever, and on one ski trip.

So this is kind of big news.

Perhaps even more strange, the club puts on shows and most of the members perform in them. In spite of having performed in some plays as a child, and mostly enjoyed it very much, I don't really identify as an "artist," let alone an "actor."

But the members of the club are adorable, and the shows are awesome (ok I've only seen one, but it was awesome) and I've never had much of a queer community (the queer community being pretty small, and being "queer" being so different than being "gay" and as a queer femme, often not being read as queer--or not queer enough, especially having partnered w/men in the past) and they didn't care that I don't identify as a "lesbian" or an "actor." They just let me show up to their meeting, and now I'm a Kitty.

I'm not going to be performing anytime soon, but I will be appearing in costume at the next show. I'll leave you to wonder.

I'm not sure that I'll ever get on stage, but it's not outside the realm of possibilities. I'm definitely looking forward to hanging out with the ladies (and the trannies and even the straight boys w/queer aesthetics--the Kitties are not Michigan), and am grateful to the two who recruited me for being so sweet about it.

If you'd told me a year ago that I'd be in a lesbian performance troupe, I woulda said you were crazy. But then, until I met Mr. Man, the thought never ever crossed my mind that I would ever wind up in Baltimore. But here I am. And even though I miss New York and I miss Oly and I miss Montana, the Charm seems to be offering up some pretty interesting doors for both him and me, and maybe because it's kinda small, or maybe because the last few places I've lived have been so competitive, but it seems like everything we want to do is not just possible, but easy. Maybe I'm just finally realizing that they're easy. (Though in this case, I think I'm only now remembering that want to be social and maybe to act--I think I forgot I liked it after I realized I was never going to be a movie star.)

This kind of weird, unexpected twist in life gives me a funny kind of light feeling in my chest, almost giddy and like I'm in the right place, doing the right thing, following some invisible thread that leads me to the quirky joys and amazing people in my life.

Yay.

Come to think of it, thank fucking goodness my life doesn't look like I imagined back when I was hanging out with those girls in the basement--I'd be married w/children, possibly Mormon, and an ER doctor (or a movie star). My real life has been waaay more amusing than anything I ever would've thought.

You're it

I was tagged yesterday by the fabulous and uber-gay Rouge to take part in a chain letter-style thingy where bloggers post random quotes from whatever book they pick up. Looking back, that sentence doesn't really seem to make sense, so here are the rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book of 123 (or more) pages.
2. Open the book to page 123 and find the 5th sentence.
3. Post the next 3 sentences.

Ok. So I grabbed Upton Sinclair's The Jungle, that famous old bummer of a book about the Chicago meatpacking industry, a book I've been meaning to read for years, and finally picked up at Red Emma's (which is a pretty good cure for Bluestockings withdrawals) a few weeks ago. Turning to pg 123...

So it was finally decided that two more of the children would have to leave school. Next to Stanislovas, who was now fifteen, there was a girl, little Kotrina, who was two years younger, and then two boys, Vilimas, who was eleven, and Nikalojus, who was ten. Both of these last were bright boys, and there was no reason why their family should starve when tens of thousands of children no older were earning their own livings.

I'm kind of a picky bitch when it comes to writing, and new to the personal bloggy thing, so I don't have any blogs to tag. (sniff) But Rouge says it's not really that kind of thing--I'm not going to you know, have bad luck for the next 5 years or whatever. So I'll leave you with those 3 depressing quotes and let this little strand die out and head out to Liberty Taxes to (you guessed it) get my taxes done. Ugh. Hopefully, the adorable (we think) tranny who's been out there dressed as Uncle Sam will be hanging out waving to cars today.

*In an (I think) interesting side note, perhaps you noticed that both Baltimore and Manhattan's radical bookstores have colors in the names of them. I find this particularly interesting, because I happen to have a little color/name theme in my life--I did my undergrad at the Evergreen State College, worked at Yellowstone for several years, lived in Red Lodge, Montana for one year and while there, worked at the Blue Ribbon Bar. In more random colortalk, Rouge has a thing called color synesthesia. In her mind, letters and numbers each have their own color. I wish I could read her blog in color.

Flushing away but still more shit

As of Monday, a full 5 days after we alerted our douchebag landlord to our toilet woes (and a full 48 hrs longer than he had, legally, to fix it) we were back in business, bathroom-wise. But the shitstorm that has plagued us since we moved here has yet to abate--that douchebag (perhaps I should just start referring to him as the DBLL) got so stressed and pissed about all the money he's spent over the last few months fixing up his house that he's passing that stress on to us, in the form of trying to evict our roommate, Miss D.

We told him she'd moved in and he was fine with it, but after they happened upon each other for the first time in the alleyway (right after she got fired from her shitty job) he decided to use the fact that we hadn't submitted that information in writing to fuck with us. In fact, he pretty much threatened to kick us all out. Yay for crazy DBLLs!

We're giving it a few days to blow over, and then we're going to send him a diplomatic email and make our case for Miss D staying. Of course, the larger issue is whether we should stay--who knows when that crazy fuck is going to hassle us again?

In other poopy news, Belle (aka Devil Dog) had an upset stomach yesterday and took a huge runny dump on the stairs, which I wouldn't mention except that after I'd walked her down those stairs (thinking "what is that smell?") with her, somehow managing neither to see or step in it, even though it was huge and right in the middle of the step. It wasn't until Miss D joined us downstairs and mentioned it that I realized how lucky I'd somehow been.

(what kind of pollyanna am I, reporting how happy I am not to have stepped in dog shit, even though I did have to scrub it out of the carpet? Silver lining, folks)

Anyhoo, in more pleasant-smelling news, I'm writing this post from Little Morocco, the hooka bar/restaurant down the street from our (current) domain. Mr. Man and I noticed they had falafel a few weeks ago, which was very exciting for us, since most of the restaurants in our hood are pizza joints. He came first, alone, for takeout, but both of us enjoyed the same first experience here--the super friendly, proud owner gave us a tour to the upstairs, which has kind of an Eastern, rumpus-room flavor--it's all satin-y and pillow-y and hooka-y. Right now, I'm up here alone, digesting what was a delicious falafel, enjoying the faint aroma of flavored tobacco, taking advantage of the free WiFi and as usual, pretending to be working. In the back of my mind, I'm having fantasies about harem girls and boys. Ahhh. Unfortunately, the connection's a little slow. Can't have everything.

By the way, I'm sure my gorgeous and clever readers noticed the new widget I've placed (all by myself, y'all) at the bottom of my sidebar. I've just started reading Hightower's new book and I'm so excited, because as a radical queer femme, I've often fought with myself internally over my love for old cowboys, so many of whom are red-necky and sexist and homophobic. Jim Hightower, though, has that cowboy sensibility but takes a much more informed political stance--but he's still got that cute old cowboy vibe, you know? Anyhoo, I thought it'd be fun to watch the time run out on that dumbfuck president of ours together. Enjoy!

"That's not good."

Pardon my undying (even in the face of incredible un-funnyness) love for the pun. Mr. Man and I had an insanely shitty day today. Literally.

It started first thing this morning with the toilet backing up on Mr. Man. Yuck!

Then, I took the dog out to poop and there was a hole in the bag and I didn't see it before I stuck my thumb in dog doo. Dammit!

Then, I got to hang out and watch our douche bag of a landlord plunge the toilet. He was all dressed up (in black slacks, a black mock turtleneck and dark green sports coat) and he didn't even take his jacket off to plunge so that made it kind of funny but it doesn't make up for the fact that he's a douche and anyway, it didn't work.

I should mention that the kitchen sink is draining slow and the pipe outside, that all of our wastewater clearly flows out (it's directly below and outside of the bathroom) was leaking, and Mr. Man had called our douchebag landlord and told him about it, and he didn't believe him (and blew me off when I brought it up, plunger in hand, today).

Anyway, he called a plumber and took off, and when the guy (who was a cute kid, actually, and btw Mr. Man, I forgot to tell you that he loved Bitsy) finally showed up, he looked around and when I told him about the pipe outside, he of course wanted to check it out, so after showing him our poop-filled toilet, I led him through our embarrassingly messy boudoir, and sent him out the window and down the fire escape, which is the only route to the backyard (yay row houses!)

I sat in the windowsill and smoked a cigarette and watched him. He started knocking off some of the insulation that is wrapped around the bottom 6 ft or so of the ancient pipe, and when he did, almost immediately, the pipe sprung leaks that shot straight out from it, and the poor guy had to run for fucking cover.

"That's not good."

"No shit." (again, I apologize)

So, tomorow'll be another shitty morning with the landlord and because he thought the kid's estimate was too high (easy to think when you're not the one having to get creative about finding places to poo) another plumber. We're thinking that now that we got ourselves a Hummer, we oughta just spring for one of those fancy condos (wink).

Know what else is shitty? Madonna's new video. I haven't listened to or followed Madonna in a long time, but I was excited about this video because she was supposedly going to "save the world in 4 minutes." Save the world my ass--what is that shit.

omg I almost forgot to mention the last poop story of the day--what a crazy shitty day--you kind of have to laugh and wonder what the fuck the universe is trying to tell you. I met Mr. Man this evening at the opening night of the Transmodern Festival, and in the middle of some experimental theatre that frankly went on a little way too long, one of the characters was a turd. Seriously. WTF?

On the road again...

So, if you've asked me or Mr. Man since we've moved how we're liking the Charm, we've undoubtedly answered "we really need a car" (although surprisingly, I haven't whined about it at all here). Public transport in Baltimore not being what it is in New York, and living across town from our few friends, is tough! Even tougher, poor Mr. Man's 15 or 20 mile commute to school has, on occasion, taken him as long as 2 hrs--one way.

So I'm sure you'll all be glad to hear that we finally got a car.

Isn't it awesome looking? I know what you're thinking: "no way they got a Hummer." But some poor sucker got it repossessed, so we got a really sweet deal on it! Plus, I combined the loan with my existing student debt, so I now owe Sallie Mae close to a million dollars, but I should be able to get everything paid off by the time I retire. Anyway, it's worth it. Even if gas is already up past $3/gallon.

I just feel so...safe when I'm driving around in that sucker. And HOT! Everyone knows that high femmes are even more sexy and femme (but also a little tough, which multiplies the sexy factor exponentially) when they're behind the wheel of a big rig. And nobody will ever doubt the hardcore masculinity of my Mr. Man when he's cruising around in it, either. It's testosterone on wheels, even if it is a fugly shade of yellow!

Besides, they're not all bad...now we can join with other socially-responsible Hummer drivers and save lives and stuff.

I know--SUVs are really bad. But get this: we're going to convert it to biodiesel. Everybody knows we're in the midst of an energy crisis--but that's why we're in Iraq, right? (How our oil got under their soil is the big question, but that's a whole nother blog post) Besides, we figured that if global warming really gets going the way they say it's going to, we don't have that much time left to live it up. The way I see it, it's every mouthy femme and trans man for themselves, so what the heck, you know?

"If you ever come at me like that again..."

I mentioned awhile back that Mr. Man and I are planning to do some backporch/rooftop/fire escape gardening this year. We started tomatoes a little over a month ago, which might have been a little early (we don't really know what the fuck we're doing, to tell you the truth--I've grown a few things by seed over the years, but never tomatoes, and never with any kind of expertise) but I guess we'll see--in any case, just about every one of the 35 or so seeds we started germinated.

Anyway, the web site I looked at had said to seed them close together, then separate them a few weeks later, the separating being good for their roots. So I thought, since they probably sprouted about a month ago, that I would have done this awhile back, but they only seemed sturdy enough a week or two ago. So I've been planning on moving them for awhile, and kept feeling guilty about it, but not getting it done. Little did I know that drama and comedy would ensue during the process.

So I finally got around to it last night. Actually, I meant to do it all weekend but didn't, then I meant to do it early last night, but I didn't--so at about 1am this morning, I was in the kitchen, rooting up and potting tomatoes. Unfortunately, we haven't amassed enough plastic containers to move each into their own pots, so I only gave the biggest ones their own digs. The rest each gets their own little space in the seeding thingy.

Anyway, there I was, hunched over the kitchen table, when Bitsy (aka DevilCat, who I should mention has been trying to eat these fucking tomatoes since they sprouted--the unicorn piggy-bank is strategically placed so she can't get them--and had been excite-able the entire evening, as she's claimed the kitchen table as her territory) attacked me from behind.

I didn't see her coming at all. I've seen her jump onto Mr. Man's back from atop the fridge, but I'm pretty sure she was on the floor, and by the time I realized what was going on, she was dangling from the back of my person, one set of claws in the bottom of my hoodie, the other in the top of my pants, crying, nay, yowling, as if she were the victim in the situation, and not the batshit cat who'd just snuck up on me ninja-style, and launched herself halfway up my body.

I reached around and tried to get her off me but couldn't get her claws out of my clothes. I yelled at her "what the fuck are you doing?!" Neither of these worked, and I was in kind of a panic--Mr. Man was sleeping already, which was lucky for him, and I was strongly considering dropping trou when I realized I could achieve the same effect, with less potential embarrassment (my paranoid mind was already imagining Miss D waltzing in to find my ass in the kitchen--which would have been almost as funny as Rouge's recent bare-ass in the kitchen hilarity) by squatting down until she could stand on her back feet, relieving the pressure on her claws, and then extract them from my clothes. Lucky for her, she didn't even knick my skin.

Cats are crazy. Good thing she's cute. Don't fall victim to her cuteness, though--hide your seedlings away from this demon and whatever you do, don't ever turn your back on her.

Drunken reindeer games

So the blogging stuff is coming in fits and starts. Sometimes (lately, often) I just don't feel particularly inspired. Sure, there's a ton of blog fodder out there...Hillary just won't quit, the Spitzer scandal has got the media on a sex worker witch hunt but would rather titillate readers with photos and inuendo than engage in a real discussion about sex work (I'll skip the link rather than encourage them), Stephanie told Max she loves him on DOOL (but we just miss Sami)...I guess actually there isn't that much to blog about.

The warmer weather, as it does every year, is coming in fits and starts, too. And the frustrated craziness these false starts elicit in most of us (aka Spring Fever) reminds me of their time-tested cure, as applied in the Rocky Mountains--namely, to get drunk and play games.

In Yellowstone, snow-bound park and concession employees hold the "Rainier Olympics"--two beer-soaked weeks of snow-showing, skiing, and bar games--every year in February, if memory serves. The one winter I worked in the park, I won a bronze medal in fuseball, but I don't remember the last few rounds, as I was in a blackout at the time.

In Red Lodge, Montana, where I spent the following winter, there's more sporty fun in the form of ski-joring (kind of like water-skiing, but on snow instead of water, and with horses instead of boats) competitions, cheered on by bundled-up locals and tourists, most of them on the back of flat-bed pickups, passing bottles of booze back and forth. The winter I lived in Red Lodge, somebody had brought a frozen coyote (roadkill, I presume) and had stood it up on its back legs in the back up of their truck, with sunglasses on it and a chicken wing hanging out of its mouth. My dad, who was visiting me there, and was cool enough to share a bottle Dr. McGilllicuddy's with some of the local drunks, got the biggest kick out of that frozen coyote.

I'm sure that mountain towns all over the world have been holding festivals on the brink of spring to release some of that nervous energy, cheer people up a little.

Maybe even those of us who live in relatively milder climes need to let our hair down this time of year, to stave off the doldrums/depression/crazies. We tried to shake it off with a show last night (Trixie Little and the Evil Hate Monkey--cute except for a random trans-phobic punchline--why otherwise adorable and smart performers still resort to that kind of shit, I don't quite understand) at the Patterson, and an after-show round of Absinthe at our new favorite hangout, the Annabelle Lee. That little outing didn't quite do the trick, so I'm saving up for Jazz Fest (look out New Orleans!)

Hmm...shit-faced games...is this why straight dudes like the SuperBowl?

Is it really you, Spring?

I may be jumping the gun here, but it really seems like my Belle (aka Bella Donna) is feeling a little better after just a few doses of glucosamine and aspirin (as it turns out, though, she won't actually "eat anything." Gotta hide that shit in the raw meat she gulps down in hunks, or, as I did last night, pry open her jaws and poke it into the back of her throat. Good thing she loves me). It may be my imagination, but she seems to be hopping, or at least, climbing a little more quickly, onto the couch and the bed today. Right now, she's recovering from a brief Frisbee-free but stick-heavy (yours truly was throwing like a major leaguer, too) session on the green, green grass of Patterson park.

It really does feel like Spring today--it smells like it, even. It's warm enough here in the Charm that a denim-clad Hispanic dude was napping on that green, green grass, and my t-shirt and hoodie were more than enough to keep me warm during our walk. Of course, all that sunshine is just about enough to make a girl forget she's been down in the dumps recently, though the shift in attitude gives me a kind of deja vu--doesn't this happen every year? That many of us (as the foxy Rouge pointed out in her comment on my bummer post, and has blogged about a bit herself) get the blues, on a level that could lead one to look into pharmaceutical remedies, just before Spring springs? That, in the words of lyricist Gus Kahn (best sung by Mama Cass) "the darkest hour is just before dawn?"

Or it could be I'm bi-polar and on a manic streak. Whatever.

In other Spring-y news, in case you were worried, the tree in the churchyard across the street, whose early-seeming buds I was freaking out about back in January, is fine. It is blooming like crazy right now, and is totally gorgeous--it's one of those white and pink tulip-y looking flower trees. WTF are those trees--magnolias?

First the sweet, then the bittersweet...

I don't know how I missed this before, but as I was checking out Lolcats (aka I Can Has Cheezburger) this morning I noticed a link to its canine equivilent, Loldogs.

There goes the rest of my day.

In a little sadder news, our sweet thang of a dog, Belle (aka Chooch McGooch McGooner) is starting to suffer what we suspect is hip dysplasia. She's ok--she doesn't whine about it or anything--but it takes her an extra long time to get up here onto the couch these days (right now she's lying next to me, snoring). It's really sad watching her haul her butt up, slow-like, one leg at a time. Makes her seem much older than her 6 years. I suspect it's from all the Frisbee we've played over the years--Frisbee being notoriously hard on dogs' joints.

Will we stop playing with our Aerobie Skylighter Flying Disc? I think not. Judging by the obsession with which she plays (it's like crack to her) and the pride with which she carries it home from the park, I'd say it's still worth it. And I'm not just saying that because I'm proud to have the most bad-ass Frisbee-catching dog in the park. I may be (like a lot of 30-ish, child-less women) projecting a lot of maternal feelings onto my sweet doggie, but I'm not the show-mom type.

We're starting her on Glucosamine and buffered aspirin and I'll get her out to the vet when I can afford it, to see what else I can do. Maybe one day I'll get her one of those foam ramps so she can walk up onto the couch.

BTW Aerobies are the best flying discs in the world. For one thing, they have a soft edge around the sides, which protects your dog's mouth (if you've ever seen a dog mangle an actual Frisbee-brand Frisbee, and cut its mouth on it, you know what I'm talking about. Remember that, Carrie?).

Plus, they hover like nobody's business. Once, back when I had a pickup (sigh) and always kept one in the back of it, I saw one levitate in my rear-view mirror as I sped down the freeway. No shit. They're scientifically designed.

Happy Easter, Peeps

Celebrate Christ's big death day (or is it his resurrection day? Whatever.) by checking out the cute-ass entries to WashPo's "Peep Show" contest.

Our faves? Hands down, "Nightmare in Pink" (number 3 in the flash rotation). Shout out, though, to number 8, "Peepator Craig's Wide Stance" and last year's "Marpeep Antoinette" (number 2).

We'll be spending the day working and taking a break from Mr. Man's parents, who've been in town since Wednesday, but, as I type this, are getting set to head out and explore the Charm. (Thank Christ. Not that they're not sweet as Peeps--they are--but this femme likes her space and gets a little overwhelmed by invaders visitors.)

*Note that this cool photo is not part of the contest (obviously--no Peeps). I got that--get most my pics--from Morgue File, where angelic artists post up free photos for deadbeat bloggers to have their way with.

A light in the fog

Apologies to anybody whose calls I haven't returned this past week--paradoxically, the communication breakdown we experienced last week was, for me, followed by a more voluntary lapse in communication--to put it plainly, I haven't felt much like talking to anyone.

Half the roof blew off the building next door during a huge windstorm last week, and in so doing, knocked over our chimney, causing a big scary noise and a bunch of crazy black shit to fall down through our heating vents, making it unsafe to warm the place. I mention this, not because it's further evidence of what a shitty house we're living in (although it is), but because it seems like a good metaphor.

I don't know what the fuck but I guess that sometimes living in a strange town, depending on less than a handful of people for loving face time, and working on issues that more often than not feel completely impossible to overcome, I guess all that is bound to get a girl down. I mean, the world is going to hell in a fucking handbasket, and I'm in Baltimore (a town that got packed into the handbasket a long time ago), you know?

Point is, your girl has been adrift, but rest assured that lifelines have been tossed and gratefully grasped, and I imagine she'll be back to her old, more hopeful self within a matter of days. I know that there are amazing people doing amazing work even as I struggle to stop wallowing and do my own--I'm in contact with more and more amazing worker bees all the time.

And the love. Even as I have been at a loss, cynical and critical of almost everything, I get the sweetest notes and texts from my loving friends. Case in point, this glorious (as yet un-named) poem that Mr. Man wrote for me last week, at a time when I can only imagine I was wicked with anxiety, and sent me today, just in time to soothe the craziness:

This is something that brings me closer to everything else
at the same time it pushes me away from things:
and this not what I mean, but what I say.

And this is not what I say, but what I mean:
However strong you are, however hard you can push it,
I live for this, and so do you.

Those hands strong and working strength to bring
the things you want in this world to thousands of brilliant tiny lights
and it works so much as you believe they will
so fuck thinking of things as 1+1+1=3
because it's all going to happen
with leaves falling from your fingers as you type
while you are sipping your morning coffee just like any other day.

While we sit and wait for the world to catch up with us
while we sit and wait for something to happen
and all of the greed to fall, and all of the hope to be realisms
you are working it through fully knowing that it's been real
and is real
and happened while we were sleeping
and dreaming

While you are cracking your wrists and lifting your beautiful fingers and pushing ideas into real
I am watching you with my love for you
my soul for you
my heart for you.

Thanks for this, baby. Best bf money could buy.

The Good, the Bad, and the Babies

I'm not going to be one of those bloggers who apologizes for her absence--I think that's a little presumptuous, especially for a mouthy femme who has all of about 8 readers a day (you are by far the hottest readers a girl could hope to have, though, lovebugs). I am not, however, above acknowledging and explaining my recent lack of posts.

First, we were in NYC again. Loverly. The glorious, filthy, mercurial big apple has thus far (knock on wood) never ceased to spread her legs for me, even if she occasionally keeps me from blowing my proverbial load with the odd stopped subway car. I'll spare you the "oh I did such fabulous things in NY last week" thing, but I must say how lovely it was to see (albeit too briefly) so many of my very favorite people in the world. I also feel the need to give a shout-out to the amazing Cai Guo-Qiang exhibit at the Guggenheim (muchas gracias to Miss D's cute friend Blair for the tickets). It would take at least another long post to describe this show, and since I probably won't write it, I hope at least some of you will see it and we can talk about it.

I came home energized and excited about getting back to work, which made the last few days, which would have been frustrating at best, particularly excruciating. We've had problems with our DSL (there isn't any cable in this neighborhood) pretty much since we moved in, so we'd finally got Verizon to hook us up with a technician (a process which entails "escalating the situation," according to the operator) on Monday.

I will spare you, lest I risk boring the pants off my 8 precious readers, the details. But I will say that I've moved around a lot, and had problems with cable almost everywhere I ever lived, but I have never suffered a clusterfuck of customer dis-service as unprofessional as what we've been through in the last 4 days, during which time we've seen 3 technicians (the second of whom, Greg, gave me his personal number and said to call if it went out again, which, as desperate as I was to get fixed up, I didn't recognize as a shady move until he left me hanging all day the next day and Mr. Man called Verizon for the millionth time only to find out he hadn't put me on a work order at all).

The third guy came in apologizing and told Mr. Man that we'd been labeled "chronic complainers." I guess if your DSL isn't working, Verizon thinks you're just supposed to shut the fuck up and pay your bill, or assume that every poor $8/hr operator you talk to (because it's never the same one) is going to treat you like an asshole.

If you've never seen a Gemini deprived of her primary method of communication, consider yourself lucky. I was completely insane by this time yesterday. Envision me in tears...anyway, it's back up now, has been since this afternoon, and my wrist is already sore from all the furious typing, but my trust in the communication gods is still pretty shaken.

It's hard because (like most of you, I'm sure) I really love the internet. Not only do I like to read blogs and shop and research stuff, but my career is in a much more amazing place because of it, and in fact, I really do believe (just like old Al Gore) that the web is our best hope for fixing what's wrong with the world at large. It's like the printing press and Martin Luther's 95 theses or whatever (except that there weren't global warming or nukes back then). But I'm worried that with shit like net neutrality, the nets will go the way of food and television and become a worthless corporate imitation of what they should be, and this kind of big-business bullshit just gives a girl more cause for concern.

Sigh.

In much more cheerful news, we arrived home from NYC to see that the tomatoes we decided to seed indoors had sprouted. They are gorgeous, though it's hard to believe that anything will ever come of them. I also took advantage of some net-free hours to start some more seeds (I hope you all waded your way through my last long rant of a post and treated yourself to the Lorax and if you need seeds, let me know, because we've got extras), including rosemary, basil, anise, tobacco, nasturtiums, chives and catnip. It's like having a few dozen (!) new babies in the house.

Clintons and Monsanto--a match made in hell

Well.

I hinted back in January about Hillary Clinton's shady choice to align herself with Joy Philipi, the fourth-generation "family farmer" whose hog farm is home about 2,000 unfortunate pigs. Philipi is also the former president of the National Pork Council, a "poster organization for corporate agriculture." (If you are unfamiliar with industrial pork production, you might take a painful look at this provocative piece that Rolling Stone put out in late 2006. Warning: this will likely put you off bacon for awhile, or at least have you running for the nearest small family farm).

Now, even more damning ties to agribiz are popping up--this week, the second of two scathing open letters to Senator Clinton, written by former supporter and fellow Wellesley alum Linn Cohen-Cole hit the internets (read the first here). Prompted by an emotional reaction to a PBS special on farmer suicides in India (the result of farmers being tricked into buying expensive biotech rice, which didn't grow, leaving the farmers desperate, starving, and drowning in debt), Cohen-Cole spent the last few months digging up information on Clinton's ties to Monsanto, the biotech company that sold the GM rice to the Indian farmers. And she did a bang-up job--these letters are full of juicy (and scary) links that read like a primer on Monsanto's evil doings--of connecting the dots.

Sigh. I can't say that I'm shocked as much as saddened by this information. Sometimes it really does seem like we're just fucked--I doubt that Obama's nose is much cleaner than Hillary's--and even if by some miracle, Monsanto went out of business today, their GM seeds would continue to drift through the air, contaminating natural crops, and the chemicals they've tricked and bullied farmers around the globe into buying would continue to leach into ground waters and otherwise sicken us.

If you don't know much about Monsanto, and most people don't--they spend about $50 million in PR every year to keep us misinformed--they are the evil scientists who brought us DDT (outlawed in the 1970s, but due to a long half-life, still sickening people around the globe), rBGH and Agent Orange. And they are as powerful and insidious as they are tricky and ruthless. Right now, Monsanto is fighting on a state-by-state level to keep family farmers from labeling their dairy products "rBGH-free." They also make massive donations to university agriculture programs, but only if they're doing biotech research. And (shudder) who knows what those crazy fuckers are cooking up these days.

A few years ago my dad, who was drafted into the Navy during the Vietnam War, joined the ranks of thousands of fellow veterans who've developed prostate cancer since being exposed to Agent Orange while serving in that conflict. Of course, prostate cancer is not the only increased health risk for vets, and things are even worse for the Vietnamese still living with contamination, over 3 million of whom suffer its consequences (cancers, diabetes, spina bifida and other birth defects) today. In the 1973 Peace Accords at the end of the war, Nixon acknowledged America's responsibility for Agent Orange's destructive impact and promised $3 billion in reparations to the devastated country.

But the US has yet to cough up a dime of that sum (and needless to say, neither has Monsanto). If you are of a mind to take action on the Agent Orange issue, check out the Vietnam Agent Orange Relief and Responsibility Campaign.

To learn more about politicians with ties to Monsatan (including Clarence Thomas, Jon Ashcroft, Donald Rumsfeld, and former Secretary of Agriculture Anne Veneman) and see what else you can do, check out the Organic Consumers' Association's Millions Against Monsanto campaign.

What else can you do? Support your local small-scale family farmers. Get yourself some organic/heirloom seeds, share them with your friends, tend them carefully, doing your best to protect them from GM contamination, and save them, Lorax-style. They are the best hope we got, as far as this mouthy femme can see.

Heavenly Haps

Over the last two nights, the sky has been home to a full lunar eclipse, a satellite shooting, and a meteorite--well, millions of those, I guess, but this one happened to fall down in Oregon. Witness to only the first of these celestial happenings, I'll focus on that one.

I was working late, having gotten started late as usual, I was parked here in front of my computer, and having surfed the web for most of the day, I knew it was coming, but I also knew that it'd been snowing most of the day in Baltimore, so I assumed the skies were cloudy. But when I got a text message from the glorious K Love, one of my absolute besties (and ex girlfriend of Mr. Man--yes it is an incestuous elite circle in which we circulate) I looked out the window to the west, and it looked clear, so I ran downstairs to the easterly windows, and there it was, the full Virgo moon, momentarily masquerading as a crescent. Mr. Man and I stood there a few minutes, then decided we'd get a better view from outside, so we gathered up the Devil Dog (I've renamed the pets--ever since the Devil Cat got brave, they are really a pain) and headed to the churchyard across the street.

And we were glad that we did. It was colder than a witch's tit out there, but the moon, the eclipse of which was fully apparent through the screened window, was bigger and clearer out there, and looked like it was covered in a blood-stained piece of lace. (an omen of things to come? I'm not a white-lace-panty kind of girl, but it is getting close to that time...)

Not only that, but the churchyard is a big one, on the corner of the block, and a diagonal path cuts across it that is often used by locals. One of our neighbors happened to take this path as we were standing there, and we alerted him to the eclipse. We'd never talked to this guy (whose name I didn't get--I was picking up dog poop when he divulged it to Mr. Man, who promptly forgot it) but before long, he and Mr. Man were discussing international politics (mostly immigration policy--we live in a predominantly Latino neighborhood, and our neighbor rightly feels that the US doesn't want him here anymore). Dressed only in a hoodie and jeans, he was incredibly chatty and content to stand out there in the cold with us for about 15 min.

When the conversation came round to our location--the churchyard--and our neighbor asked us if we believed in God, I had to fib a little and tell him yes, suspecting that it would lead to a longer, more complicated and potentially heated conversation. We gathered up the Devil Dog and headed in, glad to have finally met one of our neighbors (though for the moment, even more glad to have skirted the God talk).

People in Baltimore sure are religious. "Pastor Eddie" (I'm still trying to figure out how he got my name and address) wants me to attend his service--he sent me a postcard with the Lord's prayer on the front of it last week. I'll be damned.

In other celestial news, my new haircut is out of this world! The stylist and I settled on "fashion mullet" to describe it. I'll be debuting my new 'do in NYC next week. Until then, keep an eye on the sky.

PS

Happy V-day, y'all

Making inter-species peace at home

In response to a mounting workload and a recent flurry of internet research and writing, I've been having a lot of dreams that I'm blogging or web surfing. Weird, though perhaps not overly so...back when I was a waitress, I had dreams nightmares about that--I'd be working two gigantic sections, often separated by several miles, and I wouldn't be able to find the kitchen. When I was in grad school, I started dreaming about complex communication theories and would wake up murmuring long words, and in spite of the occasional new insight, this generally troubled me as much as the restaurant dreams--I mean, if your mind can't distance yourself from your work while you sleep, how peacefully are you resting? This new work dream seems different, though. I worry that it might be evidence that computer culture is infiltrating the workings of my mind...maybe I've got spyware on the brain (ba dum pum).

Anyway, it happened again this morning, but this time, as I emerged from dreamland, I had some unusually tender feelings for Bitsy, our neurotic feline, who was gently messing my hair from her favorite spot, my pillow (her presence there usually pisses me off) and as I padded down the hall to the bathroom, I remembered why--in my dream, she was helping me find what I was looking for online. In real life, Bitsy is generally a nuisance when it comes to computer work--if she's around, she's trying to get into my lap, or worse yet, onto my desk, between me and my keyboard. But this morning, I really felt like she'd been helping make progress on the subconscious interweb.

Maybe it was because Bitsy has been making some breakthroughs of her own lately. Ever since Miz D, who is allergic to cats, moved into what used to be Mr. Man's office (and Bitsy's private safe spot, complete with baby gate to keep Belle out) she's been getting much braver about spending time in common spaces, and lately, has been trying to get into my lap right in front of Belle and when Belle blocks her, she has been much more aggressive--she'll jump up on a chair and swat at her, mean-like, whereas in the past, she spent most of her time on the stairs (see photo) glaring at the dog and crying for her dad to pick her up and place her safely on the back of the couch.

I should explain that the pets have been a major issue since we moved in together. Mr. Man is very protective of Bitsy (perhaps overly so) and my Belle, though I don't think she would ever hurt Bitsy, is not shy about pursuing her intense curiosity about her new sistercat. We have differing ideas about how to handle this situation, which (a word to the wise) could likely have been avoided if we'd done our research before introducing them, although Bitsy has pretty much hated every other animal she's ever lived with. Mr. Man's therapist even suggested that we get some books about blending step-families, because the situation has caused so many arguments.

Anyhoo, bladder empty, I laid back down beside Mr. Man and told him about my dream. We snuggled for a minute before he had to get up and head off to school. As he generally does, he left the door open so that Belle could hop up and take his place on the bed. I was hoping against hope that Bitsy would maintain her position on the pillow and that Belle would snuggle up on the other side of me, but I didn't really think it was possible.

But they did! No drama whatsoever! I drifted off again, happy, and woke up several hours later (no computer dreams this time) to find them both right where I'd left them, and even when we all got up, there was no hissing, no nothing. Maybe they didn't hear us when we said we weren't celebrating this Hallmark holiday today (though we'll have a date this weekend). Maybe Belle's finally figuring out that Bitsy's not going to take her shit, and Bitsy's realized that Belle's not going to eat her.

Of course, as I write this, I imagine Belle's got Bitsy cornered in the bathroom. Baby steps.

Eat this

In spite of my strong ethical concerns around food (and my belief that not eating your veggies might make you crazy--look to Britney Spears for evidence of that bit of wisdom) and the fact that I've been an on-again-off-again vegetarian for years (I eat meat now, but hardly ever, and only when I've met the farmer, or really trust the restaurant) I generally think that Peta is a pretty fucking stupid organization, a belief that was recently strengthened when they bought my mailing address from some other group and sent me a plea for donations, thinly veiled as a questionaire, which included two pages of address labels. Now, my background in psychology and media theory makes me privy to the knowledge that groups like Peta give people those kinds of freebies in order to guilt us into making donations--studies have shown that when people don't donate, they don't use the labels. Now, I don't want to use about a 1/3 of the labels they sent me, because they say "Peta" on them, and I don't want anybody to think that I'm a blood-hurling hater. (Disclaimer: I would never buy a real, new fur, but I do own a fake one, as well as a vintage wool cape w/a fur-lined hood that my gramma gave me. I also hate factory farms, pet factory farms, and stuff like that.) I'm gonna snip the Peta logo off and use them anyway--take that, Peta!

I hope a) that you're still with me after that long intro and b) that you'll forgive my long-windedness (I named this blog Mouthy Femme for a reason) but anyway, Peta redeemed themselves by a smidge when I ran across this little bit of brilliance while I was pretending to work today. I can say for Peta that they are pretty brilliant promoters--they've got star power galore--but teaming up with Free Range Studios, the geniuses that produced Store Wars and this little Garth Brooks/Walmart video, may have been their smartest move yet.

I'm not all that keen on the impotence argument, but it beats shaming a marginally chubby do-gooder for not taking on the meat industry (to be fair, Al Gore did deserve to be shamed for failing to mention the meat industry's substantial contribution to Global Warming, but "characture-izing" him as a sloppy chickenshit was unfair, in my opinion). And of course, this video was like some kind of weird dream where political candidates actually discuss food, which is a hope I hold near to my heart.

Speaking of shaming fatties, have any of you seen this bit of fascist insanity? I got it from a food listserv and thought that maybe it was some kind of sick joke but I poked around and see that it's true: Mississippi lawmakers are trying to bar restaurants from serving food to people with a BMI over 30. For those of you who may not know, Mississippi is the fattest state in the country (you can see how fat your state is here) and has been for at least the last two years--I guess they think that publicly shaming and starving fatties into submission might knock them down in the rankings. Aside from stating the obvious by calling this idea fascist and insane, I'm pretty much speechless on this one. (I can hear your collective sigh of relief from here.) Ok. You can go now.

Where is My Mind?

It occurs to me that in my haste to lay shame upon the (RED) campaign, I forgot to mention that Mr. Man and I did, indeed, volunteer at the Charm City Kitty club's most recent production, Groundhog's Day, last weekend. And it was loverly. It may have been my excitement over getting out of the house, or it may have been all those cute queers, but it was AWESOME.

Volunteer activities included moving a bunch of chairs around, tidying the restrooms, making a list of drink prices for the second bar, and installing a giant vagina over the doorway into the theater. The show didn't sell out, so we got to enjoy it from the comfort of seats, which was great, since volunteers often have to stand. Though it would have been great if it'd sold out, of course, especially since the act were so wonderful.

Highlights included:

• Electric Junkyard Gamelan. This band fucking rocked. And was also fucking adorable. Almost ridiculously so, though it didn't take anything away from their quirky musical stylings.
• Gray. "Ex-soldier turned wordsmith," this local poet commands mad presence. I've got a little crush.
• Eileen Myles. I don't know if this is her regular schtick, but she was totally old-school lezzied-up (think plaid flannel and longish gray hair) which is not generally my "type" but I do generally get hot and bothered by any kind of humorous intellectualism, and she had me laughing myself into a coughing fit. I think I might have peed a little, but I drank several glasses of Woop! Woop! Shiraz, so...

No offense to the other acts...but I just didn't like them "that way." The CCKC, on the other hand...I think I'm in love.

BUGGE(RED)?

I've had mixed feelings about Bono's (RED) campaign for quite some time--while I think that huge corporations can impact social change in ways that individuals cannot (like Starbucks' switch to rBGH-free dairy last year), the (RED) campaign actually encourages individuals to fight AIDS by buying red tee-shirts and other crappy pap from the GAP (who we all remember has a questionable record when it comes to human rights anyhoo) and other big bizes with questionable ethics. And while I think that Americans needed a huge reminder that AIDS is still out there, and the (RED) campaign has certainly accomplished that, I think that it has also 1. served as an enormously powerful PR tool for all of the corporations involved and 2. enabled soccer moms and frat boys across the country to feel self-satisfied and activist-y, when really, they are just...consumers.

So imagine how pleased I was to see this article in today's Times, even if it did link to each of those corporations, and also linked to Bono and the Superbowl, but didn't link to the Global Fund, the international aid organization that distributes the money raised by the campaign. (To be fair, they just don't link the way bloggers do, to actual websites, but rather, to their own stock market pages.) However, they did cite a controversial article published in Ad Age (subscription required, or I'd have linked it) last March, that said that as of that time, (RED) had raised only $18 million, but had spent $100 million on advertising. (RED execs later argued those totals at $25 and $50 million, respectively.)

If it were an "eco-friendly" endeavor, I'd call it corporate "greenwashing" but I guess it's more appropriate to call this whole campaign...wait for it..."redwashing."

Another note about the article--while I applaud the Times for publishing this story, I think they could've done better--they open by quoting health workers who credit the campaign with the building of hospitals, and the increased funding that has allowed them to focus on research and supply beds for people who come there seeking treatment. But as they later point out, the campaign contributes a mere 2% of the Global Fund's funds...which actually hasn't increased the amount of money spent on aid in this arena, but rather, allowed the Fund to shift funding to other areas. I'm not saying that the donations haven't made a difference, or that the Times were wrong in covering that side of the story, but I know that a lot of people scan articles and often don't click through to the second page, where they mention detractors like Ben Davis, who encourages philanthropic individuals to Buy (Less) and donate directly to AIDS service organizations, and Brook Baker, chairman of Health GAP, who asks:

"'Do we really want something as important as H.I.V.-AIDS to be funded by holiday shoppers?'"

which is a pretty good question.

All in all, kudos to the Times, w/whom I've got a little love/hate thing going--this piece was better that this confusing piece of thinly-veiled pro-cloning shit yesterday...

Anyway. Two more things about the (RED) campaign--last summer, Mr. Man and I saw some guy in P-town, walking around with a "HAMME(RED)" tshirt on, which we agreed, was pretty fucking funny. And also, I saw Bono once, back in the day, when I was 14 and U2 was touring with the Pixies, and not to hate on the short guys, but minus the shoe lifts and tricky camera angles, he can't be more than 5 foot 4.

Say it with me now...POSER!!!!