Hustler Goes To Market

and INot sure what to make of today's partial solar eclipse. They're tricky. Pets die. People get job offers. Your girlfriend tells you she wants to make out with the boy she works with at the stationary store. As you walk home from your therapist, you realize that's okay. Of course, these things happen all the time. Dogs will always get cancer, your girlfriend will never be happy with the way you kissed her, and life as a temp is always prone to this kind of fluctuation. The eclipse makes me think of these as specifically significant, some reverberations of the lunar eclipse a few weeks ago. These kind of things aren't even really beginnings or endings, really. Just sort of transitions, I guess. Which I hate. I have a difficult time adjusting to even the most minute, gentle changes. Susan Miller, my favorite astrologer, thinks this eclipse will bring some kind of employment news. I'm excited about her appearance this Saturday at the Apple Store.

Still recovering from the weekend. On Friday night, I went out with the Soft Butch crew. Cassandra has a new job at a bar so we went to visit her. We bounced around the East Village trying to get people to dance in bars but they were shy. Cassandra found Shoshoni, Jennifer and I smoking in a bathroom. Disco nights.
Met up with Pico and Steven V. at Ruff Club, where we had our picture taken.

Saturday, Cuddles and I went out in the East Village. I felt like an explorer. The next day, walking to the train through Tompkins Square Park in my Sunday morning finery (smeared leftover Saturday night club outfit), I felt really conspicuous. For some reason, buying eggplants at the farmer's market seemed to fix this. Rather than 'hustler' I looked like I had a purpose. Hustler goes to market. There are layers to these kinds of drag. My Soft Butch nickname is Mapplethorpe. Think on that. Feeling particularly inspired, but not yet active. Haven't committed these phrases to songs, yet. Working on a new rock-opera / performance piece. It's going to be called Ferocious, and it's about my imaginary ex-boyfriend Scott Panther. Rather, Scott The Panther. You'll see.

Monday morning found this anonymous description of me on the Internet:

"I'd hit him from the back. I mean, I'd have to double-bag it, but whatevs.
Even if his music's boring, he still looks like he's got an ass I should tap
before it collapses. Probably screams like a white lady in bed though."

My buddy Steven V. notes that this means my ass is like:

a) sub prime mortgages
b) a mine in Utah
c) a bridge in Minnesota

Confessions of a Namer

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