I feel super anxious today and I don't know why. There's no reason to.
I guess I'm kind of nervous about the show I'm doing on 7/21 at this year's Hot! Fest. But I wonder if that's the only thing scaring me.
Doing the old psych trick of: "What is this feeling? What is this about? Does it really come from nowhere?" And not getting any clues. Could use a diving rod, I guess. Some kind of implement of divination.

One divine hammer, I guess you could say, is what I'm looking for.
But then again, not just one. And not necessarily a hammer.
Thinking a lot, as always, about Anjelica Huston

Tonight I'm going to go see my long-lost friend Alex Da Corte in what looks to be a fantastic group show at Yvon Lambert. And then I'm running home to eat dinner and then going back to the city to see that new Tilda movie I Am Love with my buddy Stephen. Last night I did a read-through of my genius friend Dan Fishback's new play. I'm wearing fancy clothes and I feel pretty good physically. I have a good situation.

Thinking a lot about Ways of Speaking. And how we know how to speak. Like, who's language we're trying to use and who we want to understand us. And maybe if there are quicker ways of somebody understanding you than simply trying to learn they're language. There might be quicker ways. That might not even be the point.

So why can't I relax? Man. I'm gonna go walk along the West Side Highway or something.


Counting The Minutes

It just feels like the Universe in the Summertime is just blasting you with hot air. And it's doing it to soften you up.

The Universe wants you warmed up. It wants your molecules to move faster. To increase your pliability. I'm so sure. I think it might be the same thing that personal trainers, physical therapists, p.e. teachers and all sort of body-experts always say to you: that the real benefit of stretching is that it helps prevent injury.

I'm here today, friends, to tell you that that is total fucking bullshit. The real benefit of stretching is: it feels good. If you don't believe me, try it. If you try it and you don't like how it feels, then the problem isn't the stretching. The problem is that you don't know how to feel good.

That's okay, though. Sometimes I forget, too. Hey! It happens to all of us. Let it go. But don't stop stretching. So it seems like Summertime is about stretching for the sake of feeling good. And I am feeling pretty into it.

This weekend was crazy / wonderful / exhausting. I'd get all the way into it except
a) you had to be there
b) it'd make me sound like an asshole, whenever I say anything along the lines of "you had to be there" and
c) the important thing is that last night I went to go see Little Victory play at the Phoenix and I am so glad I did that instead of going to the parade or whatever. Little Victory is absolutely the most important new queer punk band in America, possibly the world (please-- disagree with me to links of other rad new queer punk bands please please). If you live in NYC, you're pretty close to them, so you should go see them. They make me feel like I am witnessing history. I probably am. SO: that was a real highlight.

Also a highlight was a very raucous Saturday night, when I overindulged in White Wine (as one does, from time to time, I'm sure you can imagine). Eventually, I thought to myself: "I'm drunk. That is the word for what I am. Better get myself into a cab and head on home." Which is exactly what I did, as a responsible partygoer. I hopped into a cab and then into bed and looked at the clock, thinking "Wow! I partied so hard! What time is it?" It was 12:37a.m. A NEW RECORD, boys and girls.

Last night I dozed off to this fantastic gem, Ann Magnuson's Made for TV.
Gosh. Ann Magnuson, right? The woman is so fucking fantastic.



Always an in-progress list. The order might need some revisiting. Please feel free to forward widely, add your own, do whatever you want. Generally: that's a good rule. OBVIOUSLY I'm using "rapper" in a very, very expanded sense. I thought about including Rosalind Krauss, but she's not such a good rapper.











In Our Last Episode

My friend and I were at this club in Brooklyn to see this friend of mine play a show. We're not very good friends, I used to book her band to play my college campus and we stayed in touch. Then she became kind of a sensation / star. It's well-deserved and she's maintained a really level head and has always been sweet to me. She got my and my friend into the show that night, cause it sold out. She hadn't played a show in a long time. This is the backstory. We're all very excited to see her show.

Outside the club, my friend and I are talking to some guy, X, who my friend knows from college. I guess he also knows the performer. He keeps talking about how they go way back. But she and I go further back. I just don't think it makes much sense to drop the name of the performer who, clearly, we're all there to see. Even if we didn't all know her personally, we're clearly invested enough in her work to come to the show, right? It's not a competition. Anyways my friend is talking to his old college buddy, who is regaling us with completely unnecessary tidbits about his glamorous life on another coast. He is, I imagine, around my age. Though I look younger than he does.

It occurs to me that I shouldn't be writing anything possibly shady about this guy because at the time I was bumming cigarettes from him. But I bummed them from him before the following happened. My friend stayed silent for this exchange, sagely. So it's me talking to this guy who my friend knows, whom I will call Show-Off. To my knowledge we had never met before this evening and we have no idea who each other are.

Me: Oh, I think the opening band is going on. Should we go back inside inside and check them out?
Show-Off: I dunno. I haven't heard them.
Me: Yeah, me neither.
Show-Off: But I saw this write-up with them in Interview magazine, so like... you know. (Show-Off rolls his eyes ostentatiously).
Me: Oh. Ha ha. (I am laughing nervously).
Show-Off: It was for some article, like, 'Best New Bands in Brooklyn' or something. It was bullshit. Interview sucks.
Me (gamely, I think): Yeah, well. I know that they've had like a million editors in the last year. They keep changing, I think.
Show-Off: They only ever cover totally lame people.
Me: Ha.
Show-Off: It's only ever, like, some 24 year-old fashion faggot from Williamsburg.
Me: . . .
Show-Off: It's like, where were you when Lady G**a started?

So that was a couple of months ago and I have been nervously laughing about it to myself ever since. Then, the other day, I went and saw Courtney Love on Behind The Music over at Jess Paps' house. Needless to say I was really moved and totally enthralled the entire time. Especially discussing Courtney's early career, before she started Hole, as an indie film star. She had been in Alex Cox' films Sid & Nancy and Straight To Hell. And as part of this nascent indie film star career, she lucked into a bit of press. And on VH1 they played this clip of Courtney, introduced as a "rising star" by Deborah Harry, on Andy Warhol's TV Program, Andy Warhol's 15 Minutes. Giving a speech about herself, surrounded by garbage bags, and flipping through issues of Interview.

Which completely thrilled me. Courtney went on to say that this was the harbinger of a very bad period in her life. She said something along the lines of "I just hated it. I wanted to kill myself". I'm paraphrasing. But it was interesting.

And for the record, though I'm sure it's completely unnecessary to post here, I will note that on August 5th, 2008, two days before my 24th Birthday (and two weeks before Lady G***a's debut album was released), I was doing this.

Though my life narrative has (obviously?) taken a much less tragic path, it's nice to be in good company.


Keep The Bastards Guessing

Last night I told my therapist, who I'd only been seeing for about four months, that I had to stop coming in. Because I can't afford the $55 a week that our sessions cost. There were necessarily some conversations about this, about whether or not I thought the therapy was worthwhile (I did) and if there was something else in my life which I could sacrifice to come in (there's not). It was disappointing. I started going to her in the early spring to deal with some really difficult feelings and was soon better. But I kind of felt like I was on the precipice of, like, really getting into therapy. You know, where you go deep and talk about things that happen to kids or whatever. But we can't go there because right now, in my life, I am too fucking broke to deal with it. It was disappointing.

I came home intending to get some work done but just kind of vegged out in my room. I cooked myself beans and rice for the 20th day in a row. Listened to Cat Power's What Would The Community Think on vinyl. I remember when I was at the record store a few months ago with PLD and I was deciding between getting that or getting Helium's Dirt of Luck. And really, Dirt... is probably more my speed these days ("...and she's slower than a Valium. That's why you stay at home") but PLD said "But... Cat Power on vinyl..." and sighed and I knew he was right and I'm so glad I got it. I sat on my floor, drawing, burning incense and listening to "Fate of the Human Carbine" really loud. I haven't listened to that record all the way through in such a long time. I remember laying on the floor of my parents' living room in Alameda, staring at the ceiling and listening to that album. Like, more than ten years ago. I remember then that that was like, the pop record, to me. That was like the Cat Power "sell-out" record, cause it had her big hit song on it.

And I was sitting and being sad for 15 year-old me, listening to that record and being bummed about love, probably. And also bumming a bit about Chan Marshall. I mean, God. Remember how for the longest time, listening to Cat Power meant there was probably something deeply wrong with a person? I had really intense friendships based on listening to Cat Power together and having really extreme emotions. Cat Power fans were self-selective, chainsmokers, teenagers, probably cutters, deeply serious. And our cultish fandom was vindicated by Chan. At the time, for many years, Chan Marshall was Not Doing Too Well. It was almost expected that she'd storm off the stage, mid song. Cat Power fans knew better than to request a song. We'd offer her some encouragement when she inevitably broke down in the middle of a song, sobbing hysterically out of nowhere "I'm sorry, you guys. I can't do this. I'm so sorry." We'd cheer her on. We'd tell her we love her, that she could do it. That she sounded great. Don't give up! I remember seeing her once, and a fan was hoping to do just this, cheer her up, and yelled "We love you, Chaaaaaan!", mispronouncing her name with a hard-a, to make it sound almost Japanese. Whereas any real Cat Power fan would know that her name is pronounced like 'Shawn'. My friend Samantha and I were in the crowd, barely concealing our eye-rolls. It was snotty. But she was ours. Our reward for following this 20-something with glaring substance abuse issues was that she would be real. You could pay your money and see a Real Girl have a Real Struggle. And that seemed really important at the time. And last night it seemed important too. What a great fucking record. And then, of course, Chan Marshall has turned her life around. Now she is a bona fide indie pop star. And she is sober. And clean. And she seems very happy. And this is encouraging.

So now I am trying to begin this project, I was telling my therapist and I can tell you, too. The new project is this: be really brave. Now, that doesn't mean not being afraid. That means being afraid a lot but not letting it stop me. This means really engaging with things that scare me. So often something will scare us and we use that as an excuse to harden our hearts. To change direction. To stop. To move. To go another way. And what I am doing is to try to face the things that really freak me out. To talk to them. To really make a conscious effort to engage with something which would normally push me away. To identify it. And cheer it on.


Let Me Show You

I don't know if I could come up with another phrase which I find more thrilling, more subtly erotic, than: "Here, let me show you" or some variant thereof. What I take this phrase to mean is "I know, and I want you to know. And your not knowing isn't an impediment. In fact, I'll show you so that you'll know for yourself. I won't tell you, I'll guide your hand for you." And how hot is that? I feel like this is a really good slogan to work with: LET ME SHOW YOU. (As opposed, necessarily, to LET ME TELL YOU).

And I guess I'm thinking a lot about this because I'm really working on showing and not telling. Which runs the risk of falling prey to certain aesthetic traps, certain colonialist impulses. Certain martyrdoms. Certain kinds of come-ons: Here I am in my bed, freshly made. Don't I look comfortable? Climb on in. That is needlessly heavy and complicated. Here's what I mean by showing versus telling: I made it into bed. Which means you can too. It's the exact opposite of being a vanguard, it's the total enemy of being cool. I want to make a certain kind of desire plain. I want to demystify feelings. I want to demystify your feelings, and I think we can do it together. If you'll be so kind as to show me.


Have I Read Too Much Fiction?

Thinking a lot about this record, and its cover. It's totally the poseur Sundays record. It's their biggest-selling. The most commercial. Almost a caricature of what the band was ostensibly about. I really love Reading, Writing and Arithmetic as well as Blind. But this is the first one I ever got. And I still like it best. I feel like their previous work was more Cocteau Twins-ish, maybe. And history will be cruel to the Sundays and may well view them (as I sometimes view their first two albums) as unfortunately prescient, vague harbingers of a group we'd later come to know as Sixpence None The Richer. Ugh, right?

Anyways this song has always felt like Summertime to me, obviously. What I like about it is that it's not, really, a happy song. It's kind of about how desperate people are and how Love isn't really real. It's fleeting or whatever. I remember the first time I heard this song, I was home from school, alone. I think I may have been sick or something. It was springtime in the Bay Area. I remember there was a rainstorm and the power was knocked out. My dad called me from his office to see if I was okay. I was, but I was freaked out that I couldn't get the lights to work and I was bummed that all the power was gone. It wasn't scary, per se. But weird. I don't know. What I remember is that apparently I had left the radio on (when I was a kid, we used to listen to the radio), and when the power came back on, Live 105.3FM came booming through the speakers and this song came on and although it was grey and storming outside I remember dancing around my family living room to this song. Because I am a Joyful Girl.

I remember really missing this album in college, and buying it for a song from half.com (when I was in college, we still listened, sometimes, to CDs). My friend Liz made fun of me but my friend Marcus confided that he really loved that album. And not just the hit! It's totally a great record! The other single, "Cry" is great, as well as "Monochrome", from whence the album gets it's title and iconic (to a certain small segment of the fag population) album art. Thinking a lot about the Moon these days. And this record. And it is, after all Summertime.


Our Initials

Our Initials, carved on a tree.
Our Initial descent.
Our Initial interview.


Cure Creation

Feeling pretty romantic all of a sudden. Late onset spring fever or something.

Riding home on the train last night, feeling frisky. Noticed this really cute guy standing right in front of me. I was sitting and struggling to finish the New Yorker's "Summer Fiction" issue. The Twenty Best Writers Under Forty. But they all write really depressing stories. It's always about divorce. Yawn. But I'm kinda glad that it was so boring because otherwise I wouldn't have noticed this cute boy. He wasn't my type. The boy on the train last night was blond. Or, he would be blond but he had a buzz cut. AND he had a goatee, or some kind of stubbly facial hair. I know, right? Really not my thing, I guess. But he was so cute! He had big blue eyes and if I had to describe him in one word I'd use one of my favorite words: fussy. But this version of 'fussy' you have to really lisp the "S" sound, hissing the tip of your tongue up against the backside of your front teeth. You know. Like extra fussy-looking. And by Fussy I mean that his jeans were rolled up and that he looked very clean. It wasn't like he had rolled up his jeans (tight, black) for fashion reasons, just cause they were too long. I wish I knew a better way to describe the distinction I'm making. The cuffs were perfectly folded. And the sleeves of his t-shirt were rolled up too. By exactly an inch. See? Fussy. He had a big backpack and grocery bags from bourgie Whole Foods. I imagined that they are full of organic seitan and that he is a vegan and going home to feed his cats.

He totally caught me staring at him. He was gorgeous. He looked vaguely familiar but maybe this is my imagination working overtime to make him seem familiar so I wouldn't be intimidated and possibly talk to him. As a rule, I don't approach strangers, but I was staring at my magazine (not reading) and thinking, consciously: Okay, Billy. Today's the day. Ask this dude for his number. What's the worst that could happen? I think he knew I was thinking about him cause he looked at me a couple of times. He had a beauty mark on his cheek, just like Jason Schwartzman. I remembered that I just wrote this story for Birdsong where I talk about a boy having a beauty mark on his face, and how with the other guy, in the story, I said the beauty mark was big and brown and right where I'd put my thumb when I grabbed the guy's face to kiss him.

But the boy last night's beauty mark was different. It was not dark, it was very light brown on his face. Really subtle, and right near his stubble. It didn't look like somewhere where I'd put my hand if I was gonna grab this boy's face to kiss him. I don't think I'd try to grab this boy's face, I think he'd be too Fussy. His pale light beauty mark looked instead like a tiny target and I wanted to kiss him, on his stubbly cheek, right there. You know what it looked like? It looked like if a kid in the 1970s ran outside to get an iced cream cone, one of those chalky pale chocolate soft serve cones, and the kid brought it inside, and it dripped a single pale brown drop onto the kid's family's 1970s beige brown shag carpeting. His beauty mark looked like a tiny secret record of something you really want, and something you get.

Staring up at this guy I was getting ready to get off the train and could tell from his shuffling that he was too. He was standing near the door of the train, where the a/c vents are, and I saw his tiny, tiny little nipples were erect against the soft cotton of his mustard-yellow t-shirt. I wonder if he saw me checking them out. I bet it was from the air conditioning on the train but I thought in my mind for a second that possibly he was getting excited from the sexy thoughts I was telepathically sending him. I'm not really much of a 'nipple guy', but I liked his because they were so tiny and pert, so unlike my own. I have relatively larger nipples, with tiny curly dark hairs around them. (Hairy nipples is just one of the many things I have in common with the hit pop singer Fergie). So we approached our stop and I stood up next to him. I'm a few inches taller than him, not much. We'd be evenly matched, I mean. Body-wise. If we were laying in bed together we'd line up pretty perfectly. I feel confident in this estimation. I was feeling really excited and anxious and nervous. We left the train and kind of got separated in the crowd, when immediately I ran into my old friend Rios. The boy from the train walked up the stairs near us as Rios and I kissed each other on the cheek and caught up, briefly. I poured all my psychosexual energy that I had been building up for the Fussy Boy in the Yellow Shirt, right onto Rios. Since I know him. I wonder if Rios thought that was weird or not. Maybe. We walked for a block, behind Fussy. Fussy turned around, at one point. And I hope he saw that Rios and I were just old friends, catching up. I hope he saw that even though I was talking to Rios about his summer, that I had my eyes up ahead, staring at Fussy. I hope he saw that I saw him.

Rios photographed by the wonderful Walt Cessna.



You and I have something in common. Our desires run like parallel lines. We're like an equal symbol. The thing we have in common is this: we would both like to date guys that look exactly like you. The problem of parallel desires is that you want to date guys that look just like you, and I do too, but you look so different than me. We'd never be perpendicular. Not together, or with each other.


New Kinds of Trouble

When I arrived at work this morning, eight minutes late, the doorman and the superintendent of my office building where having a conversation in the lobby about this Monday morning's energy.

Walter, the doorman: ...No, I feel good. I feel good and I'm gonna stay that feeling good. I have made my decision. Today is gonna be a good day. I am gonna maintain this feeling.

Joe, the super: Yeah, I hope so. I hope this week is better than last week. Last week was rough, man.

Walter: You have to decide. (Turning to me, waiting for the elevator). Right, Billy?

Billy: Yeah.

Joe: ...last week, I was just kinda on edge. All week. It was rough.

Walter: It's like fighting an adversary. You can't let him outwit you, get in your mind. You have to stay positive. Right, Billy?

Billy (stepping into the elevator as the doors close): Yeah. You have to clear your mind. And the rest will follow.

Then I realize that's not the quote I mean to say. Or is it? The clinical term here is a Freudian slip. But this morning went well. The hazy, oppressive gloom has given way to a kind of insincerely beautiful day. I feel like a chump for bringing an umbrella to work. That's my pessimistic streak showing through. Bright gray no matter the weather. Oh well, small price to pay.

OK. I am not going to freak out, but I am going to stay positive and productive and I am going to throw myself into the Universe's arms. And see where she wants to take me.

Weekend began on Thursday as they almost always do. This time at Lady Rimalower's house with my friend Stevie (visiting from Berlin), Cole Escola, Erin Markey, Bridgett Everett, Perfect Li'l Daniel and Ptrck. We all had too much fun and there were many jokes about that evening's snack, FBCs (Fresh Baked Cookies). See the photo above. That's the party spread. White wine, cigarettes, cheese and crackers. And cookie dough. I came home early but had horrible awful insomnia. It was just the worst.

Friday night back at Ben's. Ptrick and I ultimately left to meet up with Sister Pico at the bar. Good quiet evenings. Finally Slept. Saturday was busy, more party times. Performed alongside Dan Fishback at Shelly Mars' BULLDYKE CHRONICLES at Dixon Place. I read my story "Lingua" about my vacation last summer to Germany. It was a really great time, and Shelly is a big inspiration for me. Here's a cute little pic I snapped of her:

Then we all high-tailed it over to Charlie's house party! / Birthday party! I'm so glad we're neighbors. Here's a picture of Ptrck wearing some refrigerator magnets as earrings.

From there more dance parties, more bars, went to a diner where Cole got us all VIP treatment, then hung out on our roof. Yesterday I retired and relaxed.

So now it's Monday and things are going okay, I guess.
THE TRUTH IS: I'm totally freaking out because I'm kind of facing my destiny.

I am super duper broke. In desperate need of cash. And I almost turned down a plumb gig because I thought it'd be more trouble than it's worth. And I want to not have trouble. Or, my first inclination is to stick to the kind of trouble I already am familiar with.

So I'm going for a new kind of trouble and the newness is scary and thrilling.

I am going to perform a new show this Sunday. Yes, that's on Gay Pride. It's going to be at the Queens Museum of Art. And it's going to be called:


And I am very excited to share this with those of you who would like to come. It will be free. And it will be kind of scary. Part of it, the story of it, is a little bit scary. But I think we can use fear as a measure of our aliveness. Fear is an intrinsic, vital measure of courage. It's one of the main ingredients.

Funny, that.

Comme des Garçons P/E 2002

Myself and Joseph Keckler in promo shot for Dan Fishback's You Will Experience Silence, 2009


Two Expediencies

Nobody could see the strength, the joke, the little twist that we were all a bit fat. They were thinking we were trying a come on and sell our image. What would they prefer - us all dolled up in something fashionable? We wanted to write songs that wouldn't go out of fashion and we felt that about the cover, too. We didn't expect to have to explain it! But in the end, everything we did solidified our image; you get a lot of shit for not fitting into a box. And gradually we had to accept that we weren't going to shake off the Slits' Wild Women of Wongo image.
-- Viv Albertine, on the cover image of Cut.


Well, people. I don't know about you but I feel pretty fucked-up. I felt a ton better yesterday after I went home, watched the sun set on my roof with Ptrck, and cooked myself dinner. I watched The Long Kiss Goodnight, which had been sitting on my desk for months, since I ordered it from Netflix some months ago.

I wrote a little while back about how much I love Geena Davis, and this movie was so special. FULL DISCLOSURE: I was kind of saving this movie to watch on a date, but the particular person I wanted to watch it with isn't available / I changed my mind. Also I believe, sometimes, in taking one's own self on dates, in being the person you'd want to date, yourself, in feeling sexy and fulfilled and not hanging one's self-worth on someone else's reaction. Sometimes. SO I watched this movie and it was fucking fantastic and I can't wait to force everyone in my life to see it. Gosh, yesterday was such an awful day for me. That really cheered me up. It's chock full of quotable quotes, and it makes me want to bleach my hair. Obviously. This film is also the inspiration for Kate Bornstein's switch to Blonde in the early 1990s. And I don't think I need to tell both trusty readers of this blog (Hello Daddy, Hello Mom) that Kate Bornstein Usually Has The Right Idea.

Remember her book, Hello, Cruel World? I think I lent my copy to someone after I finished reading it, but I really wish I had it again cause I think it would be nice to review.

So then this morning went to NYU to get further work done on my New Dental Implant. Today we measured around the screw to see what type of abutment to get for my implant. Here's what part of my mouth would look like if you had x-ray eyes.

Hello there! The bad news is that because I had this tooth very unceremoniously knocked out of my face last summer, and have spent much of the last year in moderate to not-moderate pain, I've been chewing primarily on the other side of my mouth, and, lo-and-behold, was told this morning I have another cavity. Fuck. But, the good news is I found a really cheap dentist who comes high recommended from my old room mate Juneefuh. So I guess that'll take care of that. Pretty depressing though.

My homegirl La JohnJoseph shared an exciting tidbit about oral surgery, namely that it's something I have in common with Prince Hal. Great news!

The reason he's depicted this way is because he had an arrowhead lodged in the other side of his face. But then it was successfully removed! Using honey as an antiseptic! Rad! Read about this miraculous process here.

So, alright. Tooth stuff is a constant bummer. Trying to channel Geena Davis and turn my life around. I think I need to make some changes but I feel a little bit helpless, like maybe I don't deserve to have a happy life. But I guess that's why I pay Iron Honey Toughie to help figure things out. I am broke. I am pretty bummed out. Ugh. I guess I'm kind of excited about the rain. I don't know. Something. I wish I was at another place.

There's a silver lining here, too, but I just don't see it.


Brave Venus

Old faithful. Old windy. Old scar tissue heart. Old Echo, really. Old reverberation. Working with the Analyst, a very sweet but also very tough (iron ore dipped in honey) older jewish dyke who would be perhaps one third of my height, if we ever encountered each other standing up. New Analyst thinks that probably I am trying to manage to unlearn things I learned in childhood. I'm not so sure, I think the defense mechanisms I am outgrowing came later.

Marilyn Minter, Soiled (2000)

In any case, neither Iron Honey Analyst nor I can figure out yet why I seem to want to harp on a few old wounds. Old closed wounds! In fact:
a) Two boys I used to date are, I think, sleeping together? One of them I mercilessly dumped and the other one mercilessly dumped me and while what they do in their spare time is none of my fucking business, it feels excruciating. I mean, it feels excruciating once I've spent enough time projecting myself into the situation to feel excruciating. And,
b) I really miss my friend Chuck today. I feel like instead of childhood the defining moment, or one defining moment, for me, was losing Chuck. Was Chuck going from a really good friend, someone I kind of was in love with and someone who I know believed himself to be in love with me, to being my friend who I hadn't seen in a few months, to being dead. I still have these letters he wrote me, with copies of his calculus homework on them. He bought a very expensive camera to take pictures of his weird other boyfriends. But he named the camera Steele. I am bumming and not about my childhood. Who has time!? Let's get this show on the road, time-travelers.

Finally found that Anaïs quote I was so obsessed with. For, like, the last ten years, probably. My grandmother (known to me my whole life as Bubbe) knew Anaïs in the 1970s, they went to house parties in LA together and they'd watch jazz bands play in living rooms. I don't know much about their interactions except that Bubbe said Anaïs' hair was walways in a very tight bun and that she was "very sweet, but... French". I think Bubbe used "French" to signify something, but I couldn't tell you what. I do know, though, that once on a trip to Bubbe's house, she heard I was into reading Nin and gave me first editions of some of her books, which Anaïs had signed for her "...with instant simpatico", so in my mind: Bubbe and Anaïs were Lesbo Lovers in LA. Even without this fantasy-fact, this quote has been very important to me, and maybe it will be for you, too:

How to defeat this tragedy concealed within each hour, which chokes us unexpectedly and treacherously, springing at us from a melody, an old letter, a book, the colors of a dress, the walk of a stranger? Make literature. Seek new words in the dictionary. Chisel new phrases, pour the tears into a mold, style, form, eloquence. Cut out newspaper clippings carefully. Use cement glue. Have your photograph taken. Tell everyone how much you owe them. Tell Allendy he has cured you. Tell your editor he has discovered a genius, and turn around into your work again, like a scorpion in his fire ring, devouring himself.
-- Anaïs Nin

Thinking of melancholy and it's use as a color in making something beautiful. I wonder what goes on in Kim Gordon's head when she performs this song, right?


Party Arch

Well girls. Summer is really here, it's finally happening. I think I've mentioned it before, but Springtime can be hard. Even though it's probably my favorite season in NYC, there's this weird kind of anxiety that overtakes me during Springtime. Like, things coming back to life. It feels like everything is sped up. Previously inert parts of the world suddenly jump into life. I always feel like there's this tremendous pressure, amidst the birds and bees, to make the most of the season. To make good on the promise of rebirth. Yaddah to the motherfucking yaddah. ANYWAYS: that's over. It's Summer now.

Sticky as it is, uncomfortable though it may be, there is a really great feeling of the City in Summer. The feeling is: delirious. The feeling is being cooked. Most of us (most molecules with in) change, betray our secret natures when sufficiently heated. It's not always but often nice. Though I say this with the privilege of being a Fire Sign. Confirmed. Why do you think I named the zine Scorcher?

So this weekend was fun. Friday night PLD, Ptrick and I got ready at home, watched a video on eye make-up, some Sonic Youth clips and did our nails. We drank tasty gin and limeade cocktails and went to the Boiler Room, Nowhere Bar, and then the Metropolitan. What a night!

Saturday I met up with lovely Stevie, brilliant artist friend visiting from Berlin and staying with me. He and PLD and I went to go check out some of the Bushwick Open Studios. First we went to go see Ptrick's work, sharing a space at the lovely apartment of Naruki Kukita and Ryosuka Kumakura. It was so great!

This is one of the images Ptrck showed. His installation was really beautiful and thoughtful. It made think a bit about Butoh, and the ways in which Western and Eastern aesthetic practices inform each other. I know that Ptrick had recently seen a Butoh performance at the Brooklyn Gardens, and also Kazuo Ohno recently passing away, but Ptrick's work (what I've seen of it) often has this very clean taste. Very simple and almost austere, but never forceful or political or anything. I was super into the three artists showing together. Do check out everyone's work.

Next we went over to Groomingdales!, the 1983-1985 themed Glamour mall hosted by the Raddest Girls In NYC, BabySkinGlove. A million girls named Heather ran around their apartment tending to our various glamour needs, and in fact taking some photos of us once we had been dolled up. To wit:

SO MUCH FUN. BabySkinGlove are just getting bigger and better and more and more rad and amazing and I am so excited about them. They make living in NYC seem that much more worth it, cause I get to go to their shows. How wonderful. We stopped by 3rd Ward to see Tommy and the girls working the Birdsong Micropress table at the zine fair. Headed off to the city where I made PLD and Stevie go with me to both of the Comme des Garçons stores. First obviously the CdG BLACK store, where I am deeply, deeply in love with everything there, though it hovers entirely out of my price range. Stevie tried on some super cute denim shorts which all of us, friends and staff alike, thought looked great on him. We wandered up to the main CdG boutique to go cruise new scents, particularly the new Wonderwood:

Apparently CdG was having one of its semi-annual sales. I dunno if they're secret or not but I wish I was one of the lucky cognoscenti who get their fabulous beautiful magickal mailings. It was funny, because before going over to the boutique I made some joke to Stevie and PLD about how the sales staff are always so frosty to me, because I obviously don't belong in the store, but their frostiness is tempered somewhat by the fact that they all wear new CdG clothing, tending towards the baroque, so it doesn't seem so mean when a woman wearing a see-through nylon shift dress with eight extra sleeves is glaring at you. MY POINT IS: whether because of the sale, or the warm weather, or SOMETHING the staff were very nice to us, three shady Brooklyn punk queens with homemade manicures, cutoff shorts, and expensive taste. While perusing the discounted (still a bit price-y) merchandise, in walked Jean-Paul Gaultier, looking perfectly normal and nice. I only recognized him because I had just watched an interview with him online the day before. And, obviously, because the sales staff huddled around him to welcome him. He and his friend and PLD and Stevie and I all tried on the perfumes together. We tested out the Wonderwood (not for sale yet) it was cute. I asked the nice shop-boy if they had any of their Synthetic fragrances, since I didn't see any displayed, and they DID and they are cheaper than anywhere I could find them online, so I got the TAR scent. It smells really good. I can't wait for you to get close enough to sniff it on me.

We walked down the Highline, got really nice falafel at this place Taim in the west village, and I came home for a nap. We all met back up at QxBxRx, where there was super duper fun. Danced with Johnny Darling and Richert, the old lovers, saw many old friends and had too too much fun. Outside on the sidewalk was harassed for wearing my go-go uniform (underpants plus make-up to look like a black eye). A pretty young girl walked up to me to ask if she could take a photo with me and Richert. I informed her, as I sometimes do to these Lower East Side Looky-loos, that if someone wants to take a photo of me, especially in my skivvies, then they have to pay me a dollar (and one for Richert as well). Sometimes I charge two. I can sell my body if I wanna, god knows you already sold yr mind. QxBxRx turned into a long night, as it always does, when we headed off to the Metropolitan for a night-cap. Once that closed down we went out for fancy veggie sandwiches, then collected Anthony and came up to our roof to watch the sunrise and talk shit about Steampunk, Tori Amos, and much love for Marina A. Anthony showed us this hilarious video of Tori (who I usually have nothing to say about, ever) which really tickled all of us:

I hit the hay around 7am in what was a particularly epick party arch.

Sunday I ran some errands, went back to the Metro BBQ, came home and watched sunset on my roof, then cartoons until I passed out at like 10pm. What an Old Maid! On TV I saw the following, which totally mesmerized me:

OK. Now it's Monday. So much! It is so Monday right now, guys.


Lover Taps

from B0DYH1GH.tumblr.com

This morning when I got to work there was a bowl of M&Ms sitting on the table in the conference room. I have allowed myself to gorge only on the green ones. Which is to say: I feel better than I did yesterday, I guess. And I didn't think I would. I feel sort of gross, like maybe it's too personal to share my crazy person thoughts with the twitterverse. Maybe not. I feel like that singer I really love Alecia Moore p/k/a Pink. Once I saw an interview with her in which she was describing making her second album, Missundaztood, saying that she thought, at first, of the lyrical content: "Oh, no. I can't say that! I can't be so vulnerable!" But she went ahead and did it anyway. And I really love that record. Seriously, "Don't Let Me Get Me" reliably brings a big fat warm crocodile tear to my eye.

Anyways. It is now the weekend. There are some really rad things you should check out. As you know, this weekend is Bushwick Open Studios. There are 65,386 different studios to visit, so here are my two picks.

First, My Awesome Room Mate Patrick Dyer is showing some of his work at my friend Naruki's studio!

Ptrck's Paw aka "Gay Jesus", via CTRL+W33D

Check it out!
Naruki Kukita, Ryosuke Kumakura + Patrick Dyer ( guest artist )
Two painters open their studio. They have three wishes in their hearts.

252 Melrose St. #3R
Brooklyn, NY

Dates & Times
Friday June 4th – Sunday June 6th, 2010,


ok so that is so rad! Also check out the wonderful SALON hosted by everyone's favorite glamazonsters BABY SKIN GLOVE:


Then also on Saturday night is QxBxRx, where I will be go-go dancing with Richert and Johnny Darling. The original QxBxRx Go-Gos. We love each other.

Mom Words and Up Hers.


The Dog Part

I'm so sure.

Yesterday went to go get another procedure done for my dental implant. It's been exactly a calendar year since the accident which broke an otherwise healthy tooth. They put in my titanium implant in January and yesterday was to see if it was stable and healing well enough to proceed.

Bottom line / The Good News: it's stable, it's healing, and I am going to start getting a new tooth in a few weeks. The Bad News: the implant was placed at the wrong angle, and is ever so slightly protruding into my gums. You can't see it or feel it, I hadn't noticed and it has been this way for the last six months. But it's stable, apparently is not uncommon, and I guess everything is okay. That is what has to be the truth, that everything is okay.

So I'm a bit freaked out about that. And also, just generally. It's been a year. And in the last year some amazing things have happened to me, but this whole tooth breaking process has been agonizing. I mean, physically yes it hurts. But more than that, it's a lot of not knowing what's going to happen, a lot of me feeling very freaked out and very lonely and powerless. And not really having any way to fix the situation. And not really having anybody to talk to about it. And a lot of me pretending that my entire face doesn't hurt, or that I'm not completely terrified. It's been rough.

I really feel low today. I'm trying to shift my thinking about this to the idea of: "it's okay to feel bad sometimes," since my usual thought is "you have no right to feel blue, you're so selfish, what do you have to complain about?" and that's really tiring. At the same time, I wish Feeling Bad was less habitual for me. I wish I spent less time doing it. I feel shitty.

I'm really unhappy with how things are going. I feel very dissatisfied with what's going on. Simple DBT techniques to try at home: Radical Acceptance. "I accept it, but I do not approve of it". Whitney's "It's not right, but it's okay" comes to mind. I wish I could radically accept my life-position. Things which should fulfill me do not. I am having difficulty expressing my feelings, or really having any feeling other than anxiety, sadness. I can't bring myself to meet anybody's gaze because I'm afraid they'll see the bad mood / murky funkiness which I sometimes think of think of as "the real me". I doubt my ability to do anything, the choices I've made for myself. This is one of those days I am preserving for posterity's sake. I hope this goes away and quick. Feelings are not facts. Feelings are not punishment or prizes. Feeling bad doesn't mean I'm bad. I think.

I feel really bereft. Like on the inside. I wish I could talk myself out of the funk. I wish it would, at least, be compelling. It's a dead end. I need to drop it. I feel like a dog, bringing a dead bird, some dug-up roadkill or something, into the house. And the Master part of my brain (who am I kidding? Mistress) is chiding the Dog Part, saying "Drop It. Put It Down." but the puppy doesn't understand why Mistress is yelling.

I just want something good to happen.

I need to work on my new show, a short new performance piece which will happen once, on July 21st, at this year's Hot! Festival at Dixon Place. Billy Cheer's Love Note for Dance.


Loving You So

Well first of all, today is my dear friend La JohnJoseph's birthday. How wonderful! Happy Birthday! I miss and love him so.

By Lea Golda Holterman, Berlin, March 2010

Isn't he pretty?

Had a really fun weekend, of course. I feel like I had a little vacation, in the sense that now I'm really interested in getting back to work. I think of this because I have so much work to do! So much is going on! Yikes! I feel up to the challenge. I can do this! My only fear is that tomorrow at 9am I go back to get more surgery for my dental implant. I am scared. Maybe not scared, apprehensive. Fuck it: Scared. Think painless thoughts for me, people.

Friday night the homegirls and I went to the rad SPANK party, where we saw some really great bands play including Best Mate, who were truly fucking fantastic. Supergroups! There were really amazing light installations that looked like Jellyfish and DJ Nita played this really wonderful (and instrumental?) house-y remix of the Breeders' "Cannonball" which sounded pretty amazing. THEN, we snuck back up to Williamsburg where we caught the tail end of the Judy! party. Judy! is always a literally legendary time. There were slices of pizza in plastic baggies, taped to the walls, in case you got hungry. PLD and I indulged in some party pizza. BEST DECORATING TREND OF 2010 (thus far, anyway). THEN, we went to the Metropolitan for a minute to cruise the scene / drink blueberry vodka / talk about our feelings. THEN, we went to our Secret Cult Location in Williamsburg where we all fell asleep chitchatting. Woke up exxxtra early to get breakfast, then got ready to go see the Marina Abramovic show at MoMA.

And what can I say about Marina Abramovic's body of work? She is an icon, and she is just so great. I really love it when something becomes a sensation and the hype is totally real / fair / merited. I've ben thinking a lot, as I begin some new projects in earnest, about how to interact with people. How people respond as audiences, viewers, readers, etc. I think Marina Abramovic's work seems to be about this response, about the audience. I mean, it's about a lot of things. But I'm thinking in my life a lot lately about how we respond to each other. I've been totally tearing my hair out this in the past couple months. I think I had some real insights and I need to just follow my gut feeling, I guess. Generally good advice.

Anyways, on the Abramovic show, check out this amazing video of her speaking to my boyfriend James Franco:

"Marina," Klaus says, almost slyly, "you are a very theatrical performer".

After that on Saturday we all went to go see Little Victory play at this cool loft space by the Williamsburg Bridge. They were fucking awesome! I want them to put out a record, just so I'd have it. Little Victory totally give me hope for the future and also make me feel like I'm really lucky to be where and when I am in the Universe. They're probably the Next Big Exciting Queer Punk Band, and you should check them out. Super awesome show. Had a really great time. THE BAD NEWS IS: we drank a bunch of that awful Four Loco, DESPITE the fact that I TOTALLY KNEW that it was gross and always makes me (and everyone else who drinks it): a) violent and b) sick. So WHATEVER. I was violently ill (for like a minute) and passed out at one am. MISTAKE / MYTH-TAKE. Well maybe not actually cause in retrospect I totally got some rad sleep and woke up Sunday feeling super refreshed and amazing and I went to the gym and exercised for a really long time and felt pretty amazing.

Went to the Metrpolitan Memorial Day BBQ. First BBQ of the season and while I like the idea of the Metro's BBQ series, there's always a tinge of awkwardness seeing the same familiar faces but in daylight. And everyone glares at each other. No wonder so many boy writer / artists make work about this. It's like everyone has these really huge personalities / egos and sort of displays them. And for some people it's about claiming not to be doing this. Anyways it's sort of dizzying and I measured the afternoon as a success! because I didn't have a bad time. No negatives = positive. The default attitude is rad. That's the general M.O.

From Metro we went all the way uptown to Gerry Visco's house on the Upper East Side. If I could live anywhere in NYC I'd live in the Upper East Side. She was having a party to celebrate our friend Stevie who is in town from Berlin. Gerry and her friends are so much fun. I had a great time. The girls and I stopped to get some champagne to bring to the party and got sidetracked at the Duane Reade nail polish selection, where I got:


For some reason, I think having grey nails is really, like, professional. I'm so fucking professional. Gawd.

Visco's booze counter at the party.

We went BACK to the Metropolitan where we chitchatted with some other buddies, but the place was weird. In fact, I described the Metropolitan fairly astutely on Sunday night when I said: "This place is Dark and Weird". It is. I think (not to brag / just to brag) I was exactly right.

Yesterday I needed to fucking REST. And I needed to do some work. And I tried. I tried so fucking hard. And I got, like, NOTHING, done. I got a little done. I re-edited a story I wrote called "Out With Chainsaw" which is going to be part of a new project which is a secret until it's out. And I kind of brainstormed for this new essay I'm working on which is now passed due and really stressing me out and I guess I have to write it this evening though i know I probably won't. Yikes. Everything is a process and will be fine.

WHAT I REALLY NEEDED TO DO: was go hang out with my old friend Joanna, who just moved back to NYC for the summer. We are old college chums and I love her so. We hung out at this amazing Carroll Gardens apartment she's subletting and we watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High. Those times sure were fast.


Very sad, of course, about Israel's attack on the Gaza aid flotilla. And about Louise Bourgeois passing away.

SO let's all remember that telling it, saying it, is a big process and is never done. I think today and any day is a good time to remind yourself that it's okay not to know what is going to happen. Because ultimately you don't know what is going to happen. And that really is okay. Not just okay: it's the rule. And it makes a space to thrive in.

A little garden patch. For you!