Thursday, August 4, 2011

Naked strength

The fourth one down, the one about the French Dungeon, perfectly encapsulates what I want my lovers to say about me.  I want to be strong and brave.  I want the harrowing sex.

Hate 37- Alpha Dyke Fashion

Now, now, I don't hate dykes.  I used to explain to confused lesbians attempting to get into my straight, if aggressively masculine, drawers that I am cultural dykish.  Like a cultural Jew does not actually practice Judaism, I do not practice the lesbian arts. However, dyke fashion has exploded in recent years, or at least it appears to have exploded all the places I have lived, at the times I have lived there, making a seemingly endless dyke fashion explosion all over my clothes.  Here's the problem:

Dyke fashion completely ruins my attempts to look

A) strong
B) hardcore
C) punk
D) skanky
E) masculine

Let's unpack that.  It's not the dykes fault.  I won't blame the dykes.  But everything I want to wear when I'm not looking either professional (see Secretary for further instruction) or Goth-as-Fuck (or as I like to abbreviate it, GAF (total side note- anyone who reads this and is still in NYC, go see the Alexander McQueen exhibit at the Met.  He is our god and we must worship at his tenebrous altar)) seems to just read like Dyketown USA Sears catalog.

One of two things is happening here.  One might be just my terrible luck to be sartorially attracted to things which happen to be sending a queer ping.  I don't think that's what's going on.  I remember, vaguely but with certainty, a time in American punk where a woman might shave her head, wear combat boots, get full sleeve tattoos and facial piercings and still be fully coded as straight.  Or at least bi.  These things were not categorically indicative of sexual preference.  They were sartorially indicative of subcultural identification.   Which leads me to the second option which I  think is more likely: people have forgotten what it means to be transgressive outside of sex.  There is no more debate over living outside of society or opposing the system.  There are punks, but there is no PUNK-MENACE participating in the national media imagination. There are liberals, conservatives and the wacko Jesus separatists convinced we should drive off of every cliff we see.  Queer culture is really one of the last places where what you wear has any political or social meaning.  Which means that any "pretty in punk"ing gets lumped in with the "pretty in a not-straight way" dykes.

There might also be a third reason.  Obviously, the problem with being perceived as a lesbian is not really the women.  It's the men.  The problematic Men fall into two groups:  the first thinks you're hot cause you might make out with a chick in front of him and when he finds out that you will not and have not and never forever, he becomes disturbed.  "What do you mean you aren't feminine and men still fuck you? I don't know how to process this information." The vague sexual thoughts drifting through his brain at the thought of two women performing for him evaporate and all he's left with is Uncertain Dick.  It has been my experience that Uncertain Dick only ever leads to bad behavior.  The second group goes straight to the homophobic, if you aren't feminine, then you aren't a woman response.

I just want to wear black cut offs, combat boots and flirt with strangers at a bar.  And I want those strangers to be heterosexual men.  Is that too much to ask?

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

Date, Marry, Fuck

I have promised many people that I would update this blog more regularly.  And I do have things to say which merit posting- I have not suddenly stopped hating things.  But I need to be at work in Metairie at 8am tomorrow morning, so here is a brief mediation on polyamory, romantic expectations and the perils of domesticity.

This week, I want to...

Date: a romantic man, who is passionate about art and me, who notices what kind of chocolate I like and invents reasons to drink absinthe

Marry: a strong man, who works with his hands, and who is good with kids and arranging furniture, and who respects my ambitions toward canning vegetables

Fuck: a fucking monster

There you have it.  Please send me all of your romantic, strong, monstrous men who are artists and craftsmen, unmarried, marrying types and disgustingly virile.

Actually, just the disgustingly virile ones are needed at the moment.  Muscle bound giants who could eat me for dinner.  English skills unnecessary.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

One down

Well, one semester of law school is over. It was over about two weeks ago, but I've been avoiding writing about it for two reasons. The first reason is whenever I sit at this computer desk at my parent's house I feel like my feet might turn to bricks of ice. The insulation under the house leaves something to be desired, i.e. I don't think there is any and I have spent roughly 82% of the last two weeks hiding in the bath tub or under the blankets with a heating pad. You can practically feel it inside when the wind blows outside. It's a beautiful house but it lacks the traditional boundaries between nature and structure that fundamentally underlies the schema of house. I've put on five pounds of winter weight just sitting here.
The second reason is I don't really want to think about the next five semesters of law school ahead. It's not that I don't want to finish law school or that I'm thinking about quitting, it's just that I have learned how unpleasant studying can be. I won't say that I never studied in undergrad. I studied for a few classes. Italian mostly, cause I'm terrible at languages. But I have always trusted that after I'd done the reading, I'd know what I needed to know. No class notes, no re-reading, no outlines. Law isn't really like that. You could read my whole Civil Procedure case book cover to cover and not really understand personal jurisdiction. I don't like having to work on school. Work isn't my style.
I suppose there is a third reason. The last week and a half I was in NOLA was so fucking drama filled, it was a damn Wagnerian opera. I have PTSD. I didn't want to be tempted to write about other lovers, existential angst and sheer panic. Panicking doesn't help. Probably.

Saturday, December 11, 2010

Rope...rope rope rope roooooope

Last night was a night of rope. Rope and heavy breathing and sharp objects. And fried pickles. And strange antique 1920s electro wands. It was good. I like.

I am also, of course, still in law school. Monday is my contracts final. I fucking own contracts. Still, some work will need to be done, studying, worrying, drinking coffee. Less time to think about rope.

Thursday, November 25, 2010

Things I am giving thanks for...

Dora and Marten breaking up: I mean, finally, can QC please move on? Marten is awfully boring and Dora needs therapy. They both should be single. Also, maybe this will free up some space for more Pintsize comics. One can only hope.

My criminal law professor: She's a total badass. She's also hilarious. She really inspired me to go into public defense, at least until we hit the rape chapter, when I realized I probably couldn't handle thirty years of defending men who made me want to strangle them, or possibly drop them off a tall bridge. Maybe I'll overcome this overwhelming anger. Maybe not.

My dog: She is easily the best dog that was ever found on the side of the road ever. She is sweet and loving and quirky and very rarely chews on shoes. I might go get her another chew toy this very morning.

Stories like: this. Shit is crazy.

Songs I cannot get out of my head:

My boyfriend: He's a good one. He's probably reading this and thinking "surely some adjective more expressive than 'good' is appropriate" but I don't want to give him too much to gloat about.

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Hate 36- Motherfucking thieves without any goddamn class consciousness

Last week, I was making an emergency speaker cable run for my boyfriend, because he was having a little party (actually pretty big party) with a pretty ok band (actually a really great band) and he was in need on some speaker cable. I, being the willing assist type, volunteered to hop in my car and drive to the radio shack and then drop off the speaker cable. When I got in my car, a car so old it predates DVDs and so run down the hood is held down with a bungee cord and duct tape, it was quiet. I did not notice the lack of music immediately. About five blocks into the drive, I looked down at the gear shift and found my old glasses. I usually keep them in the center console. Then I saw my sister's sunglasses on the passenger's seat. Then I heard my water bottle sloshing around on the back seat.

You, dear reader, have probably realized by now that someone broke into my car. They stole the only thing of value in the whole monstrous contraption: the front plate of the CD player. Not the CD player itself mind you. Not anything of use or value. It was essentially a nuisance theft, the net advantage of which was a 40 dollar piece of plastic and anxiety on one side and the net detriment of which was 40 dollars, annoyance and an hour of searching the internet for a replacement (I haven't replaced it yet, mostly because having a hour to waste on my car is an unheard of luxury).

My big question is: Why my car? I have easily the most trashed, run down, battered car in a five block radius. I do not attempt to hide and guard my car, there is no alarm system, mostly because the only things in it are empty vitamin water bottles and old industrial CDs. I think the thief would have had a more profitable time pulling the freely exposed headlight wires out. They could have reached down under the fender, which is a shredded mess, and pulled about four feet of wire out if they displayed any patience whatsoever. I say this not to encourage wire theft but to highlight the true raggedy dilapidated condition of my car.

There are some nice cars on my block. There are some average looking cars on my block. My car is below any standard to which one could reasonably hold an American car. I expect thieves to think like businessmen. Robbing my car was not worth the time it took to enter and exit. Moreover, I am clearly broke. Very clearly broke. No one displays their financial insolvency through car disrepair more clearly than I.

Perhaps I am holding criminals to an unreasonable standard of contemplation and awareness, but for all that is good and holy, could you please go rob some rich people?! Someone who might actually be a cause of your thieving condition, maybe? Someone who hordes their wealth instead of hiring new workers, or buys their spoiled children 500 dollar lego sets from China instead of giving to charity.

Wouldn't it be nice to not only rob something worth pawning, but also offend some easily offended people? At the very least, I expect you to try to act with class consciousness. You and I = similar class. You and man with five bedroom house with the columns and the pool = not similar class. Now, of course, I'd like you to get your money from this person in an honest way. Possibly by working for them in some capacity. Absent that, if you are going to be a thief, could you try to not fuck over the already fucked?

I'm not asking you to make a charitable exception to me or to other economically marginal people. There is something in it for you. Namely something worth stealing. And a sense that you haven't mired the lower classes in an endless spiral of crime, suffering and financial instability.