My name is Trixie (aka TastyTrixie). The Wandering WebWhore is my personal blog. I'm a 30-something indie pornographer whose journal covers a variety of topics: mundane daily life, work-related reflection, sex stuff, current events, and more.
I remember working swing shift as one of the very best times in my life. I'd get off work between midnight and two in the morning and drive home in the dark experiencing the magic of RIGHTNESS, of everything having fallen into place and a lifelong problem being solved. That schedule didn't make everything perfect, of course, but it was a magical gift that explained part of my life and who I am to me and let me know that things CAN fall into place. It's one thing to complain vociferously about not being a morning person and another thing to be lucky enough to NOT HAVE TO BE. To experience yourself operating at maximum efficiency and enjoy your favorite parts of the day and night, skipping the parts that have never worked for you. To function so much better that you've got PROOF that this "night person" thing is real.
I'm at a point in my life where I need a new swing shift. My gears have been out of sync for years now and I keep looking for some little twinkly adjustment I can make that will fix things. I've given myself a bunch of tuneups and they've been eye-opening and helpful, but I'm desperate to feel something like the smooth, peaceful rightness of driving home on a nearly-empty freeway with the windows rolled down in the summer, smelling everything asleep and reveling in being awake, ready to go home and make a simple dinner for myself. The answer isn't making myself work from four to midnight now, either - I don't live alone anymore and I don't want to; I want to go to bed WITH Delia (not a night person, so we compromise). I feel like I've tried everything and suspect the answer is that I need more time to be completely alone with myself, without the sounds of anybody else, without being seen or heard by anyone watching . . . just totally removed from everybody's sounds and presence.
Last week I allowed myself the luxury of staying up all night long playing with TrixieRadio - listening to music, downloading new stuff and uploading it to the station . . . amusing myself and accomplishing something that has no monetary pay-off in the near future and is absolutely NOT what I should be spending huge blocks of time doing. But I miss listening to music. REALLY MISS IT. I am not someone who can work AND listen to music with words, so it's not an option for me to multitask. Besides, I don't want to. I want to do nothing but listen. NOTHING BUT. So I did, all night long, and organized my .mp3's and made lists of cd's I still need to rip and read about music and made a blog entry begging for money to justify doing it more. Being up all night doing that made me feel a little more like myself. And I finally bought an adaptor that provides phantom power for my months-old new microphone so I can personalize things more and potentially make more sales through the "radio" thing and podcasting. If I can figure out the perfect settings for recording with this microphone (one of those detail-oriented time-sucking tasks that annoys the shit out of me that I usually invest a couple of hours in then decide it's not worth it / I should wait for a better time to do it / I have more important things to do).
I've been retreating a lot more into our guest room, off cam and alone, which has been helpful but maybe I'm still not committed enough to it to really reap the benefits of it. I feel guilty about it and still can't get enough. I haven't figured out how to integrate my need for solitude with work and my relationship with Delia. She's really tolerant and understanding of my limitations in this area so it's me that needs to work out the kinks alone along with continuing to figure out how to succeed at being my own boss. You'd think after seven years I'd be an expert, but I'm still an amateur (both at working for myself and being in a relationship). A lot of things have changed for the better in the past year but I'm still struggling to find daily "rightness". I get glimmers of it, but very inconsistently; for everything I resolve to do better, something else falls by the wayside. It's like there's a never-ending rotation of things I do well and things I fuck up -- every day, every week, every month, every quarter, every year the same fucking challenges just trade places with each other. I make progress but only temporarily before regressing. I feel like I haven't CONQUERED anything in years and I'm pretty fucking sick of it. I try to be patient with myself, recognizing I've had some really fucked-up health problems and am still fine-tuning "curing" myself. Recognizing the economy sucks so it's not entirely my fault that we're on this debt merry-go-round.
The shitty thing is that having a positive attitude means feeling empowered and taking responsibility to fix stuff -- believing it's POSSIBLE to make things better; I'm just really really REALLY tired of the burden. Sometimes I just wish I could drive home and let my boss figure it out in the morning and tell me what to do when I go to work and know that it's not my fault if that was the wrong thing. Part of me loves how I've complicated my life and that I *don't* have a boss, but JESUS FUCKING CHRIST sometimes I miss having things be simple. I miss having someone else to blame. I miss not really caring about my job. That used to make me feel trapped, having to go to work for a certain number of hours and not doing anything even remotely creative. Now? I feel trapped because I *do* care about my job(s). Because it's rare that I get to establish a rhythm doing something simple for 6-8 hours. I can't quit because I love my work, but I have no idea when (if ever) I'll be able to do my job BETTER and not just feel like I'm running on a treadmill. A treadmill that lurches and changes speeds unpredictably and is just like . . . possessed with multiple personalities. There's no water-cooler where I can stand around bitching about my boss and how if I ran things I'd do them differently/better. I mean, I can do that, but it's not really good for my self-esteem. I am my own worst boss/enemy and I'm so. TIRED of it.
I keep slogging along, promising myself that if we just get rid of our debt we'll be able to AFFORD to establish some rhythms and magic swing shifts but right now we seriously do not have the money to do anything efficiently. Not shooting, not marketing, not exercising . . . not even fucking GROCERY shopping. Every day is a schizo fucking mess and I'm just so sleeeeeeeeeeeeeepy. Not as bad as I was before, but still . . . some days are pretty bad while I'm fine tuning different birth control pills, supplements, figuring out just how much fucking with my blood sugar I can get away with, etc.
Fuck it. I am going to order a pizza.
Sorry for the downer of a post. Things are good, I just needed to whine a little bit.
Every chance I got to go to the library and request that they set my friend and I up to listen to this, I WOULD. I remember it as an audio tape with a little paperback book hung in one of those baggies with plastic handles they had for mixed media, but now that my memory is jogged by this youtube video I wonder if it wasn't a filmstrip because everything about this seems so familiar, but it's probably just the narration and images, not the motion:
Anyway, I loved it. Couldn't get enough of it and listened to it OVER and OVER again. I've always loved stories that take place at night, were dark, involved sleeping, criminals, loners, outsiders . . . dark escapism that's sweetly menacing. It's weird to look back on it now and see more adult elements in it and to read this New York Times review of the book and the author and the challenge of creating both art for children and erotica for adults. I'm glad I was exposed to The Three Robbers in the seventies in public school because I'll bet that book would never see the light of day without a public lynching of the guy if it were to come out today. Nowadays you must either be 100% child-and-work-safe or resign yourself to being considered a 100% evil boundary-rapist. Take your pick. The only way people can fly under the radar is to be unsuccessful or too artistic for the general population to acknowledge you, and I'm sure this reissue of his out-of-print books is one of those things that will only be noticed by existing fans like myself.
I wish I had a magical blunderbuss to blow that bullshit right out of people's assheads. But for now I'm going to add The Three Robbers to my wishlist so I can read it to my nephew(s -- another's on the way). WITH SOUND EFFECTS!
We woke up early to watch the Inauguration yesterday; I turned the television on as fast as I could and pretty much started crying immediately. I'm a sucker in general for ritualized ceremonies, but a lot of things made it extremely emotional for me. There's all the obvious stuff of watching a momentous, proud, hopeful, inspiring piece of history, but other stuff, too. Like remembering watching Reagan's Inauguration with my grandpa when I was a little girl. Like seeing two little girls who love their dad and thinking of my own dad and my sister and I when we were their ages. Seeing the former presidents and vice presidents and first ladies from my lifetime walking (or hobbling) in or not being there at all (like my dad and my grandpa) was like looking at a timeline with my own lifespan clearly marked on it. It's not a long line, even if I'm lucky and only a third of the way through it. I didn't think of it this way on a conscious level until hours later and realize that part of what I cried about was my own mortality.
Then I had a doctor appointment. That made me feel even more like a rusting machine getting ready to be dismissed from operation. It wasn't a good experience and by the end of last night with money stress, the emotions of the morning, sleep deprivation and all of the symptoms I went to the doctor for in the first place, I was really ready for a good night's sleep and too wound up to jump right into it.
Check out my Inauguration Day tweets if you want some more of my reactions to yesterday. Apparently I'm the only person who loved the poem. Other people thought it was robotic -- not a word I'd have chosen to describe it, but even if it was I totally love robots so maybe that's why I liked it. At first I thought her delivery was too contrived, but a few lines into it I just heard the words/saw the moments she captured and thought it was fucking brilliant and spot-on. I burst into tears when she said the last nine words of this chunk:
Say it plain, that many have died for this day. Sing the names of the dead who brought us here, who laid the train tracks, raised the bridges, picked the cotton and the lettuce, built brick by brick the glittering edifices they would then keep clean and work inside of.
I complained yesterday about not hearing anyone comment on the poem (and felt totally annoyed seeing people walking away from the ceremony before she even started; these must be the same assholes who go to watch fireworks displays but leave before the finale because they want to "beat the traffic" but maybe I'm being unkind and they all just have small bladders and/or diarrhea) but now I'm glad I didn't hear any chatter about it on CNN or online (I know it's out there, I just haven't looked for it or read it). I don't know anything about poetry, but I do know I love Walt Whitman and I do know he loved Lincoln and I do recognize nods to Whitman in yesterday's poem and that all of that fits into the deliciously morbid Lincoln-channeling going on with Obama being the first to use the Lincoln bible and doing all of those other following-in-Lincoln's-footsteps black-cat-crossing things.
We spent most of today shopping since we had to make the journey to suburbia for Delia's laser hair removal appointment. It was so much fun hearing people, especially kids, talking about Obama (kid pointing at books & magazines: "look, Mom! It's Barack Obama!"). I hate that I can't shake the feeling of impending doom, though. I know other people have to be feeling it, too. Still, everything's shimmery and sparkly right now . . . very storybook-like (even with the oath do-over). Watching the ceremony yesterday I did halfway feel like I was watching a pre-pre-pre-prequel to Star Trek Next Gen. Like everything good could really come true someday and all of the buildings and monuments were bad backdrop paintings of futuristic architecture.
I don't regularly fantasize about the White House as a super-glamorous place and never have felt like the people living there were royalty the way people felt about the Kennedy years. It's kind of exciting to experience that now; I can't help it, thinking about those girls moving in there and having slumber parties. I'm totally sucked into it. The allure of a lot of chick things (weddings) escapes me but stories involving orphans, boarding school, or preteen girls spending the night in museums or moving into the White House are always going to capture my imagination. It's almost as good as eating buckets of mashed potatoes and gravy, imagining Sasha and Malia safe and happy, the most famous little girls in the world ensconced in THE WHITE HOUSE with closets full of pink clothes and barbies and books and halls to run in and a prissy nanny who tells them stories and feeds them cucumber sandwiches.
I've got some Obama-themed pictures to post from my latest members-only gallery but haven't had a chance to make promos so it'll have to wait. In the meantime you can check out Delia's samples if you're not a member.
Another sad thought I had yesterday was for our friend whose mom just died. I imagined him and AmberLily dealing with their loss and this Inauguration going on at the same time. How weird it would be to feel like everyone in the world is paying attention to this ceremony while they're distanced from it by having a huge personal transition and ceremonies of their own to attend to. When big events coincide with personal crises it can be so isolating and bizarre. I haven't wanted to call them, but I'm definitely thinking of them and hoping for the best for them.
I started taking piano lessons when I was about nine years old. My teacher, Joan, didn't believe in using metronomes and always had long, fancy nails even though pianists aren't supposed to. At some point during the first year of lessons, she told me that music is really all about MATH.
No math = no music. A huge revelation for me as a kid. It's a big truth that's never left me. At first my feelings about it were a little conflicted; it was sort of stressful ("I'm so bad at fractions!"), but realizing that math is the foundation of music (or at least one doorway into building and understanding it) never sucked the romance or beauty out of it. It never made it dry to me. It can be invisible enough that you don't actually NEED to know it or think about it for it to be in there. That lesson primed me to notice as years went by that math and science are built into nature and art and our insides. That the basics of them are intuitive, like rhythm, but the more you know about the math and science of something, the better your music or art or appreciation of those things can be.
Knowing that art is really science has been a solace to me -- art isn't reserved only for a few people who are divinely inspired. It can be orderly: accessed and created systematically. With simple formulas. With a wide variety of tools mixed with individual perspective, personality and tastes to make it seem unique and magical, disguising the numbers in the craft of it.
I shot a set of pictures of Delia wearing some hot Hello Kitty shorts on Friday night and the photos are all jacked up. I'm a long way from understanding the science of photography; I *like* numbers, but they don't stick in my head very well so even though I've read about how cameras work and how OUR camera works I still don't have it committed to memory or know how to manipulate light and settings quickly to achieve what I want. I have to just walk around and fiddle with things until I mostly-accidentally happen onto something lovely. Most of the good pictures I take are the product of luck and shooting A LOT without fully comprehending what I'm doing. I recognize what looks good and beautiful and erotic to me (or at least halfway decent) and what looks bad to me and have a few basic practices for making the former (especially in the "halfway decent" category) and avoiding the latter, but my technical skills are pretty basic.
All of the pics looked dark to me so I bumped the ISO up to 1000 or 2500, I forget now (hence the graininess) and the speed down to 25 or 30 -- they still looked dark for some reason; I was letting the camera auto-focus (selecting the area to focus on myself with these little movable box thingies; I forget what Nikon calls that function but it didn't seem to be working well on this particular night) and adjust the aperture itself until I decided to do a closeup and switched everything to manual (because it balks when we ask it to autofocus macros); suddenly everything was WAY TOO BRIGHT and I had to change the shutter speed. The only thing I can think of is that the camera wasn't doing a good job of automatically adjusting the aperture and when I switched to manual and adjusted it myself then everything changed. It sucked because we wanted these pics to be bright.
The older I get, the more I see that MOST working artists -- writers, photographers, graphic designers, sculptors, painters, musicians, etc. -- are just people who've chosen to do that kind of work. That the only thing that sets them apart from the rest of us is the amount of time they put into their art and confidence they have in devoting themselves to it without worrying whether or not a jury of peers think they deserve to make money on it. Very few artists are people who actually possess something innate that the rest of us don't have; most of it is taking the time to learn and apply information that's available to everyone (or anyone with the resources to do a little research) and then investing money in the right tools and lots of time in practicing. Sometimes I think the most successful artists are the ones who are actually LESS gifted and too stupid/overconfident to recognize that there are other people (usually making zero dollars on their art) who are WAY more talented. Maybe the only way to be a successful "artist" is to NOT be great -- to not complicate shit with too much vision, originality, or diverse techniques and just work from simple formulas to make things that are easily recognizable and accessible to the masses. See also Adaptation. If your work brings other people pleasure does it really NEED to be super duper excellent?
The older I get, the happier I am with shooting for mediocrity. Even mediocrity requires a lot of hard work (for me, at least). Mediocrity is attainable without being a given; you can stand out and make a decent living in a field simply by being one of the relative few to 1) choose that field, 2) commit to it for a number of years, and 3) make yourself known. All the better if you're willing to take emotional and financial risks and make sacrifices for your work/"art". The happier you are with mediocrity the wider your success. I've slowly shifted my focus of "pride" away from "talent" and pinned it on "work"; you can't be proud of having good taste or being born with certain attributes making you better suited than most to doing one job or another. Those are only things you can be THANKFUL for. The things you can actually be PROUD of are hard work, dedication and defying convention to choose happiness. To call yourself an artist as soon as you choose to be one -- to make it your job -- rather than waiting until you imagine other people think you are good enough to deserve that label. Those are the people I admire more and more, the ones who are brave & devoted enough to create some form of art (even if it's just fair to middlin') and are savvy enough to make it a business.
I used to think having to work hard at something or take a lot of time to make something acceptable was something to be ashamed and embarrassed of. If it wasn't easy it meant I wasn't good at it. Now I realize that's total bullshit (even if I still FEEL that way sometimes). The strategic choices and commitments you make to invest work in things that make you happy, better, more skilled, or even just capable of seeing you should make a different choice (I've always believed that quitting is something to be proud of; that whole "quitters never win" line is such a crock of shit). The time you spend allowing yourself to suck ass -- IMMERSING yourself in sucking ass and slowly filling in the void of your ignorance with knowledge -- just so you can become mediocre at something you love and then keep working to try to improve upon that. Beyond mediocrity there are so few people who are actually able to recognize the difference between mediocrity and greatness, there's no reason to beat yourself up if you're not capable of becoming that elite.
Being a "jack of all trades, master of none" ROCKS. It's fun, it's challenging, and I don't love any one thing enough to give up all the other stuff. So I really have to be satisfied with mediocrity, slow progress, and making balanced choices to devoting little bits of time here and there to different things I love. Like making flash cards to learn photography stuff. You're never too old for flash cards. I'm not, anyway.
I am mediocre at so many things, and have managed to balance (with great mediocrity) such a gigantic shitload of different kinds of work that I deserve to be quite proud of myself and my extraordinary mediocrity. I feel so blessed to be in a position to dabble so widely. Lucky lucky lucky, and proud of myself for creating a notable percentage that luck by my choices. For recognizing my luck and exploiting it to the best of my limited ability.
Some of us are able to do our work just because we're lucky enough to have the resources to buy tools, to live in an environment filled with inspiration and/or to be close to people who make beautiful subjects and do most of the art/work for you.
I love arranging forkfuls of food. Ones where I have the perfect ratio of one thing to the other(s). Mashed potatoes to gravy to meat. Raisins to flakes. Heavens to Betsy. It doesn't have to be fancy, the formula just has to be right. Everything pleasingly arranged in relation to each other. I will never be a good cook because I don't want to practice how to be; that's Delia's thing. It's my job just to love eating, every day, tasting and swallowing over and over and saying thank you, honey.. And to figure out how to arrange camera settings like food on a fork, adjusting hole-sizes, timing mechanisms, and digitally tweaking things in perfect relation to the kind of light shining on my girlfriend.
These pictures of me in a blonde wig outside in the snow with a blue sky turned out almost exactly how I wanted them to be:
I'll be posting the full gallery of over one hundred pics for our members next week.
Tonight it's my turn to be the photographer shooting a Christmas gallery and video of Delia. We're off to a late start due to the severe winter storm warning we're under here in western Washington; it just started snowing again and is supposed to keep going for the next five days. In our town we're being hit by stuff coming in from the west AND the south, so it might get really windy. Don't be surprised if our voyeur cams go down and you don't hear from us for a time -- it will just mean we lost one or both of our internet connections and/or power.
The streets are already coated with ice so Delia made sure we went to the store to stock up on everything we'll need if we can't get out for a week. Of course we'll still be able to walk, but I got a blister on the bottom of my foot a couple of days ago when we had to go downtown and thought it safer to walk than drive; my Payless snow boots are cheap and don't fit me well so I don't want to have to trudge for miles to lug home heavy groceries.
We're staying home alone for Christmas; I'll miss seeing our nephew, but I think it's better for us and our whole family if we're not on the road. Actually, I'm really missing Delia's family right now; I love spending Christmas at her parent's house. It's the only place I've been in the past six years where I don't feel compelled to work. I plow through books, I masturbate in bed, we come down with colds and flu, and somehow it's just a huge, relaxing vacation (for me, at least -- unfortunately, Delia isn't as aroused by our bedroom being located right next door to her parents as I am).
This is a long-ass entry. I already cut out a lot and saved it for future entries, but I was still left with all of this, so be forewarned; it's not a quick read:
When we started letting friends know that Delia identifies as a woman and decided to transition from presenting as a man to living as a woman, one of the first questions was from a friend who sent this to me:
So now the million $ question: Do you think of yourself as a lesbian?
The short answer? No. I do not think of myself as a lesbian. I never have and I never will.
Sorry to disappoint folks who were looking for a juicy DELIA: MY TRANSSEXUAL GIRLFRIEND AND HOW OUR LIVES ARE NOW A CRAZY LESBIAN FUCK-PARTY! entry, but her transition doesn't change my sexual orientation, nor does it change hers. I didn't grow up feeling "different" (not because of my sexual preferences, anyway; I felt different in other ways, but those are different subjects). I have always been hot for men, starting with Elvis, little boys in the neighborhood, and hot ethnic dudes from seventies television like Erik Estrada on Chips (wheeee tight black gloves!), Chico (see Chico and the Man), and Epstein on Welcome Back Kotter. Real LESBIANS do not grow up feeling "hot for dudes". Seriously, just looking at those images makes me hot in a special way reserved for triggers set early in girlhood. Of course, I'm rather partial to men's mouths when they look suspiciously like hot pussy: full, juicy, blood-infused lips decorated with hair (see also, Isaac on Love Boat: that kind of mustache always gives me a big fucking clit boner). And I can't deny that I had a very special, tingly interest in Jo/Nancy McKeon on Facts of Life. And Blair. And titties. And naked girls in magazines. Yes, the "Jo" archetype has been in many of my lesbo masturbation fantasies, only the setting is less boarding school and more prison.
So what IS my sexual preference? For most of my adult life I've been in the "it's all good" category; I identify myself as omnisexual (aka pansexual). I'm what most people call "bisexual", but have never liked that label: first, because I objected to wearing a special designation that seems to say I'm "different" from the majority of people (when I emphatically believe MOST people are just plain SEXUAL), and later because it assumes we only have two options to choose from. In a pinch, though, I will call myself bisexual because it's the most efficient, accurate way for me to identify my sexuality to lots of people who aren't familiar with all of these nuances and super-cool labels. Whenever time allows and it's possible (during conversations or chat sessions rather than check-marking boxes on forms that never have enough options) I do try to remind people there are alternatives to the limited, oversimplified notions of sexuality and gender most of us were raised to accept.
The first time my sexual preference was called into question was in elementary school in the seventies. My friend, Irene, and I had been playing our special game of "Elvis" with each other since we were four or five and continued through fifth or sixth grade. One night at her house after we got done humping each other, she was overcome with guilt and teared up, confronting me with the weirdest question I'd ever heard in my life:
"Trixie . . . you know we're gay, don't you?"
Ummmmm . . . actually, no. No I did not know that. And I told her so.
Let me clarify; I didn't tell her that I wasn't aware we were gay, as in "wow, Irene! So *that's* what we are! Because I've really been wondering; thanks for clearing that up!". I told her we WERE NOT gay. Even with my very limited idea of what "gay" meant, I knew I wasn't. I knew what we were doing was normal even though I knew it wasn't something we were supposed to tell everybody about. I looked forward to doing it, it was fun, and hey, we were playing Elvis, right? Elvis was a guy that all women wanted to do it with, so how could that be gay?
She reminded me that the big girls at school had called us gay when they saw us holding hands with each other in the hallway and I tried to reassure her that they were just mean. There's nothing WRONG with friends holding hands! I knew intuitively that we were basically just little girls (fourth grade, I think) who loved each other in a way that couldn't possibly be that weird. Again, I wouldn't have wanted the big girls with the feathered hair to SEE us humping each other, but that was none of their business. Their world wasn't my world -- those girls were people to be avoided or stared at because they were pretty but they were in no position to know who we were or call us grown-up names. Also, they were stupid -- the kinds of girls who would never win a spelling bee (they're actually dead now and the little know-it-all in me attributes their early deaths to their own stupidity, but it was really much sadder than being dumb and I didn't know them well enough to gauge that anyway; one of them actually wound up with her severed head stuck up high in a tree, but I digress).
In fact, Irene was pretty stupid too. I think I believed that if it had never occurred to me to worry about this "gay" thing myself, it couldn't possibly be something to concern ourselves with. I was the smart one who tried to spend all of her recesses in the library reading dirty books, so it felt natural to conclude that Irene was just wrong and had a stupid thought in her head. I'd already seen her make a million stupid tear-stained mistakes in our short lives, like the time she wanted to steal candy in the drugstore WHILE WE WERE WITH HER MOM after the guy at the dry goods store failed to bestow his customary free suckers on us. She tried to convince me to steal, then as soon as we were out the door she broke down crying and confessed to her mom. Whaaaaaaaaat a dumb ass! Seriously, I couldn't believe the way she operated sometimes.
I'm only now considering the possibility that maybe I was wrong. Not about my own regular brand of opportunistic sexuality, but about hers. After all, SHE always insisted on being Elvis while I was always in the Ann-Margret role ("woman" astride, though). I never really challenged her too much on that because the action itself along with the thought of Elvis was fulfilling enough for me. I guess I just thought she LOOKED a lot like Elvis (not in a butch way, she just has the same exact mouth as him) so it made sense at the time. As an adult I *have* wondered where she got some of her ideas; we were about five when she told me that "Elvis always pees on his girlfriends." which now does seem like an advanced concept for one so young; one secret (of perhaps many) Irene DID manage to keep from her mom was how the Bugs Bunny beach towel got completely soaked with piss.
I wonder if Irene knew she was gay all along and I totally dismissed what she might have realized from the beginning. She went on to do all the things straight girls did in rural high schools in the late eighties: drinking, fucking and frosting her hair. Now she's married with kids. I even went to her wedding chock full of those sick Bible verses about the husband submitting to God and the wife submitting to her husband, followed by a reception full of their wasted relatives raging about that dirty fucking Bill Clinton and how he should be impeached . . . or shot! I still love Irene and hope to Christ she's NOT gay and stuck in a straight marriage with me being the only pussy she ever got. That would be tragic. I'm pretty sure I called it right back in elementary school, though, and that she just let what those mean girls said bother her. Sex play with same-sex childhood friends, even if it continues into your teens, is not a good predictor of sexual preference just like GENDER is not a good predictor of sexual preference.
I know I didn't have enough information to really understand what Irene was worried about back then; we grew up with no internet, no same-sex kissing on tv, no real discussion of any of those things. I'd never been exposed to people being called names like "faggot", but of course I realized and accepted that grown-ups "did it" in male/female pairs even if I had no awareness of a group of grown-up people who did it (and were discriminated against for doing it) the same way Irene and I did. I don't know if I'd ever heard my parents talk about gay people and if we knew any, I wasn't aware of it. I totally thought Billy Crystal was cute/sexy on "Soap" and didn't understand ANYTHING about the show other than that I liked watching him. I didn't know he was playing one of the first openly gay characters on television - I had no conscious understanding of that.
In kindergarten there was one kid who was clearly DIFFERENT, but I just thought he was obnoxious and then he moved to another school so I didn't find out until many years later that he was gay; The memory of how he stood out is still so vivid to me, his shiny orange hair contrasted with his green turtleneck, his flair for the dramatic, his isolation . . . he was SO gay from the very beginning. As a teenager I remember when Donahue had some lesbians on his show and they explained that when most girls played with their Barbie dolls, Barbie and Ken wound up getting it on, but they were different because when THEY played Barbies, it was Skipper and Barbie who always wound up pressed against each other. Even with all the humping Irene and I did on each other, it never dawned on me to use Skipper like that when there was a KEN doll around.
It's things like that -- people being obviously queer and having to deal with identifying and coping with that difference their entire childhood -- that make me adamantly opposed to ever calling myself a lesbian. Spending the rest of my life with someone who identifies as a woman -- who I fell in love with because she was NOT exactly a man -- will not make me a lesbian, and it's not because she's trans; I would say the same thing if she were born with a pussy. I will not call myself a lesbian because, aside from not being one, "lesbian" is a political word representing a minority with a set of experiences that I never had -- never could have -- because I have always felt myself part of the majority when it comes to the genders of people I like to have sex with.
Having said that, when I was in college I *did* come out to my friends and family as bisexual. I know, it sounds like no big thing today but things have changed a lot in the past fifteen years, you know? It wasn't super hard or anything, but it was important enough that I thought the people closest to me should know that I might bring a chick home someday. I'd been aware since I was seventeen that women turned me on even when they weren't pretending to be Elvis (did I already tell you about this orgasmic epiphany I had when I went to Girls' State? I feel like I did, but if so, I can't find where I posted it), but it took me awhile longer to even imagine having a "girlfriend". Of course, everyone in college thought I was a lesbian anyway. Everyone EXCEPT for the handful of lesbians, so let's just say college was one big dry spell for me.
Even though I consider myself omnisexual or pansexual, I can't say that I'm AS sexually attracted to women as to men, and up until recently I had almost no concept of the spectrum of transgender beyond cross-dressers or a remote acknowledgment of "bizarre medical cases" totally far removed from my reality so my fantasy life hasn't included trans people (except crossdressers). Transgender is something I've been ignorant and unaware of most of my life, so I definitely can't say that I'm equally attracted to trans people as to bio men who present as men (most of the time, anyway). I did really love watching Bosom Buddies, of course, and found the guys way hotter when they were dressed up than when they were just boring dudes, but I think I always wanted them to ONLY be wearing the glossy lipstick and some girl clothes WITHOUT the wigs and the earrings. And for the both of them to be fucking Donna Dixon while they were in half-drag.
So yeah . . . my preference is more on the straight side of the continuum; I have a primal response to Elvis, Ponch, Chico, and Epstein that's more intensely sexual than the one I have to Jo, Ginger (Gilligan's Island) and Salma Hayak. Lately most of the time when I fantasize about fucking someone new, it's guys or FTM people. That's a shift from before Delia and I got together when I spent more time fantasizing about women than I do now. Why do I think more about hooking up with men or transmen these days? PROBABLY BECAUSE I'VE BEEN FUCKING A TRANSWOMAN FOR SIX YEARS. And back when I spent time longing for women, I was mostly fucking guys.
Even though I'm not a lesbian, I don't think of myself as straight, either. In fact, my feathers were ruffled recently at a GLBT meeting when someone referred to Delia and I as a straight couple. Yes, I have grown up enjoying and feeling entitled to the privileges straight people have in our society, but we are not a straight couple. I'm not straight, she's not straight, our relationship is not straight, and our jobs are not straight. We are not a straight couple. I don't want to be called a lesbian couple (I was totally confused when I heard a transwoman referring to her work with her female partner as "lesbian porn") but not being lesbian doesn't automatically make us straight.
Still, it was pretty wacky last year when we went to a GLBT event right after Delia decided to transition and I felt like an intruder, not because anyone treated me like one, but because I kind of AM an intruder. I know that the "B" in GLBT stands for me and I know that I just said I'm not straight, but the room was small and I felt like I was taking up space someone else might have NEEDED and DESERVED more than I did. As a woman, I feel really strongly that people in minority groups have protected spaces with good energy from people who GET what it's like to be where they're at and where they've been. Like I said before, I didn't grow up feeling "different" (I don't FEEL like bisexuality is a minor preference, even though I know that the political reality is that it's not accepted when it's anything more than two girls dabbling but running straight home to the cock after they "experiment" and "get it out of their systems") so it was weird to be in that room and for the first time automatically qualify on what felt like a technicality -- because my partner's trans. At the time I wasn't sure I had anything to offer or anything I could rightfully gain from throwing myself into the GLBT mix.
Or maybe it was just a wake-up call, that I don't have an excuse to avoid standing in the middle of a group of people that's openly hated, persecuted, and targeted for special kinds of violence reserved especially for special kinds of people. I know what that feels like as a woman, a pornographer, a nerd, and a sex worker, but I exempted myself from feeling it about my sexual preference, or, more accurately my LACK of a strong preference. I could advocate and empathize -- and stand safely out of harm's way. Not anymore.
It gets tiring, too, standing in another group where I feel like a liar because my profile is different and has a bunch of things in it that I know many people would reject if only they know. Like when I go to church and feel like a liar because I don't believe in their church God on an intellectual level the way almost everyone else does who likes going to church. Or when I identify myself as a feminist to women who I *know* plot ways to get rid of the scourge of pornography. When the GLBT group of people sees me out and about with someone who sometimes looks like a boy and uses a boy name, I worry that they'll think I'm a liar even though I never SAID I was a lesbian. I still cringe imagining those people and people at church and feminists all turning to look at me, aghast when they realize how I betrayed them just by walking in their midst, pretending to be one of them. A man-fucker, an atheist with a weakness for ritual and the mystical, an exploiter of women and a user of cunt, a democrat who wants to drown herself in money.
It seems like such a simple question, "are you a lesbian". But like everything else that's attached to someone or something I love, I feel like I need to explain how much more complex it is than yes or no. That if I don't explain, I'll be guilty of some deception.
Just for fun, I'm imagining being offered the chance to pick someone new to be intimate with every week for a year out of everyone in the world. When I think of it that way, men and women would probably come out pretty even with some transgender competition thrown into the mix. I don't know if that means I don't really lean as far towards the straight side as I thought, or if that's just a typical buffet mentality speaking where you pile a lot of different things on your plate that you might not have ordered if you could only pick three or four of them. I'm a sucker for a buffet, though. A good (or even a mediocre) buffet is my idea of heaven. Damn, I'm hungry.
Earlier today I wasn't sure how much power this victory would have over me. I was sure I'd be relieved, but to feel THIS GOOD . . . I had no idea. I feel like we've been given a huge gift. I do feel like a huge weight has been lifted and I'm bathing myself clean in tears of joy and hope. It's so cheesy, but I feel psychically, spiritually renewed. I loved McCain's speech, loved seeing how deeply affected so many people are by this win, and loved listening with everyone else to a president elect who leads on so MANY levels.
I know not everybody feels this connected to each other and so reassured that there are truly good, morally and ethically upright people ready to step up and lead our country. You can read this and laugh, but there are a whole bunch of others of us who feel transformed by this and are looking forward to positive forward movement in an atmosphere of greater love, respect and empowerment.
I feel changed. Our country is changed.
My mom is coming over tomorrow and maybe my sister and nephew, too. This week I am getting many of my wishes granted.
I don't know why I assumed my dad would be buried with his Masonic ring since I knew it was a family heirloom that had been passed down to him from his dad, so it was both a blessing AND a surprise when my aunt, mom and sister all agreed I should have it. Normally I keep it on my "altar" with other trinkets and items of greater and lesser power. Here it is (upside down; sorry):
I have no idea what the monetary value is of this ring (nothing extraordinary), but it was the fanciest piece of jewelry anyone had in my family and the only diamond I ever felt familiar with. It was ALWAYS present on my dad's hand and seemed imbued with secret, mystical powers.
It's totally against the rules for me to wear it since I'm not a Mason and not a man, but sometimes I do it anyway to have my dad present. I wore it on a chain to my sister's wedding, and sometimes I wear it on my finger when I want to have him near me. I've put it on at times when I needed to be reminded of the depth of his values, patience, kindness and boundless love for others. His vehement opposition to hatred and distaste for petty anger, mean-spirited criticism and silly conflicts. When I need a reminder to be a better person and my dad isn't here to do it for me, I put on his ring. I should do it more often.
I wear it pointed at me so I can look at it the way I saw it on his finger, pointed out because he was a past Master. I'm wearing it today because I know how excited and happy he would have been to vote for Obama. I know how he would celebrate the progress being made and be proud to be part of these positive steps forward in history. One of the things that bothered my dad about Masonry was the segregation (white lodges and black lodges) and the really ugly, racist history and associations a lot of Masonic groups and individuals have.
During my dad's life they'd at least gotten to the point where they recognized each other's lodges and visited each other, but it was still really . . . ummmm . . . old-fashioned. When my dad was still mobile he took to visiting a black lodge in Seattle regularly and petitioned for membership there -- the first white guy to do that (how welcome that idea was to the Prince Hall Masons I don't know; if they were opposed to it my dad was totally oblivious to that). It was our state's white Masons, though, who made up some bullshit to block him having a dual membership (I can't remember the details and only happened upon them when I was going through his papers; if I remember correctly they lied and said he wasn't a member in good standing with the state; of course there may have been a lot more to it behind the scenes that I don't know about). My dad just contented himself with his honorary membership and waved off my protestations as stupid politics when I asked him "what the fuck??"
My dad is the one I went with the first time I voted for a president. We were SO excited about Clinton and I was SO young and optimistic I really felt hope in the marrow of my bones. I was positively WIGGY with optimism! Like a lot of people, I've naturally lost that feeling as I've gotten older and seen how even the good guys, when they're ALLOWED to do their jobs, aren't really all for progress and the last two presidential elections have been enough to seal me permanently in cynicism. I'm not even sure I will be able to feel anything more exciting than RELIEF if/when Obama wins. Not relief that everything or even most things will get better, but just a small assurance that I'm not living in a country dominated by the hopelessly brainwashed and criminally selfish. Relief that we can at least be proud of doing SOMETHING right.
I wish my dad could be here for this because his enthusiasm wouldn't be tempered by my black-spirited pessimism. I really wish my whole family were together for this and there would be hugs all around and crying and hysterical joy that we would always remember sharing together. Maybe we can get together on Inauguration Day. But today, tonight, and tomorrow I'm wearing my dad's ring and inviting him to be present when Delia and I celebrate here at home together. I hope.
Reading Rachel Kramer Bussel's piece contemplating how many partner makes you promiscuous I finally started work on something I've wanted to post for members for a long time: a numbered list of all the people I've fucked or had some sort of sex with.
There are so many layers I'd like to explore that I haven't finished it yet: why I feel compelled to maintain such lists, how I feel about the numbers (and the possibilities of adding to them), the different ways such a list may be fetishized, whether less data presented in very simple form is more erotic than more data presented in detail with complete sentences in story form or even captured on video or in pictures, how making indie porn and being with Delia since 2002 has effected the numbers, how my list may or may not be different from a man's, etc.
I also wanted to dig through some of my old photos to find images of some of the people on the list which led me into the frustrating chore of trying to recover corrupted data off of a cd I burned ages ago (most of our photos are backed up in numerous places with different kinds of storage, but not these images which have sentimental value to me now). None of the photos are pornographic and I own the rights to them since I took them, but of course I'm struggling with the ethical dilemma of whether or not to share some of these images (and if so, which ones and whether or not to blur parts of them) and all of the different ways I'm justifying doing it while still feeling like it's wrong. But wanting to anyway. For the record. Which is a huge compulsion for me, wanting everything to be recorded and saved for posterity. Which I feel is very RIGHT which is part of why I follow trains of thought and say offensive things, many times at my own expense and/or the expense of others, because it represents something interesting or is an example of something that fascinates me and is thought-provoking. I am one of those assholes who acts like ideas are more important than people and that gets nasty and squats on boundaries when the ideas I like are ABOUT people.
Anyway, for those of you who are members and have been looking forward to reading the list, I apologize for underestimating how long it would take for me to get it done. I could post it now, but not without some of the context and thought I want to put in it.
My random thoughts on/responses to Rachel's piece about promiscuity:
This is SO TRUE: "Your number of partners and how "special" the sex is are not necessarily related."
Not that I think sex has to be "special" for someone to deserve to have it and be exempt from moral judgment, but it IS a way of connecting with other people, yourself and even the divine and sacred (if you're into that). It's a basic human need. A core drive. Anyway, is every meal you have "special"? No, but you still need to eat and are programmed to do it at regular intervals.
It cracks me up when many of the people who are judgmental about sex are the same people who put really bad food in their bodies every day. Food that is unhealthy, that they aren't mindful or thankful of when they eat, that they waste, that was unethically and/or immorally produced. That's WAY worse than choosing to enjoy putting a stranger's cock in your mouth. Anyone who scarfs down corn syrup, meat, chemical-laden and genetically modified food is in NO position to judge a woman for what she puts in her vagina.
*What does promiscuous mean, anyway? To me, it just means having many partners in a short time span and that's a meaningless definition since "many partners" and "short time span" are so subjective. I think promiscuity can be very healthy and don't think there should be a value judgment attached to it though I recognize THERE IS.
*15 partners is not a lot, in my book. If you're not in a long-term monogamous relationship your entire adult life (and I don't think that is more morally right than NOT being in a monogamous relationship, I'm just acknowledging that most people consider them ideal, rightly or wrongly, and you have more opportunities to fuck) and you're only averaging one new sex partner a year then . . . that pretty much sucks ass for the average human and you're definitely NOT a "slut". Its healthy to have sex at least 1-3 times a week, and if you aren't in a relationship of course you will probably have multiple partners. The UNhealthy/wrong thing to do is get into or stay in a relationship just so you can have access to socially acceptable sex. Even if you're only hooking up with a new person to have sex once a month (which is pretty fucking DRY) you'd still have twelve new partners a year.
*I agree that the double standard does still exist and the pressure for women to not be openly promiscuous (and the response to those who are or are perceived to be) is FUCKED UP and has really scary repercussions. Namely that your worth decreases and ownership of yourself disappears the more people you fuck, making you a target for all sorts of abuse. I think its a representation of our (society's) feeling that women do not own themselves, or are only permitted to temporarily own themselves if certain conditions are met. People think that every time a woman's body is accessed by someone else that she's transferring some ownership of it, having part of her soul and dignity sucked out of her, and losing her ability to have "meaningful" relationships with other people (like her all-important future husband, the final titleholder!). Like she's becoming less human and more animal, "degrading" herself from personhood to a piece of meat, and we're told that once she "does that to herself" (fails to/refuses to meet the requirements to be human which are different for women than men and designed to make her fail because doing so would make her NOT human) it is OPEN SEASON ON HER ASS -- she asked for it. If she doesn't care about herself (and "caring for herself" actually means denying herself what she wants), why should anyone else?
It's uhhhh . . . pretty fucking crazy and yeah, I do totally believe that extreme misogyny is the foundation for all of the anti-slut sentiment (and the way most people use the word "slut").
*I don't think most people who are intimate with more than three people in their lives can actually remember who and exactly how many people they've screwed around with. Having kept track of it myself, I am positive that if I hadn't logged the information I would not remember most of the people on my list (especially since I can't easily recall a lot of the people that are on it, even with their names right there). I interact with far fewer people than most do, so if *I* can't remember people I've fucked, I'm sure people who are actually normal social creatures drop a lot of interaction, even if its sexual, from their quickly-recalled memories.
You have to be a bit of a freak of nature to know exactly how many people you've had sex with. On top of that, so many people don't qualify a lot of sexual behavior as "sex" (the whole "blowjobs don't count" thing, or "he only went down on me but we didn't actually have sex"). I just don't think you can trust most people's numbers, not only because they will lie about them on purpose but because they honestly don't remember everything or don't think of all kinds of sexual intimacy as "SEX".
We're home from our three night beach trek and had a lovely time, even if we didn't get to see the meteor shower because we had almost continuous grey skies.
I'm not complaining about the greyness -- it was super relaxing with the white noise of the ocean paired with the visual fog.
Here's what we did: drove, ate mostly junk food, WALKED AND WALKED AND WALKED (to the point where our poor old dog was even tired out), shot a few sets of nudey pics, shot photos recreationally, "swam" (more like played in the water like kids letting the waves crash into us) and had a blast last night at the campground roasting hot dogs and marshmallows.
Here's what I did not do: sleep well.
All in all it was splendid.
Now? I'm pretty tired, but excited to be blogging in bed with MY NEW LAPTOP! I'm going to have to get Zone Alarm (or some other security software: recs anyone?) before I take it places away from home, but I'm super happy to finally have a machine I can blog and write on that's not a dinosaur or hooked up to cams (though it does have the built-in cam I still need to add/subtract a lot of software and stuff to this machine before I log it in anywhere). Anyway, it's romantic to finally have a laptop that I can use the way other people use theirs. I doubt you'll see me haunting coffee shops on a regular basis, but I like knowing I *could* quickly pack up and do some work or even hold chat sessions elsewhere for a change of pace.
I love the smell of new electronic gadgetry. Mmmmmm . . .
When people make fun of The Golden Girls I always experience a wave of cognitive dissonance; they dismiss it as something "old" and irrelevantly feminine when I never did and WILL never perceive it that way at all. For me? The Golden Girls was a groundbreakingly progressive, hysterically funny, humanist show. Sitcom television at its very best next to a few others on my list: Laverne & Shirley, The Office, Married with Children and maybe a couple others. In terms of sitcoms having a major inspiring influence on me, The Golden Girls might actually be unparalleled (Laverne & Shirley would be a second, though).
I watched this show with my grandparents and at the time didn't even realize how dirty, biting and often macabre the jokes were. I watch this show NOW and am amazed by how edgy it STILL is. To me, a pornographer. Suicide Girls? NOT edgy. Sex and the City? Not really edgy. Golden Girls? YOU CAN'T TOUCH THEIR EDGINESS! You can always count on Rose for some naively delivered bestiality stories or to be fucking a midget or a dead guy. One of The Golden Girls fucks a new guy in every episode, but not in that hyperfocused SATC way.
I'm guessing people who mock The Golden Girls have never watched it. If so, the reasons they mock it are telling; it MUST be bad if it's about old people and ESPECIALLY bad if it's about old people who are WOMEN. I can't abide anyone who doesn't appreciate The Golden Girls or dismisses that show with a condescending chuckle. It's like a slap in the face from someone with really bad aim; it doesn't physically hurt, but it makes my blood boil.
When we went to see Sex and the City the movie we all discussed which girl we are or which one other people think we're most like. And you know what? I'D RATHER BE A FUCKING GOLDEN GIRL. And I don't mean that as a huge dis to SATC, I really mean The Golden Girls are my idols. I believe that show was more proactively feminist than anything on network television. EVER. When I grow up? I want to be a Golden Girl. I can barely think of a higher aspiration.
Connie Francis Sings the All Time International Hits
When I was little I used to play a particular Connie Francis album (like, an actual vinyl record; they had those when I was growing up) over and over again which I've not been able to find, nor can I found on cd most of the songs that were on it which BREAKS my heart. But OH, youtube, you have allowed me to hear these songs again:
"What Now, My Love? (ET MAINTENANT)
I wish I could find a picture of the album cover because I *worshiped* her (along with the "Whipped Cream and Other Delights" girl). Just one picture of Connie Francis, a column of majestic, sensual, unsmiling beauty.
Name one contemporary pop singer who holds a CANDLE to this woman! Oh my god. And her presentation: women are not admired anymore for being regal and occupying an ageless space that doesn't smack of jailbait.
Wait! The photo from the album is displayed in the 25th second of this one (wish it was in color like on the album; her dress was pink):
"And I Love Him"
The muted trumpet in here drives me MAD with its ballsy drama:
I desperately wish this guy posted all of the songs, because there are some great ones missing. Still, I'm so jazzed to hear that voice singing these songs again. I know I LEARNED things from listening to that album, from listening to her and looking at that photograph of her.
Oh dear, here's another one that EXCITED me:
Oooh, I found the picture even if it is undersized:
I'm in a funk right now, mostly owing to PMS. The weather has been a bit gloomy; even when it's sunny out there's a shadow of oppressive darkness hanging around. See how it's crushing our dog? Tiny purple weed flowers growing close to the ground. You don't even feel like stretching.
How about some movie-talk? We saw Iron Man. We went into it prepared for the bad aspects; it was a ridiculous blockbuster MOVIE-movie, and we needed that for the mindless entertainment factor. I loved the metal King Kong and the flying-against-the-fighter-jets scenes. It was nowhere near a V for Vendetta type of flick, but it's still special to see a big movie in the theater with a lefty storyline. One annoying detail sticks out in my mind above all others: armpits. Was it my imagination, or were his armpits shaved after supposed months in captivity? If so, gross. That's the epitome of a fucked-up dose of contemporary unreality.
I definitely think we should all thank our lucky stars Robert Downey Jr. got the title role instead of Cage or Cruise. He's been wank material for me since I was a teen watching Less Than Zero when James Spader made him get on his knees and suck some cock to pay for drugs. I so wish that scene was hardcore or even just a minute longer (since it wasn't I relied heavily upon the straight scenes for "inspiration"). I loved Secretary and all, but I'd really rather have seen a long redux of that interrupted BJ scene. Maybe this time it could have been Jake instead of Maggie joining RDJ to perform sweaty, tear-stained head on some large coked-up stallion. Robert, you STILL have the most lickable, greasy eyelids in film. And I will never forget the way you told us you were getting "chubby" in Shortcuts.
If you want a sense of what my days have been like lately, check here.
Last night we had sex almost purely for the fun and pleasure of it (rather than as an obligatory conception attempt). I rubbed some Skin Trip lotion all over my face and neck, then all over Delia's face and neck. It smelled like a hundred hot, tangled-up memories from the past eight years. We lit candles so the light had the same quality as the light in a million indistinguishable, pleasant past-times. I put on music from albums I've had since I was a teenager. I would say that it made me feel young again, but that's not quite accurate; I think it made me remember that I used to be younger than I am now. It was like visiting myselves from years past. It was sweet.
I was really excited about having my boobs touched through my t-shirt, excited about looking down at them stretching out the thin fabric, watching them being groped and jostled and making the material covering them crease, tighten, tense, release. Excited about having them pressed upwards and jiggled around. I was adamant about having them fondled up to and throughout my orgasm. In the moments before and during, I was thinking about touching this girl's nipples, imagining both having them as her and touching them as a him. I got off on it, guiltily, because that's the hottest way for me in my head.
I'm not surprised at all. I never felt like my town was safe, in fact I always felt LESS safe there than I have in any of the places I've lived since, including crime-riddled areas of Tacoma. I've no idea why people would imagine that a small town is somehow immune to this stuff, particularly when it's family-style stuff. Why would a girl's boyfriend be less likely to kill her whole family in a small town than in a big city? Somehow it seems MORE likely in a small town, but that's just my own personal feeling about it.
The weird part of it is that when I look at those pictures in the slideshow accompanying the article on the murders, I actually feel homesick. Not in the sense that I wish I still lived there, but sick with recognition and the knowledge that no other landscape or location will ever feel or look or smell like home to me the way that does. I look at those pictures and know "that is where I am FROM". My roots are literally two towns away from Twin Peaks.
It's not that I was afraid of being randomly murdered there, it's that there seemed to be a disproportionate amount of violence so that everyone seemed infected by it without acknowledging they were carriers. You know the faces of really mean people in a small town and you know that if one or two of them decide to hate you, you aren't ever going to be able to hide or get lost in a crowd. On top of that, my entire childhood and teenage life was filled with current news of our famous neighbors, Ted Bundy and the Green River Killer; it's like we were constantly driving through and swimming with their victims' ghosts.
Long story short? Violent crime doesn't surprise me; it's too much a part of the local lore I grew up on. Woods were never just woods to me, they were always potential dumping grounds and they were EVERYWHERE.
If you're wondering whether or not I knew the victims, the answer is "no". No doubt I'd recognize the post office lady (and I'm sure my mom does know her) but none of them are family friends or anything.
Thanks for the heads-up on this story, Birdman.
Update: Here's another clue as to why I don't think small-town life is safe; in this more-recent article (or maybe they just updated the old one since it's the same link I posted before) that describes more of the possible motive we also find out that the cops were too unconcerned to bother with the locked gate after a 911 call:
A 911 call was actually placed from the house at about 5:15 p.m. Monday, around the time of the killing. But responding deputies investigating the hang-up call apparently turned back after finding the gate at the home locked, according to Sheriff's Office reports . . . . The emergency operator who took the call heard yelling in the background, but no voices.
"Heard a lot of yelling in the background," wrote the call taker in a note to a dispatcher. "Sounded more like party noise than angry heated arguing."
The first two patrol cars available were dispatched to the property minutes later, and the operator made two calls to the residence but the phone went to voice mail each time, Urquhart said. Both responding deputies arrived at the scene at about 5:45 p.m. only to find that a locked gate prevented them from accessing the property.
What the fuck? It wasn't an armed fortress with a motherfucking moat. Having had our own experiences with lackadaisical cops I have to say that I don't have the utmost faith in their ability to save the day. What the fuck more do you need to have than a 911 call during the holidays to get your ass out of your patrol car and walk onto the property? I guess it wouldn't have changed a whole lot in this case, but whatever. It's not the kind of action that breeds a strong sense of security in a community. On top of it taking a long time for the county cops to get to places outside city limits you have to wonder what they'll do once they finally arrive.
Delia had a sperm deposit to make in Seattle on Thursday. On our way to catch the ferry, we stopped for Chicken McNuggets on Bainbridge Island. I went inside quickly while Delia waited in the car and thought I saw an old familiar face of someone I fucked (and adored) years ago: Brian the Cop. I only saw him briefly out of the corner of my eye sitting at a table in back with some other men and dismissed the feeling of recognition to hurry and fill up our pop and get on our way so we wouldn't miss our boat. When I went back outside and noticed a police car with K-9 Unit written all over it, I realized it really must have been him and became GIDDY remembering how senselessly attracted I was to him.
This past year I've thought a lot about my promiscuous post-divorce adventures and the guys I met through a mutual interest in sex. I've thought about how they were all pretty decent fellows and that I was lucky to cross paths with them. I've thought about how unfairly mean and dismissive I was to some of them in my retarded early blog posts. I didn't have much in common with most of them, but I did like them and I feel even more fond of them now that they're cute little memories I can wonder about and wish well from a distance.
As I get older, I also feel guiltier and more conscious of some things I've done (or failed to do) that were idiotic, insensitive, unforgivably horrid, self-indulgent and/or just plain embarrassing. In fact, just the day or two before the Brian sighting I was spanking myself internally with mortification over the memory of how my retarded and unjustifiable infatuation with Brian the Cop led me to make my sorta-girlfriend at the time cry. I was inexcusably mean and stupid, and I enjoyed the whole fantastically dramatic mess.
Seeing him again, albeit fleetingly, made me forgive myself. He's stupid, I'm stupid -- we're all stupid. And beautiful. It doesn't matter what a goon the guy was, it WORKED for me and it's just not human to deny that some people electrify your insides in spite of how wrong they are for you. I'm thankful I never got the chance to completely ruin my life over someone like that and feel blessed that I got to enjoy the silly thrill of it all.
He was 6'4" and his penis was on the small side. He was a premature ejaculator and he had this song playing on his website. He was big and hairy and ridiculous and I loved every lie he told me. When I expressed interest in humping his assault rifle, he followed through and brought it over for me. Though I loved seeing its sexy blackness laying on my bed, I had to admit with disappointment that it wasn't designed for humping and that his hand and small penis were much better suited to my genitals.
I grinned like an idiot all the way to the ferry terminal and chuckled to myself over the bad fucking joke of it all. While we waited for the boat to arrive, Delia left the car to go to the bathroom and I looked around the holding area wondering if I'd see Brian jump out with one of his big German Shepherds to sniff out drugs and terrorists. I wanted to see him again without him seeing me.
I got distracted from thoughts of Brian when I saw a beautiful brunette woman in the distance and immediately felt a pang of attraction, that "WHO is THAT?!?" moment, before realizing a split second later that I actually knew her, too!
It was Delia coming back from the bathroom. Lucky, lucky, lucky times three (billion) because that woman in the distance is my girlfriend and it's no accident she's walking towards me.
Not the greatest-looking video, but here was our excitement for yesterday:
The brightness of the sun was totally trippy:
None of it (the snow) accumulated on the ground; it started to today, but as soon as I sent an email to voyeurs on one site to take a look at the snow falling on our outside-view cam, it turned to rain. Now it's just windy.
My goals for today are to get as much blogging as possible done and have a down-to-business meeting with Delia for us to get on track and set our goals and agenda for the week. I'm also going to try to edit and post one or two behind-the-scenes videos for the SpyOnUs.com members-only area, including a little bit higher-quality snow footage (I know, really exciting, right?).
"Family & Holidays" sounds like a title for a tired, bitchy entry, but it's not.
I'm not sick of my family, I'm sick of not seeing them as much as I want, as often as I want. Right now we're separated by many miles and large bodies of water (Hood Canal and Puget Sound to get to my sister/nephew/brother-in-law, plus Lake Washington in my mom's case) that take at least a couple of hours one way to traverse.
For the past few years we've celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas on off-days, before or after the actual days on the calendar, so that we wouldn't have to contend with holiday traffic. I've enjoyed that, but now that my sister has a kid and we're planning to have one ourselves and we're all just getting older, I really want to live close together, to be able to walk to each other's houses or at least be within a fifteen-minute drive of each other.
In a bizarre new twist in my fantasy life, I've actually been fantasizing about Thanksgiving and Christmas. About celebrating on the same days everyone else does. Eating turkey at one of our houses, then walking to one of our other houses for pie. I've been fantasizing about the cool outside smell of late November as we walk to my neighbor/sister's house with a big bowl of cranberry sauce. About seeing my nephew, who is now (for real) singing, walking, and signing like crazy, every day.
I fantasize about living close enough to my mom that I can see her in short, fun, frequent bursts, instead of long, painful ordeals built up by ridiculously long drives.
I want to be able to pick up flowers or stupid gadgets during a grocery trip and drop them off at my mom's and sister's houses. I want us to play cards at night with my brother-in-law and sister after the kid(s) have gone to bed. I want to smell each other's houses so often that they all feel like home. I want all of us to get fat and happy eating from each other's tables.
Whenever we drive around town lately I imagine we're driving to my sister's or mom's house, and that we're only a minute away from arriving.
My sister and brother-in-law actually want to move to our town, so that part is settled in terms of goals. When that actually happens, I think our mom will get on board too. The problem right now is of course just money. Part of me feels certain it's completely in my power to make this happen within a couple of years. Another part of me is just so slack and unambitious, I get annoyed with myself.
Part of the problem is I'm pretty content with our lifestyle and what we have so it's difficult to feel motivated to make more money. Yes, I'd like to have our own house, health insurance, no credit card debt and to be near my family, but the reality is I hardly feel the absence of most of those things. I feel pretty fucking comfortable.
In the past I've been motivated by the fear of failure, and since I don't really worry about failing anymore I struggle to feel motivated. I feel like I need to perform a bunch of focused mental acrobatics at this time in my life to encourage myself to run harder and faster to realize my now ultra-mundane dreams. I'm simultaneously frustrated with myself and stultifyingly content. I make myself sick with laziness yet I'm also sickeningly happy. The only thing that seems to light a fire under my ass is watching videos of my one-year-old nephew and missing the chance to see him often while he learns new things.
I've never hated the holidays. Yes, I've hated celebrating birthdays and hated SHOPPING for holidays, but the actual Thanksgivings and Christmases have had so much goodness I can separate them from memories of family dysfunction, like when a huge Thanksgiving fight ended with my grandpa verbally disowning me. My family is smaller and less dysfunctional now, plus I miss my dad who LOVED Christmas and gift-giving; maybe that part of him inhabits me now and urges me into this sentimental frame of mind. I don't want to spend one single Christmas day on the road, I want to spend a whole week with my family, with kids in sleeping bags and no worries about how losing sleep staying up late together on Christmas eve to play Santa will potentially cause a car crash. I want to go to church with my sister, and argue about which one we'll go to. Maybe we'll switch off.
Going to watch a video of nephew then slog through the more mundane aspects of my work, trying to stay focused . . . trying to remember what's MOST important out of the billions of things that are important to me.
FAST FOOD PORN NATION Why I haven't finished reading the book, my childhood experiences with fast food and eating out, and my current fast food addiction:
I didn't grow up eating fast food. For one thing, it didn't exist in our town; neither did stoplights. On very special occasions we might stop at a McDonalds out of town, but between Dairy Queen, Burger King and McDonalds, I probably ate fast food less than twenty times before the age of twenty. Oh wait, we did go to Skippers and Kentucky Fried Chicken more often (my grandpa even brought home KFC a couple of times) so I could probably add another twenty or more onto that number. I think we ate at Skippers quite a bit; my mom loves fish & chips. Skippers now seems to be the grossest, dirtiest fast food restaurant around -- a shame. We also did eat burgers out, but generally at actual non-formula drive-ins that did old fashioned grilling or were local destinations with a sense of regional history, like Dick's. Also, my mom hated soft-serve ice cream and didn't want to spend money on milkshakes or cones unless they were made with hard ice cream.
When our family would really "go out" to eat, my stepdad would take us to obnoxious pizza places. Shakeys in Redmond was one, and Showbiz Pizza was another. My stepdad LOVED the animatronic band way more than we kids could possibly relate to. Showbiz was always pathetically underpopulated, so I picture my stepdad's chortling head hovering in an empty room, the garish red stage lights reflecting off his glasses while he stared, mesmerized by the inhuman display and echoing music.
We did go out to eat a lot with my dad when he had visitation on the weekends, but he took us to diners and family restaurants. In the seventies and early eighties, Guadalajara #3 in Crossroads (Bellevue/Redmond area) was an early favorite; my dad would always order a side of corn tortillas which they presented hot wrapped in a royal blue cloth napkin. He would butter them for us. I always got a cheese enchilada. Eventually that restaurant closed and I moved on to ordering chicken enchiladas instead.
We also ate at VIPs in Issaquah where my sister enjoyed coloring their wacky bunny heads and I learned to copy my dad by ordering my eggs sunny side up. After VIPS died, we went to Shari's where my dad usually ordered steak and eggs. To this day, that's still one of my favorite breakfast meals.
Our dad was also partial to Chinese food so we went to Andy's in Issaquah a lot. We were such regulars that once my sister and I even went to Andy's house and on an outing with his daughter and some other kids to Chinatown where we went to Oujimaya (why can't I fucking find anything in google for oujimaya to find out if I'm spelling it right?) and ate out. He scolded us for using too much soy sauce on our noodles. Last thing I heard he was embroiled in an immigration scandal where he was accused of bringing a bunch of illegals over and had them working in near-slavery and living in inhumane conditions.
As we got older, we wound up eating at Red Robin a lot with our dad. I also remember a restaurant called Casa Lupita. I can't remember many of the other places, but they were your regular suburban dining spots. He never took us to Denny's, but we did go to The International House of Pancakes where he would order the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruitie. Lately I have been wondering a lot about my dad's real gender identity and sexual preference.
I was not an IHOP fan, probably because they didn't have good booths at the locations we went to; there was something disturbing to me about sitting in the IHOP with those high ceilings and the fish bowl plethora of windows with no good partitions inside so every single person in the joint was highly visible. I think good puffy booths with high backs and a table layout that affords some privacy are appealing to children for their fort-like atmosphere and sense of glamour. I haven't outgrown my love of booths and I hope I never do; I'm guessing that our early exposure to restaurants, as modest as they might have been, instilled a preference for being waited on over grabbing fast food. I also suspect that my dad's (undiagnosed except by me) ADD made him fear ordering fast food; I understand this fear -- the menus are overwhelming, everyone's clamoring for their turn, the rules and rituals seem so regimented and difficult to decode. Everyone around you seems to know exactly what they want while you stand there alone adrift in a sea of confusion, beeping machines, and teenagers incoherently mumbling their customer service lines. It's much less stressful to have time alone with a menu at your own table with your own waitress who will answer questions or just go away if you need more time.
The only fast food our dad ever took us to was Wendy's; he loved their chili. Wendy's never did it for me, and fast food in general didn't do it for my dad. He seemed to be opposed to it. I learned to be a responsible and proud tipper from my dad and I think my sister and I are healthier people today because our weekday family was too poor to go out to eat much but did have STANDARDS when it came to burgers, burger joints and ice cream, and because Daddy took us to actual restaurants instead of grabbing us happy meals.
I started reading Fast Food Nation, but it was so good I couldn't get past the preface; my head got busy making parallels to porn. How most porn is made and presented like fast food. How people would never say that all food is intrinsically bad because FAST food is bad, but they will irrationally say all pornography is bad because some sucks ass, or has a few ass-suckingly unhealthy characteristics. Not that all forms of ass-sucking are bad or unhealthy . . . it's just a figure of speech. How people feed their children extremely unhealthy, addictive, and eventually life-threatening fast food and call it good without a moment of critical thought going into the decision, but think that PORN is somehow a gigantically dangerous threat to their children's lives.
That's why I don't read nonfiction as much as I'd like to. MY HEAD STARTS SPINNING AND I CAN'T KEEP READING FOR THINKING TOO MUCH.
At twenty years old I finally moved to a place with fast food restaurants ALMOST within walking distance. I became addicted to Taco Bell, and it was good. I ate a great many chicken soft tacos without ever feeling too badly about it.
Lately I've become addicted to McDonald's, though. Our town has restrictions on formula stores, so McDonald's and Subway are the only fast food places that are grandfathered in. McD's is the only place I can go late at night to get a hot and tasty treat; once I started taking advantage of this I started doing it more and more. It's only become a frequent (once or twice a week) thing in the past four or five months.
Just the other day I got suckered into playing their little Monopoly advertising game and went TWICE IN ONE DAY. We strategically planned our menu choices to get the most "game stamps". I am even online right now entering codes from my game stamps on their site. On top of that, I'm considering doing research online to find out which stamps are the hardest to get, and starting new "collector" boards to fully maximize our chances of winning a big prize; I mean, I wouldn't want to throw away a large-prize-winning property to turn in a board for a $50 prize!
I feel like a sucker.
I wish we had a Taco Bell in town -- if we did, none of this would ever have happened.
After ranting about the need to protect my identity with a stage name, I just discovered I accidentally used the real name of a guy I fooled around with. Here is the beginning of the story, with his name consistently changed (in the story I used a fake name 75% of the time, but his real name the other 25%):
All of the girls in our dorm creamed their white Christian panties over Treat, the Hawaiian guy who lived on my floor. Hell, all of the girls OUTside of our dorm creamed their white Christian panties over him. I thought he was an idiot, but as time went on I confess to creaming my panties over him too. I distinctly remember staring at the bump under his white towel as he roamed our floor after a shower, and wanting some of whatever he had under there. Wanting to get a load of it, both figuratively and literally speaking.
Once my friend and I spent a casual evening in her room with Treat, interrogating him as to WHY IN THE WORLD so many girls seemed powerless to his charms. What was his secret? How did he weave his cheesy spell over them? After feigning modesty for awhile (part of his signature appeal), he revealed with intense seriousness that he learned everything from his favorite television show in junior high: Beauty and the Beast, starring Linda Hamilton as the beauty and Ron Perlman as the Beast. Yes, you read the plot description correctly: "The adventures and romance of a sensitive and cultured lion-man and a crusading District Attorney assistant".
1. I don't like those blue m&m's. I liked the old seventies colors. Red looked so pretty with the two colors of brown. Blue is ALL WRONG.
2. I believe that space colonization will save humankind -- that ONLY space colonization CAN save us. It's not something I think about often so it's not like I'm revealing some bizarre secret of mine. Or wait, maybe I am. This is something I've believed for a long time, maybe because the space station was such a big deal when I was a kid. Still, it wasn't something I had any detailed exposure to -- it just slid into my belief system.
Why does this nugget of belief appeal to me? I don't know -- probably because science barely-fiction captured my imagination somehow from an early age. I'm not very literate in the sci-fi genre in general, but my dad bought enough graphic sci-fi stuff (a huge Buck Rogers collection in giant-book form which I never read, but leafed through every so often, a couple of captivating books with spaceship blueprints, and a subscription to Omni) that it wiggled into my consciousness as something real. Star Wars was the first movie I remember seeing, and that in a drive-in theater with my dad after a fight with my mom so it made a big impression on me. I didn't study or immerse myself in science, science fiction, or technology but I saw and read enough that was so beautiful, believable, provocative and richly detailed that it planted seeds in my brain.
Maybe that's why I didn't like Star Trek: not very beautiful, believable, or richly detailed. My first exposure to Star Trek was the original series during reruns and I was too little to understand its provocative content, only to recognize its visual inferiority to Star Wars and the other pictures I saw. The only thing I liked about the original series were the short dresses on the hot chicks. Of course, in the past couple of years I've become a Next Gen fan but it didn't contribute to the formation of my belief system, only reinforced it.
I think space colonization is part of my faith; I have faith that a few smart, persistent, creative people will save us and we will endure thanks to scientists and technology. When I say "we" I don't mean "I" since I believe this will happen after I'm dead and gone, but not by much. The idea of space colonization comforts me even though it's completely irrelevant to my life and even though it will be fraught with tragedies and scary things.
I suppose I like knowing that the struggle will go on and that there are new frontiers to explore. Or maybe it comforts me to imagine that people in general won't become too much more advanced than I had a chance to be any time soon. I can't believe Firefly only lasted one motherfucking season because that show perfectly captured what I think a lot of us imagine as the not-so-distant future of humankind.
Honestly, I don't spend a lot of time specifically thinking about space colonization as a cornerstone of my belief system. I have, however, spent quite a bit of time over the past few years reflecting on science fiction in general as the best contemporary vehicle for exploring spiritual, moral, and ethical issues. Science fiction is one of the most authentic ways I feel like I can "get religion". It's not fixed or as dogmatic as science itself so there is still room for faith (and when I say "faith" I mean faith in something -- ANYTHING -- wiggly and uncertain, not faith in any of the gods of religions we're so familiar with today), and it's not completely insane or irrational (again, like so many of the religions we're familiar with today). There's room for soaring idealism in science fiction, and for bitter cynical social commentary. I love it.
Anyway, even though I don't give daily deep thought to space colonization, I guess I do feel pretty anxious about this planet and sad about what we're doing to it. The amount of destruction I've seen in my short life, and the carelessness people have towards the "environment" leads me to believe (another part of my faith) that we aren't going to be able to live here naturally much longer without lots of artificial intervention. Much of what is most beautiful will be utterly fucking destroyed -- any of it that's saved will be via small-scale Jurassic Park type measures.
I didn't grow up in a city. Many days I actually got to wade in creeks, see big trees, smell clean air, enjoy darkness at night, have complete privacy/solitude . . . things like that. I've spent all of my thirty three years loving ferns and moss and the smell of rotting wood.
I didn't grow up in a city, but I grew up close enough to the city of Seattle to see major MAJOR changes in western Washington every single year for the past thirty-three. It's nothing against cities, because I love those too, but we are mowing good things down and paving over it so fast and furiously and on such grand scale that you have to have your head stuffed straight up your cornucopian ass to not recognize that we're shitting all over the planet; it cannot sustain these levels of "growth" and resource-rape. I wasn't raised to be an "environmentalist"; my grandpa was a logger and most people I knew were pretty conservative and hostile towards "tree-huggers". Really, my sentiments are fueled only by the gift of sight -- you have to be fucking blind to not see the destruction and life out of balance.
So. I guess I comfort myself with the fact that science will create new wonders, preserve and transplant some old ones, and life will go on. It really breaks my heart, though, imagining the world introduced to my nephew (or my own children if I ever have any) and trying to show them as many things as possible before they're bulldozed down. If my own lifetime has been marred by observable decimation of natural resources and beauty I can only imagine how depressingly ugly and destructive the world will become over the next three generations. And hey, it's not all about "nature" -- privacy and solitude are becoming relics of the past (or at least luxuries only the very richest of the rich can afford). If I ever have grandchildren I'm pretty certain their notion of these concepts (privacy and solitude) will be reduced to tiny fragments of what they should be.
It makes me fucking shudder, but I thank my lucky fucking stars to be alive in this time and place rather than somewhere else, or sometime long ago, or sometime in the near future. That brings me back to faith; who or what should I "thank"? Science fiction hasn't answered that question for me yet so sometimes I fall back on the old-fashioned stuff because really, I do need to give thanks even if it's primitive, superstitious and nonsensical.
"We Built this City (On Rock and Roll)" - Jefferson Starship I love eighties music -- as long as it doesn't have nasty nasal harmonies and showstopping optimism (see also, "Everybody Have Fun Tonight (Everybody Wang Chung Tonight)"). I remember one of my best friends loving "We Built this City" when we were probably still in elementary school, and it seriously made me reconsider our entire friendship when she embraced this piece of shit, along with another song I despise, "Life in a Northern Town" - The Dream Academy. My friend sang these songs enthusiastically with a tributary raised fist and eyes squeezed shut. "Ah heya, ma!Ma!MA!" She also seemed to know all the words to, "Say, Say, Say", one of those bizarre duets Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson did. Now that I think of it, that's kind of a cool song but at the time I thought it bore testament to her odd enjoyment of gross music by middle-agers-in-comeback. She was really "knee deep in the hoopla".
"Change the World" - Eric Clapton, Wynona GAHHHHH!!!! I feel a diarrhea explosion coming on whenever this song pops up (all. too. often). It's nothing against cheesy Eric Clapton since I absolutely adore "Wonderful Tonight". I mean I *love* that song! That and Lay Down Sally are fantastic little ditties. But you really can't be trusted to change the world when you're noodling around with those pukey-jazz chords. I wouldn't even let him be in charge of changing a light bulb.
"Runaway Train" - Soul Asylum I had access to MTV when this song came out, and the sights and sounds of this video made me want to retch. Normally you can count on me to love any song with the word "train" in it (assuming it's referring to the trains that travel on tracks as opposed to a gang bang situation), but not this one. No way. Oh, and while I was trying to figure out who performed this song, I ran across another barfy band credited with a great many hateworthy songs: Collective Soul.
"Fields of Gold" and "All this Time" - Sting This is not an "I hate all contemporary adult music" thing, because I love so many of his songs. I think "Nothing Like the Sun" is a near-perfect album. Grown-up radio stations love following "Change the World" with "Fields of Gold", have you noticed that? Or the latest giant-mouthed major chords from Annie (see below).
"Walking on Broken Glass" - Annie Lennox Your stemware (and feet) will be safer, Annie, if you stop that god-awful screeching. Remember "Who's that Girl"? Yum. Where have the minor keys of the eighties gone? Oh that's right, we're walking through the golden fields of our golden years now. How uplifting, bold and triumphant of us!
"Beautiful Day" - U2 They've really lost their edge, so to speak. And they won an award for this crap?? Again, I love lots of U2, but nothing makes me feel more like shit is falling from the sky than hearing this song bursting whinily from the radio. And by the way, I don't think it's appropriate to curse during an awards show, you pompous ass! Cursing in your blog = acceptable. Cursing on live television = crass and self-indulgent. It's bad form.
"Name" - Goo Goo Dolls From an album called, "A Boy Named Goo". I don't get it, I never will, and it sounds like stir-fried shit.
"You've got a Friend" - James Taylor A delusional song from a loony-bird. It's no wonder he spent time in a mental institution with these crazy notions. The lyrics are positively INSANE, yet folks everywhere celebrate this song and dedicate it to one another. "I promise to read your mind, to rescue you, to hear your anguished thoughts in spite of miles between us." It's a lovely SOUNDING song, but it's so unhealthy. This is not about friendship, it's about co-dependence and obsession. See also, "Don't Let Me be Lonely Tonight". If any of you have a lover who admires these songs greatly, I advise seeking a restraining order immediately.
"Soak up the Sun" and "Anything but Down" - Sheryl Crow Okay, I don't actually hate "Anything but Down". In fact, I like it. Except for one small technical difficulty; apples DO NOT grow on vines, Sheryl. This song was the turning point in my "relationship" with Sheryl Crow. She had gotten too popular, and this stupid lyrical mistake made me start believing rumours I'd heard that Sheryl was actually really dumb and had stolen tunes from some guy and gave him no credit. I don't know the whole story or if it's the least bit credible, but since she does not know that apples grow on TREES, I can now believe any bad thing I hear about Sheryl Crow. The release of "Soak up the Sun" clinched it.
Where did you REALLY get that apple, Sheryl, because I know it wasn't from no fucking VINE. And you think *I* bring *YOU* down?? Bitch, you are a liar and I KNEW I couldn't trust you. Next thing you're going to be telling me you got that cubic zirconia all the way from a diamond mine in Africa. Seriously, if I had a girlfriend who told me she brought me apples from the vine I would break up with her post-haste.
Incidentally, wouldn't everything be different if Eve had taken the apple from the VINE of the knowledge of good and evil?
Know what I hate even worse than these songs? That it's hard for me to remember off the cuff which songs I hate, even though there is a sordid huge lot of them. I had to consult with Tucker a few times to figure out which songs I was thinking of. What's the name of that song by Dream something . . . about a place, a town, maybe in Minnesota, going to some place . . . "Life in a Northern Town?" Tucker is a genius! What's the name of that song and there was a video and the guy had long stringy hair and was dating Winona Ryder and the word "train" is in it . . . you know what I'm talking about? "Runaway Train?" Oh Tucker you are my HERO!! He also was able to name the Michael Jackson and Paul McCartney duets, even treating me to his own rendition of "The Girl is Mine".
I am a great hater of songs, a bitch who emphatically shouts, "I fucking hate this song! Why do they keep playing this shit??" before turning to stare sulkily out the car window with arms crossed until the channel is changed. I am a stabber of radio buttons. But seriously, I'm not a music snob. I have nothing against pop music per se, and don't think something is necessarily shit because lots of people like it. I just think there are so many people with musical talent in this world, but we choose to showcase so FEW of them. There is NO EXCUSE for playing so much crap in heavy rotation, and for over-producing music that would actually be good if it wasn't so . . . hollow and studio-fied. Sterilized music, synthetic body parts . . . yuck.
I also hate that I've never really mastered the rules for capitalization in titles, so my apologies for the scattiness above. Should have just capitalized the titles in their entirity to avoid this problem. Lectures in comments appreciated.
Note: I've been meaning to compile some favorite-song lists -- you know, focus on the positive -- but I couldn't ignore the immediacy of the siren call of Really Annoying Songs.
I'm not sure I ever knew that Herve Villechaize killed himself. As a little girl I loved watching Fantasy Island; it was sexy, sinister, and of course totally fantastic. I got to watch all kinds of television shows as a kid at my grandparent's house that my mom would never have permitted me to watch at home; we had a tv in our bedroom there and I was a little night owl even then, so I'd stay up all night to see if any boobs would be on public television and to watch seventies horror flicks. One of my favorite movies was Asylum.
Why does it seem like the seventies and eighties embraced the forlorn, the melancholy, and the macabre so much more than the nineties and the present suck-ass century full of silicone-bloat, young-country "music", and criminally-insane levels of "Christianity" and "patriotism"?
If I remember correctly, there were a lot more scary clowns and freaky ventriloquist dummies back in the seventies and eighties. My first erotic dreams were about me and a grown-up man clown.
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I love wiggling my toes and referring to them as "piggies". I love how animated toes are, how plump and scrumptious they look, like the perfect finger food, like giant fat pale maggots roasted and eaten with relish by jungle tribesmen, their greases dripping down the feasting men's chins. Toes often look like they're stupidly straining towards survival, low-i.q. little beings struggling to escape their human attachments.
I'm not sure if I have more interest in playing with other people's feet or with having my own feet stimulated and worshipped. I don't find my own feet particularly pretty, so I'm more interested in other people's feet aesthetically, both men's and women's. Still, I have always intuitively reached out to people with my feet (which freaked out a couple of guys who were NOT footlovers and didn't appreciate having my feet thrust in their laps and faces). I like the distance my legs provide between me and another person; I enjoy sitting back and watching my playmate while I prod him with my feet and caress him with my toes. It's like two people facing each other to watch a movie projected into a space between each other, feet in hands or on genitals. The distance offers the intimacy of eye contact and a much wider, deeper visual playground.
As a kid I loved sucking my own toes . . . something about the salty flavor, I think. And as a preteen I was obsessed with trying to get my dad to kiss my toes. I know, that sounds kind of weird now, but at the time it didn't seem at all sexual to me (at least, not that I was aware of on a conscious level), although my dad must have thought it sexual because for some reason that mystified me, he vehemently refused to kiss my toes. His refusal only stiffened my resolve to force him to kiss my toes, and I would shove my bare feet in his face. "WHY, Daddy, WHY won't you kiss my toes??? Just do it ONCE and I'll stop bugging you!!" He would never explain why this simple act of affection was totally out of bounds and it drove me fucking MAD with an obnoxious combination of annoyance, confusion, and stubbornness. Daddy was easily manipulated so I was certain he'd fold under my screeching pressure, nearly kicking him in the face while I'd stick my feet in between his face and the T.V. guide or Jane's Tanks and Combat Vehicles Recognition Guide or whatever else he was trying to read.
Because Daddy almost *always* gave me my way, it's possible his refusal to kiss my feet (though he would tickle them for me, if I asked) made me want them kissed much much more than if he'd just done it. Why would he deny this simple request? It didn't make any sense, especially since he was normally so totally under my thumb.
Anyway, for those of you who have been begging for footjob action, the chocolate covered cherries shoot yielded some HOT and extra gooey video footage once Tucker got involved. I'll be posting all of the videos to TastyTrixie.com eventually, but right now Part I of the gallery is there, and the videos with Tucker are on TrixiesHouseboy.com, so if you don't want to wait another second to see that, join his site or SpyOnUs.com to get all of our sites, including Delia's.
I am looking at a community notification flier. With a picture of a guy with scary unrepentant predatory straight-staring eyes and a really freaky closely-shaved haircut. I have another picture of him . . . and me standing next to him ten years earlier. Innocently average and handsome for a homecoming dance. Wow. The same guy. It's the same guy. The same guy I determined to have pop my cherry when I was 18 years old. My dad always told me I had a taste for shit.
I know it probably sounds bizarre but . . . I don't regret losing my virginity to him. Even though he tried to tell me afterwards that my mom paid him to have sex with me (which I almost believed even though I knew if my mom would have paid someone to sexually initiate me it wouldn't have been *him* -- she tried to talk me into losing it to someone more "experienced" but I insisted that he was the fellow virgin with whom I intended to share this rite of passage). Even though it's nothing to brag about and the thought of having intimate memories revolving around this disturbing person should make me shudder and wish to forget . . . I don't wish I never knew him or did it with him. I can't explain it. My mom thinks I have a potentially dangerous fascination with people who are bizarre and live on the fringes bordering normalcy. I guess she's right.
I just want to try to understand. The dangerous part is that inside me there's an unshakable belief (delusion?) that we are all the same. It's an ideal I cling to for the sheer horror and soaring hope that it gives me. Or maybe that's the justification I use to pursue my macabre fascination and unusually high comfort level with freaky people.
This sounds off the subject, but I am feeling the need to read more Carson McCullers. I love her and her characters so much. Reflections in a Golden Eye is what I need to read right now.
I remember catching him in the alley when I was 16. And knowing but not really caring that he wasn't just walking to a friend's the way he said. Knowing there was a different reason for him being in the dark alley where the inside of my sister's and my bedroom was visible through the wooden blinds.
I remember being 18 and finally having an unspoken fantasy come true. He knocked on our bedroom window. And I came out and we fucked standing on the cinder-block steps outside our back door while my mom slept inside and my sister wound up waking up and asking what was going on.
I remember being 19 (after he and I stopped talking and no longer fucked) and sleeping by myself in the detached garage we had converted into a bedroom. I remember all of the times I'd lie in the dark there listening to what I *knew* were human noises right outside my door. Whoever it was would get in there stealthily enough to not set off the motion detector. I wonder how many times I took a trip to the bathroom in the middle of the night and might have sleepily walked right past what must have been him. I remember I lay there alone once in the middle of the night, disconnected from the house and my mom and my sister. And this time he tried to open my door. It was locked. He knocked. He tried repeatedly to turn the doorknob. He wouldn't answer me when I asked who was there. He didn't say anything. I didn't know who it was. I always wondered if it was him but never thought it was. It didn't line up right. I never thought he would be that weird with me. So silent and anonymous with me who was not a stranger. The rest of that night I laid there in bed scared to death and having to piss like a racehorse until the sun came up.
But today looking at this flier I realize it must have been him. It must have been him. Two years before he was convicted for sneaking into people's houses and touching girls he didn't know in their sleep. Criminal Trespass. Sexually Motivated Felony. Did he grab something to steal on the way in?? Or while he was running out??
I probably would have opened the door in the middle of that night if I'd have known it was him. If he would have said something. But I don't think that's the way it was supposed to work. I wonder if I knew him before he knew what he wanted. I wonder if he got caught and convicted before he knew what he really was going to do. Or if that was all there was to it for him. Supposedly that's pretty unlikely statistically speaking. People like this (like what?) usually mature as criminal freaks, with their crimes escalating in severity and violence and seriousness and perversion as time goes on.
What would have happened if my door had been unlocked? What would have happened if I would have opened it? There is such a range of possibilities. Sad. Scary. Or fumbling to retain normalcy.
Oh well. Who cares?? I'm going to Memphis.
But first I'm going to drive to the end of the road. In the twilight. And drive slowly looking in windows lit from the inside. Knowing that he's probably in one of them. A beastly self-centered miserable mystery.
And later tonight I will drive home to my safe city so I don't have to sleep here less than a mile away from where he probably is. So I don't have to lie here and remember what it was like to imagine that someone was outside watching me. To imagine someone was close to my door. To tell myself I had an overactive imagination but then wind up experiencing the bizarre intersection of reality and paranoid suspicion.
I can't recall if I ever mentioned this before, but the guy I lost my virginity to when I was 18 is now a registered sex offender. My sister found this out a few years ago quite by chance by punching in the zip code of our small hometown into an online database of level 2 and 3 sex offenders. And there he was. Anyway, I never did find out exactly what he did (online it just says he's a level 2 sex offender and his crime was a "sexually motivated felony").
Well, last night my mom called to tell me that she saw a community notice posted at the fire station (don't ask me why my mom was hanging out at the fire station) warning residents of his move within our town. Why the fuck doesn't he get out of our town?? God! You'd think he'd move somewhere where nobody knows him. WHY has he chosen to reside in this small town for the past six years since his criminal activities? Now he is living up the road from my mom and dad and grandma and grandpa. Which is odd because the last time I drove up that road all the way to the end I had the distinct feeling he was there. Eerie.
Anyway, my mom didn't take the time to read the whole notice (I plan on reading it quite thoroughly when I go visit day after tomorrow) but apparently he was breaking into people's houses and climbing into bed with them. Apparently not raping them but hopping into bed and fondling them. A mother with her four year old son. An 11 year old kid. Who the fuck knows what else. . . .
Are my wierdo-detecting sensors messed up? I used to think he was just being melodramatic when he told me that he was a bad person and did really bad things. As far as I know he started doing this shit long after we were doing our thing together. Who knows, maybe I turned him into a freaky pervert?
There's a part of me that is shock-resistant. That doesn't believe that some people are "worse" than others and that we're *all* capable of doing amazingly crazy, bizarre and violent shit. With him it always seemed as though he were trying to *prove* he was a freak, not that he really was. He believed he was *so* different. I believed he was just obsessed with himself and his perceived differences to the point where he lost all perspective. I remember him telling me about his stepdad coming in and sitting on the bed while he was sleeping. Or *pretending* to sleep. And his stepdad stroking his thigh while he "slept". That's it. That's all. Gross, but apparently that is all the sexual violation he suffered. I then shared with him things that had happened to *me* that were more violating. Not to discount his experience with nastiness, but to just let him know I knew what it felt like.
I remember a year later the subject came up and he had absolutely no recollection that I'd told him I experienced anything like that. His mind was so completely absorbed with his *own* experiences he just had no room for thinking about anybody else. The fact that he seemed to be missing the ability to empathize with others -- that's the one time I recognized that he might indeed be different and bad. Well, I guess that and the time that he told me that he always felt like a million spiders were crawling all over him after we finished having sex.