Short Hair and the Litany of Cuteness

I arrived to find Emer and Wesley playing cards at the Hiawatha house Friday before last. The house smelled deliciously of garlic. Fresh garlic, old garlic, garlic breath, garlic sweat. Or maybe it was fennel, or cinnamon, or yeast. It smelled of unwashed hair soaked in hormones, oils and kisses, of laundry and shoes covered in mud. It smelled of Amber oil, dumpstered leather and spells, dreams and depression, quickies and long, fantastical masturbatory sessions with KEXP floating in the background. It smelled of laughter and bubbling beer bellies and fingernail art, love and adjustment, plans and parties, time in it's ever evolving state of dying youth.

Emer smiled at me, the ring in her upper gum glinting at me with it's usual element of surprise; that brave piercing on such a brave woman. Emer the traveler, the woman with hair of gossamer and hay in curly tendrils of no adorable sort. Rather, the dapper sort you would find on a retired hair band producer. The kind I want to touch purely to know that I am making contact with her, which would make me feel like I was in her gang of cool feminine strength.

I made an entrance with my hair, now once again chopped to allow for new possibilities, and she told me I looked cute, corrected herself, and then told me what she meant to tell me what that I looked good. Thank you! Thank you, thank you, thank you, beautiful knowing Emer with your hips of power and your winning hand of cards. We discussed our feelings about the word cute, and its seeming passive aggression where there is usually none, and the twinges of "wrong" that pass through our chests when we are identified with this term.

I had described my haircut hopefully and proudly as "Edward Cullen meets Tinkerbell". I had taken photos of myself in my peacoat on my way to school looking cool and androgenously magical in my own eyes. Perhaps I need more styling experience, or I'm a little blind to myself, or I take myself too seriously (this is true regardless), OR I am simply doomed to be cute forever. It's not that I would rather be beautiful, it's that I would rather be awesome. I want to look as though I have wings but they are only reserved for coitus, as though I fell out of the pocket of a mad toymaker, as though I were a nineteen forties baseball player, nose and cheeks pink, scratching the underside of my tits between innings. I do not want to look proper, stylistically pretty or handsome. I do not want to look young or old per say... I just want to look awesome.

Poni and I looked at the beautiful family photos my parents had framed for me for Christmas this year. My hair is chin length in the photos, ridiculously curly, as it seems to get curlier as I get older, dyed orange on one side, my bangs choppy and oddly asymmetrical. He touched the picture me and said he kind of missed my hair that length, and I was of course sent down memory lane to all the awkward relationship interactions I have had over the years having to do with such superficiality as my hair. He likes my hair now, he says, it's just that he misses the other hair, too. And this to me is like hearing, "I look forward to the day months and months from now when you will be beautiful to me again. I hope you finish this phase soon!" And while he didn't mean to communicate this to me, the highly suspicious part of me didn't want to cuddle anymore that night.

I suppose the biggest blow is that while I may try over and over again to be a certain thing, a certain ideal I have created in my head with the help of Burberry and a League of Their Own, and Bilbo Baggins and Natalie Portman, I will never be perceived in the way I would prefer. The voice, the big boobs on the tiny body, the more angular cheekbones atop a more papery jawline, all of these classify me as....well cute is definitely one thing I may always be. My Grandmother was always cute. I wonder if she ever wanted to be some sort of strutting rooster like I would.

Will I always be an adolescent? I certainly don't feel like one. Can I drop the cute despite my physical smallness? Am I small at heart. Is the feminine the cute?

Thing is, I still look in the mirror and see Edward Cullen mixed with Tinkerbell. I don't see the huge jugs or the missing hair or the cute. But one can't always take breaks to go back and check the mirrors to make sure one's reflection hasn't changed. I have to trust my inner voice, no matter the proverbial cheek pinching I endure with so much patience.

Blog Block

Sorry I haven't written, blogspot. It's the holidays. It was finals week. Why on Earth do the proverbial "they" choose to subject us crafty folk to such double pressures? My mind whirring with business reports, where to find a decent Kinkos where ANY employee has actually used a computer in their lifetime, alien-lady fashion drawings galore, and Christmas gifts (which always take longer to put together than originally intended...and somehow, if I finish them at all early, they seem less special than when the original cash was handed over for them, the final crafty details added, the note signed in sincerity, etc., than if I was to finish them in a flurry on the fated X-mas Eve). My mind was all cloudy with too many snacks and not enough real food, relationship subtleties, and endless lists. And the lists of lists. The lists of things I owe Ponikins money for as he has been so kind to do all of our erranding while I cram my brain with the historic details of aristocratic costume. The lists of people I need to see, call and have cut my hair. The lists that grow as I spend hours examining my new haircut in the mirror wondering if I look like a soccer mom. (Yes...I cut my hair again. Let's hope this current phase of shrinking hairstyles doesn't lead to the oft inevitable buzz cut. As much as I think I might look better than many with that haircut, it still doesn't suit me.)

So! The only thing I was able to do with any energy in the sexy santa suit Poni gave me this year was watch Conan and occasionally get up to stuff yet another necessity into my luggage. Poni and I have both spent some time in Seattle for a stint, and now he and I are in our respective parental locations. I considered writing about footy pajamas for this blog, as Poni is somehow able to make these full-force onsies somehow sexy(...and I am missing his polar-fleeced booty this holiday). Kinda reminds me of a date I went on in New York that involved costuming myself in tight-ass ladyalls (overalls for ladies, i.e. overalls with boob cups). They were a bitch to peel off and that was the point. New Yorkers are pushy. Onsies, although hard to pee in, are both sexy and a functional chastity "belt". Wait...now that I'm remembering correctly, they are not. But they do create an illusion of chastity and security, which is somehow sexy on it's own. That whole can't-catch-me thing. That I'll never choose pleasure over dignity thing. That just try to get this stick out of my ass long enough to go parking thing. These days it seems relationships are like strings of investments in one's business portfolio as opposed to long-lasting romantic partnerships.

Anyway, it's Christmas Eve and my mother is attempting to get me to read Martha's directions on how to roast a turkey. The standbys of Christmas at home: Helping mother prepare copious amounts of fattening meats, Northern Exposure, spiked cider, Martha Stewart binges, suddenly finding time for reading, and now, in place of horseback riding (my beloved Cosby passed away this fall), running with my Dad and his band of super-fit executive commuter buddies. They all wore REI slick gear and danced circles around me as I scuttled sweatily behind them clad in American Apparel bullsh*t running shorts and grunge gear.

I had better get to turkey business. Giblets....gross. I shall be keeping Lady Gaga's meat dress in mind as I handle the tender bird parts, making every moment chic, as always. (Ha!)

Sexy Santa Suits

So I really really want one of those sexy Santa suits I've seen in specialty stores along Hollywood Blvd. They look like this:


I would hopefully wear it to something like this:

No, I'm just kidding. I wouldn't wear it out...at least not to a dance party. Maybe the beach! That would be a Los Angeles Christmas I could get jazzed about! It puts me in a misty, fuzzy haze to gaze at Santa-suited mannequins all lined up sexy in their fluorescent-lit window displays...next to the bong store, with the Converse store on the other side, of course. I imagine myself a sexy candy cane lady Queen with Irmine firs and red velvet (rather than the highly flammable stuff displayed on Hollywood) draped in small, yet sexy quantities over my forever-warm-and-young-despite-the-forever-snow shimmering bod.... Mr. or Mrs. Claus? Who knows. When your nipples are this cozy, who cares?

What is it about this particular trend of sexy girl costume apparel that really glosses over my feminist theory and general irritation of mass-produced sexy silliness? Maybe it's the simplicity of the season...my Libra moon likes the limited choices. For the holidays, a girl could be a sexy Santa, a sexy Mrs. Claus (though no one could tell the difference), or perhaps a sexy elf, whereas during Halloween one could be anything from a sexy bee to a sexy lumberjack to a sexy leper or what have you these days. It's far too overwhelming, and that much more annoying in part because: Somehow, you really can turn almost ANYTHING into sexy girl wear. It's overwhelming for me when things get too slutty, not because I feel judgy about sluts, but because I get all wrapped up in the "be them or do them?" dilemma all over again. It can be highly confusing in general to be a femme sometimes. I feel like I would be that weird queer girl who wouldn't be invited to the pool party or slumber party in the eighties teen flick, but no one would know the wiser because: Hey! I get just as excited about nail polish and sparkles as they do with my obviously heterosexual wardrobe. Actually, I remember thinking in high school that to come out might jeopardize any slumber party status I might have, and this certainly slowed my process down. But I digress...

I am drinking in the sugary sweet holiday season this year in huge, enthusiastic gulps. Poni and I have our mouse-house laden in ridiculous holiday cheer, Glee Christmas music playing on repeat for too many days now. It's disgusting. I have been attempting to take care of a few key Christmas-y things before I head home for the holidays next week AND study for my final exams, also next week, and this is all getting much too exciting. I find the content of my classes extremely stimulating, and I feel the same way about Christmas this year. I imagine myself a Disney Christmas bird, shivering, screeching and singing for pure excitement. Somehow Christmas colored without intending to be so. Christmas in India last year was fun, but I was dreadfully homesick.

I don't feel homesick in Los Angeles. There is something seductive about the tough-love quality of this city. I do love a good tease, and I have fallen in love with the rock star once again, this time in city form. I feel challenged to forever seek its approval, though it will in turn forever choose its career over our relationship. Only the sexy aloof Leo-city Los Angeles could somehow turn my head from the dark intensity of the love I feel for Scorpio Seattle. I know Seattle will cradle me with its cold, pale, tattooed arms and remind me of my true Northwest alliance for a couple of weeks. It will remind me that fashion does not always include long, Brazilian-blown locks and draped jersey. It will remind me what good coffee is. All of the burlesque and drag queens will help to clarify why, in fact, do I want a sexy Santa costume?

I will report back on this later. Happy holidays, and remember to make the yuletide GAY!!!!!

[Some] Hunky Hipster Gays

Sometimes I call Ponikins my "Baby Bear," which is fitting for him, and gurgly-cute-exciting for me, especially when I am screeching at him in my most high-pitched and angry beeb (bird) voice and preparing to pounce...Or when I am tenderly running my fingers through his perfectly-oiled raven locks while we discuss our plans for home improvement...Or when he is fussing over something and his cheeks do that thing where they look both tense and squishy at the same time.

The term might be more aptly applied, however, (with no offense, or any invalidation to anyone's identity intended) to a recently recognizable breed of queer I like to call the "hipster gay." These man-hunks of musky masculinity mixed with the carefully carefree styling of a culturally informed and relevant young person...ooze a new kind of gay. A refreshing kind of gay that does not offend my comfortably half-hearted everyday style. My whole life I've felt that I could never be a fag hag. Sometimes I smell like a human. Sometimes I like to mis-match my clothes on purpose. Sometimes I look like a mixture between a Muppet Baby and a tacky granny. All the fags I've known with hags, until recently, have been exquisitely polished, spray tanned, rich, and bitchy. Their hags are the same way. Usually Blond, some sort of executive or married to one, equally bitchy. Kens and their Barbies, but with the Kens showing their true rainbow colors (I mean, right?!) But these Hipster gays are a perfect combo of gently cruddy old-school style and emotionally available.

I may have found a breed of fag I could be a new breed of hag to.

More photos have been added to the Fashion I Find Interesting page!
Also...this week in EXCITING fashion

No, wait...THIS is who I want to be this winter/year/forever

And by that, I don't mean that I want to be a greaser, nor do I really want to look like one, per say, piece by piece, but this is the general feeling I want to exude, but mixed with princess. I do believe that the jean jacket, or "tough" denim could make a considerable comeback as an "attitude" piece, with less elitism than a leather jacket, and more a more urbane meetcha-out-back-for-a-smoke-or-a-rumble-or-a-shag look. However! I do believe that the jean jacket is a specific piece, that cannot (or rather SHOULD not) be dressed up any further than your local dive bar or used book shop. It is not sleek, and the fashion industry should no longer try to make it so, in my opinion (with the exception of the jean SHIRT which is not a jacket, people, and can indeed be more versatile, tucked in or out, fitted or boxier, suspenders, vest, a nice boutonniere of some sort, perhaps).

Take this girl. She has tried to turn the jean jacket, a classically androgynous piece, into mall gear. She looks too stiff, and the acid wash only makes her makeup look cakier. I would also like to point out that the jean jacket is hardly flattering to any aspired feminine shape. It naturally adds a touch of butch to any outfit, and should be embraced as such.

The jean jacket should be accessorized with flushed red, just-finished-tagging-that-train-car-or-shooting-a-guerrilla-movie-about-subway-performers cheeks, and subtler makeup, preferably slightly smudged kohl eyeliner applied the night before, daring to let the world see any walk of (un)shame you might be on. I also believe that my makeup and hair can sometimes be like pizza: better cold, the morning after. The jean jacket should be styled spontaneously, with nothing but a sponge bath, a joint, and a tube of chapstick. The jean jacket should put some cock in your step, some musk in your scent, some romance behind your ears.

The jean jacket should be accompanied by a subtle showing of a soft beer belly, peeking out from under a (stained) tee of some muted aged color, and for the hipster, this tee should obviously advertise for one's favorite indie-thrash-art-punk band of the moment. Either way, a belly display is one of the sexiest accessories anybody can have, especially for female-bodies, and especially when there is a bit of belly hair included, or perhaps an old-English tattoo. The model above is at least appropriately utilizing her belly, which is probably much flatter than it looks in this photo. I love that!

My current dilemma is deciding whether fuzzy-lined or un-lined is better, for on one hand, lined is perhaps much more comfortable, especially in the winter months, and especially for the those fans of the simple tee-shirt. But on the other hand, unlined would function year round, and, depending on the level of loose to the fit, could be bundled up with another classic androgynous piece: the hoodie.

Winter=

Coldness. Periodic warmness that heats the heart first. Periodic spells. Love spells, food spells, party spells, anxiety spells, school spells. Spells that last a night with reverberating repercussions for the following weeks, or months, or years, or lifetimes. I am in the process of sorting out the various spells cast upon my heart and fate as of late. All of these have been cast mostly by my own proverbial hand.

Lovely. Just Lovely.

I'm feel like it's growing on me. Los Angeles, that is. It might be the fact that the weather is a lot like typical Seattle weather today, only without the bite. Maybe it's all of the chocolate I've been eating. Maybe it's the full moon in Scorpio tomorrow, or the amazing bird store I went to today with all the amazing and friendly beebs. Maybe it's the pumpkin spice, the piece of quartz I keep in my bra, or the awesome grades I'm getting in school these days. Maybe it was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows at 9:30 A.M.. Maybe it's the plane ticket my Pa booked for me for the holidays, or the US weekly I've got waiting on the bed next to me. Maybe it's the little bit of water weight I've lost, or the adjustment my lungs are making to the air. Maybe it's the bath salts, or the kitties I live with, or the fresh sheets on the bed.

It's all of these things...plus lot's of really awesome PEOPLE. It's the people that challenge me here, but the few friends I've made, and the daily connections that really make it happen for me here. It's the new buddy I'm meeting to window shop with tomorrow, and the buddies I'll meet up with tonight for dancing. It's the Poni on the bed with me. It's Young Wil Adams, bless his sexy heart, and Rachelle the Amazon. It's Lauren the sexy Virgo nerd boi, and Morgan my newest heart-t0-heart friend. It's Jane and Lara, and Hayden with and all her hilarity. It's the random celeb run-ins that add a splash of candy to my social diet. It's the letters I recieve from my buddies from home. It's my absolutely amazing and inspiring teachers. In fact, the people I meet here are overall very wonderful, when one is in the right mood to see them that way. I am in an amazing mood, feeling totally blessed, lucky, alive, smart, chic, friendly, and healthy. I am feeling happy here.

And I wonder what to blog about, really, when I'm in one of these candy cane moods. This is a blog to appease those who expect reports, but to be honest I much prefer blogging about something more...poetic, or political, or at least highly charged with my opinions. I wonder if my readers might be yawning and feeling a bit sickly reading something so bland as to how adjusted, or happy, or lucky I might be right now. If I were in a darker mood and talking to another version of myself in the mood I'm in now, I would probably feel like taking a nap.

Actually...I do feel like taking a nap. x.

Homophobia/Will Someone Please Teach Me How To Take Photos In Which My Face Doesn't Look Like A Moonpie?

Last night I was lucky enough to be able to attend a GAY-la celebrating the anniversary of the Los Angeles Gay and Lesbian Center. It was truly magical, to say the least, uniting two of my most favorite things: gays and celebs. The really magical parts included gays that were ALSO celebs, which really packed a wallop in the gut-wrenchingly-awesome category of life. I got to brush shoulders and briefly hobnob with many of my long-time favorites. Lilli Tomlin, Perez Hilton, and Jane Lynch, to name a few. Perez thought we had met before and I wondered for a second, like an idiot, "Can he see me through the computer screen?!" Lilli Tomlin dropped her clip-on earring and I got to pick it up and give it back to her, and Jane Lynch told me I smelled nice. Those things alone pretty much wrapped the night up in a gossamer bow for me. BUT, those things aside, the night also helped me deal emotionally with a few themes that have been painting my life-colored-glasses for the past while.

The center's CEO Lorri Jean spoke and was particularly inspiring. Not only did she fill my already wine-warmed heart with hope, but also with validation. It was so nice to have someone give a damn good speech about the reality of not only how far the gays have come in this world, but she also touched ever so gently but effectively on the subject of the still-very-real-and-harsh reality of how far the gays have to go STILL. Not to be a Negative Nancy, but I feel like that is one of the most important things a community can give anyone. The spoken validation that a.) You/I/Hypothetical You or I are/am NOT CRAZY for thinking that the world is still annoyingly tense and scary. And b.) I/You/Hypothetical You or I feel the same things. Empathy. It takes breaking down the walls of communication, and by that I mean the plexi-glass Disney-cartoon painted walls the world likes to put up around problems, to feel comfortable opening up, let alone celebrating, the success the queer community has worked so hard to enjoy.

Jane touched delightfully on the subjects of narcissism and laziness, and spoke sardonically about how these things keep her from being an activist, per say. She reminded us all that she never intended her life to be a political statement, but lo and behold, her being an out gay person has been extremely important to her career. Like Lilli Tomlin and so many others, simply by being herself, she has become not only a Hollywood icon, but a political icon as well. In a way, many people I know are political icons simply by being who they are. At least they are to me. I can think of quite a few queers who have been so deeply, deeply inspiring to me throughout the years and have paved the road for me, so to speak, and inspired me to come out of my own stuffy closet. I still feel shy congratulating those people and thanking them for what they have meant to me, and if I didn't know better now than to out people, I would sing their praises from the rooftops, mountaintops, any kind of top, really. (Heheh.)

And I wouldn't sing the praises of gays only, dear Lord! I would sing the praises of many a sexual people who have been brave enough to talk about sex as if it were a real and important and extremely relevant issue at all times. I would sing to those who have a sense of humor about it, one that was strong enough to have me belly laughing about my own sexual self. I would sing the praises of those who have been survivors of sexual assault/rape/molestation (because statistically and in my experience, almost EVERYONE I know has suffered some sort of violation of this type, MYSELF INCLUDED) and have spoken up about it, made it known so others could feel comfortable claiming their own survivor-status in the community of others like themselves. Sexuality and sex have and always will be extremely RELEVANT issues.

I have to remind myself not to be ashamed every day. It's okay to be QUEER. It's okay to be sexual. And it is okay to talk about it. It's okay that others feel uncomfortable with me and my sexuality and perhaps my openness about those things because that is ultimately their problem, though it may feel so heavily like mine sometimes. It's okay to want to hang out with other queers a lot of the time and to feel validated by the conversation, community, and style they offer. It's okay to have felt pain having come out of the closet and to continue to struggle. It may feel so subtle at times...too subtle and too carefully blanketed by mainstream society's need-to-normalize, to comfortably speak about it or to call the world out on it.

I don't really feel like an activist, either, though I have had my glory days putting together Take-Back-The-Night rallies and leading Menstrual Pride clubs in my undergrad days. Those days were so deeply important, wickedly fun, and empowering as all hell, but I do feel like I have other fish to fry in terms of career moves. But I will never stop caring about good, real, and important activist work, and I will never stop being grateful for those who work so hard to make the world better for others. As I told my brother Pat before he left for the Ukraine to work for the Peace Corp, I think giving so wholeheartedly to others in the form of direct action is pretty much the most honorable thing a person can do.

I say all this today, in this here blog, because homophobia has been in my life as of late. Well, it has always been in my life, but I think I hit a special grace period in Seattle when it felt like queers were finally normal and homophobia was only an occasional weirdness. Just the other week I was telling my friend, who is struggling to deal with his family's "intolerance" of his sexuality, that his family would come around, just as people in my life have... And now I feel the awkward pain and confusion all over again. But homophobia is something that lurks in all of us, isn't it? It is kind of contagious. Once people I care about feel it and express it to me, I start to feel homophobic and ashamed myself, because it has been so deeply embedded in my wrinkles of time.

Validation or not, I have to set aside my internalized homophobia. Rather than set it aside, I have to burn it in effigy every so often, as I do my other struggles and fears, because it is not something to dwell on or be given any power. Though it will always be there, it must always be fought. And though it may seem gone from time to time, I, and my community, should be prepared to fight it again and again and again.

Talk to each other, people, but be careful and aware of what is coming out of your mouth. Ask yourself what your problem really is...if you have one. Homophobia is so, so often internalized first and then directed towards others, if you get my drift, and most out and proud gays know this.

Resources:
PFLAG
GLAAD
GLSEN
For the questioning
For Parents
For those who might just need a sexier sex life, solo or not...
For those who might need a sex convo starter...
Susie Bright is really smart...
For those who need cheap but awesome counseling (I mean, don't we all?!)<---(for Seattle-ites.) For those who live in Los Angeles, this is what I've got so far. I have yet to get the tour...

For those readers of mine living in or around Seattle who might need a sexy pick me up, check out the burlesque scene! It's huge, it's chalked full of talent, and it's amazingly sex-positive and affirming. You could take a date, just watch by yourself, OR you could try twirling your own tassels! People of all ages, shapes, colors and creeds are sexy, sexual people...and can do burlesque! Also, the Center For Sex Positive Culture is in Seattle and is an amazing resource for EVERYONE. I miss the culture of Seattle deeply, and a lot of that is due to the amazing and colorful community of support and awareness the people there have concerning sexuality and gender. Take advantage!!!

As was pointed out to me again so thoughtfully on last week's episode of Glee, prejudice is just ignorance. We all have the responsibility to educate ourselves, for the sake of ourselves, and the ones we love. We all have the capacity to love each other and ourselves. My favorite yoga teacher in Seattle, Molly at the Samarya Center, inspires me, when I remember to think of her words, to grow MORE capacity for love as I get older, not less. In no way do we need to become more confined as we get older, and there is almost always a way out of that hole you've dug yourself into, though you might have to ask for someone's help to do so.

Peace and Love to you all.

Another GAY fundraising event tonight! Stay tuned...

Gettin In The Groove

Last night's episode of Glee nearly made me shit stars.

I have a maddening...MADDENING crush on Chris Colfer's character Kirt. As I told Poni last night in between squeals and other teen-girl expressives, "I want to smell him! I bet he smells like milk!"

Also, I have so much respect for that show. So much optimism, amazing tunes (I am a Musical Theater grrrl, afterall...), so funny, and....THE GAYS DON'T DIE. I love that there are no dead gays so far.

Two things to be dually noted about a good film or television show:
There is no raping of the women.
The gays don't die.

AND I love Katy Perry's "Teenage Dream" song so so much and it reminds me of Hannah-and-me-blasting-sweet-pop-tunes-in-her-car-while-we-talk-about-our-boyfriends-moving-to-L.A. I love that the boys and girls switched up the gender roles a bit (Though I thought the styling could have been a bit more gender adventurous...but I always think that. I thought that recently when Glee star Jane Lynch was featured on SNL and was cast only as slutty mom, or crazy old lady, or whoever she was...I was hoping to see her as a sleazy masculine janitor, perhaps, or some stuffy butch political figure...though I do think her feminine interpretations were nothing short of HILARIOUSLY funny as per usual...but I digress into a million "..."s.)

Maybe it's my recent do-them-or-be-them? dilemma meditating that has me thinking an awful lot about switching it up...

I tend to be attracted to gender-benders and always have been. Male/female or what have they/you, I have always assumed my feminine role to be fixed. But recently I've been feeling super confined and suffocated in my girly wear, so I took a cue from those I have so admired my entire life. I've been playing with chest binding and wearing my bf's preppy clothes, feeling decidedly like a teen boy and all about it. Though mind you, I usually end up in a mini skirt the next day, it's nice to have a go in another pair of "shoes," if you will. Or "pants," if you will. Or "underoos," if you will.

I had to chisel under my L.A. Barbie pink acrylic nails, though. They really didn't go with my butch-wear, nor are they easy to play instruments with.

On a scholarly note, I have been enjoying my homework immensely. I love drawing for hours on end. I don't care what my feminist brain says, I love drawing freakishly thin alien women! It is so satisfying. Like eating twinkies. I love my sewing class even though it's a bit boring. I have had excellent teachers in the sewing department throughout my life. But boredom aside, I love the machinery, the culture-shock the student population offers me (though I may complain sometimes for lack of insta-friends), and the totes-adorbs sewing teacher who really really cares about teaching sewing. I love my business of fashion class more than anything. Who knew I was a business woman? Something about this place has my entrepreneurial gears turning. I didn't even know I HAD entrepreneurial gears! I have been rolling my eyes at my Dad's E-gears so much throughout my life and hadn't realized my own interest in the subject!

We'll see what I do with that, though I will say I have things cooking. Or rather, things are being prepared in little piles to be tossed into a stew and cooked.

So far the biggest obstacles to my own enjoyment of this place are as follows: myself, pollution, and multiple-choice tests.

***keep checking side pages for updated fashion-y tidbits!***

Queer Fashion

Since I am a moony Cancer baby with an ascendant sign in Scorpio, and affinity for Scorpios (see Julia Roberts), and the current moon cycle is moving into Scorpio, I am taking Rob Brezney's astrological forcast for Scorpio seriously this week.

As I lay out a mental map of where I want my career to go, it tends to head straight...or rather, GAYly forward, over the rainbow. A few weeks ago, I attended an amazing fashion show to kick of a weekend-long event called Butch Voices LA. (For those who know him, see if you can spot my lover boy on their website!) I noted several things at this super refreshing event. Among them were:
1. There ARE gender-benders in Los Angeles! (I had only been here a couple weeks but had already become exasperated at their lack of visibility)
2. Whew! They are HOT.
3. Some amazing (and not so amazing) fashion exists for these lovelies.
4. I feel a strong sense of purpose having moved here and witnessed this event, and I finally know what I want to do with my life...

I want to make clothes for queers. I want to make fashion for those I am passionate about. I want to tap into the market I so love to tap. Ha! I want to see them happy, dapper, sly, sexy, understood, catered to, loved, and at any and all price ranges. As much as I love hanging out in the men's dressing rooms with my lover boy, I believe that the increasing prevalence of acceptance for my gender-f*cking community members requires a different shopping experience. My fantasy dressing room would be much more colorful and never gender-segregated...just like my other fantasies! My fantasy clothing line would be created to validate identities that have too long been closeted. PUN INTENDED.

A woman named Parisa Parnian, the esteemed fashion diva and designer of Rigged OUT/Fitters, was the keynote speaker, and totally inspired me. Apparently, she left her well-paying job as a designer for a major fashion label to start her own line of queer clothing. The line flopped, but her spirit did not, and she sent chills of excitement down my spine as I imagined attempting to take up those same reins...

For now, I will devote at least part of this blog (see my Fashion I Find Interesting page for listings) to gender-bending fashion and fashion influences. Please feel free to contact me or post comments with any ideas you might like to add!

Blogging

...is something I have to fit into my now ridiculously packed schedule. So this one will be brief. To keep any and all updated: I do try to blog every Tuesday, but today, due to the leaping waves of hectic panic I feel in anticipation of the hours of sketching, scheming, studying, researching, friend-making, resume updating, list-making, food eating (God willing), and all the other "ings" I am on my way to do, I am allowing myself the occasional blograstition until the following Friday. SO if I haven't blogged on a Tuesday, I will do so by the weekend. GOD I am so busy and important!

On that note, see you this weekend!

Only ten more skinny bitches to draw tonight...*

More friends in town this weekend. The delightful Kenneth, with his sharp wit and glittery dark eyes. His friend David in town, as well. Medical doctor, glowing optimism, snapping photos at every turn. The reason for their visit? None other than Shakira, that beloved Colombian diva with more than just a singing voice.

We sat in the back row at a hauntingly steep altitude in the Staples Center downtown. Shakira in all her glory filling the crowd with racing hearts and sheer adoration. She is a goddess, for sure, with her amazing moves, amazing brains, amazing singing voice that is just as good or better live than in the studio. Though I have never been the hugest fan of her mediocre tunes and strange lyrics, I have a LOT of respect for this woman after seeing her in concert. And her costumes were amazing. (She opened her set in a maddening fuchsia colored wedding dress!)

I kind of hated her, though. I felt the swell of the girl competition threatening to ruin my disposition throughout the evening. The girl competition is really REALLY happening here. I felt it in Seattle, but it was not dealt to me in nearly the dosage it is here. Heaping masses of pressure are heaped on the women of this city. Everywhere dieting, brazillian-blown out tanned beach babes with rich boyfriends/husbands fill the highways, billboards, and miriad shopping centers. They smile with bright white teeth and eyes that say, "I was born this way!" And I smile back thinking "Why did I wear the polka-dotted onsie out in public again?! What was I thinking?"

So far I have been in the presence of four celesbians. Samantha Ronson being the latest. I felt a bit less star-struck by her, probably due to her adorable awkwardness and failing DJ skills, but I couldn't help but feel as though I had checked off another on the bucket list.

*Title in reference to the intense amounts of homework I have each week for my Fashion Sketching class.

Freaking out/ Trip to Austin

Last week I nearly lost my s**t about three times/day for several days in a row. I knew it was going to be tight, living in shoebox with someone with drastically different living preferences, but the actual experience is something a bit more...graphic. Oh, the passive aggression, the pent up guilt and homesickness, the humility of having the toilet within hearing distance of one's partner, God, and anything else in a mile's vicinity... I have been confronting things such as: shame, humility, acute awareness of my hygienic habits, scheduling conflicts, loss of sleep due to hours of conflict resolution (i.e. arguing), and general irregularity...if you get my drift. I have considered bailing and getting my own place, even toying with idea of being a campus R.A. (I love teens!) I have been journaling and making lists like a schizophrenic, trying to make some sense of this fantastic adventure in coupledom.

I decided against moving out, of course, because it ultimately RULES, and I love my life, and the trip I took to Austin this weekend for Poni's high school reunion helped me gain a little of that perspective. Nothing like taking a break from daily life in the smoggy veins of Los Angeles to help one see and breathe more clearly the reality of one's own fortune.

Living in this city as opposed to Seattle makes me feel as if I am in one of those houses at carnivals filled with crazy mirrors and oddly-appealing bacterial odors. It is difficult to avoid a general feeling of pressure to be ultimately thin, successful, forever young, and generally conventional. I get the feeling that even people who are SO those things will never feel as if they are good enough. While living in Seattle, tabloid magazines were a tasty, trashy treat to help me escape from daily pressures whereas here they are beginning to make me feel a little queasy to even look at. Don't get me wrong, I'm still addicted to gossip-mags, and my current educational environment enthusiastically supports my reading them, but now they hit me in a place that feels bruised, and getting more bruised by the day.

Everything about school is both exciting and overwhelming. I am feeling the pull of the downturn rush of life's roller coaster as I plummet into the speed-of-light fashion industry...and my thirties. Sigh.

Introduction

As an undergrad, I studied gender, sexuality, and fine arts in congruence with each other in a self-designed major. After graduating, I dabbled in paper-pushing and various service jobs before settling in a career as a waitress/barista for a couple years. I saved some money, learned to sew and machine knit, and traveled to India before finally deciding to go back to school for fashion design.

I am in love with a beautiful and amazing Sagittarius queer boi who has turned my life upside down. His decision to move to L.A. was largely inspirational to my move here, knowing that before this, Los Angeles was perhaps the LAST place I would ever choose to move. He has an awesome job as a manny for a famous celesbian, who, like the planets, seems to be sort of orbiting around our ripening adulthoods, nourishing idealism in our hearts and warming the seats for our up-and-coming-ness. We live in her 400 sq. ft. guest house, (in which the tub is in the kitchen, the toilet is in the curtained closet area) with three parakeets and two ancient cats. It works, somehow. I think it's the skylights and the many-thread-count sheets...and all the LOVE.

I am a Cancer sun sign with a Scorpio Ascendant and a Libra moon. I believe this combination of planetary influences is at least partially responsible for my over-emotive passion, drive, and destructive inability to make a decision, or to see anything as black and white. (Hence the combo-major in college, wide-spread yet unfocused talents, queer sexual and gender preferences, and the hours it takes for me to pick out an outfit.) Merely making the decision to go back to school for something so specific as fashion design is something I am deeply proud of.

I have been here for one month, which has given me enough time to totally freak out before finally starting to feel kind of at home. The culture shock is considerable, but subtle...except for those moments when I find myself surrounded by models draped in money and pumped surgically with success, or when I realize I am have been jogging (yes JOGGING) for ten minutes and have passed nearly ten health-supplement stores.

I began school last week and everything about it has been exciting and inspiring. I love my teachers, my mentors, the few classmates I've interacted with so far, and I find myself already doing the homework before it's been assigned to me, palms sweating all over my sketches, or notebooks, or muslin. This industry is a roaring beast and I feel like a teeny-tiny lion tamer with far too much (or too little?) confidence. Aside from any complaining I might be doing about my experiences here thus far, I am so excited about life I can hardly stand it. I can't wait for NOW to be happening...you know?!