QWren

This week's blog is hiding in another blog of mine. Tricky, tricky!
http://qwren.blogspot.com/

Stylishly rough around the edges

Teetering on the edge of a cold and watching When Harry Met Sally this evening. Have finished my asymmetrical organza wrap skirt with volume save for the no-sew buttons, which require hammering. Knowing me, I plan to save this hammering business for when I am in a more shop-appropriate place. No longer going to live in the tiny mouse house. The Celesbian will no longer be my landlord. Loverboi and I are struggling to find peace as a couple under the stress of his job, which is currently wrought with negativity and scapegoating (celebs...go figure!), particularly in relation to this guest house.

I am about to move into my new place, which is in Echo Park, a cheap and particularly charming area of central L.A. with a Cuban bakery just a few yards from my back door and a more diverse version of the Wayward Cafe down the street. It's pretty much close to everything, and my closet is so big I could live in it. It has it's own light switch AND window. I can't wait! New roomie Carey is a witty and charming SF-stereotype who reminds me of my old buddy Rosco, and his gf, proclaimed addict-in-the-program with Rihanna's good looks and a personality I took to immediately. Last night Poni, Carey and Ashley (the gf) and I had dinner on the carpet and argued animatedly about decorating and told the stories of our romances...

I rode to the Abbey in the cats-and-dogs downpour to meet Mike Walker who's in town for the weekend, but he ended up "walkered" somewhere, which I predicted would happen (we're having brunch tomorrow with his posse) and I ended up dancing the night away at venues riddled with femmes, fags, and amazing, amazing dancers. Never have I been so inspired by a city to dance like a maniac. Never have I seen so many femmes dance on a bar, or had a true femme queer friend. I now have two. No three.

Also, the other day I saw some girls in literally their underwear at the local coffee shop. Forget workout gear, these fashion forward ladies were one step away from the full Monty. I wanted to take their picture, but I got embarrassed. Ha!

Tequila Breath

I smell like tequila this morning. Went to a party after house hunting all day and getting a couple offers for apartments. It's nice to walk into a party and be greeted by a bunch of bear hugs after weeks of being anti-social for schoolwork's sake. It's nice to feel young and wild still, watching the subtle dramas unfold as the fridge empties. It's nice to slow dance in a living room filled with conversations while the pop mixes stream endlessly from Ipod after Ipod. It's fun to finally let a little loose in Silverlake while Laurel Canyon sleeps as usual.

It's been raining here. Cats and Dogs fall from a full-moon sky bright and enabling. I hear the weather in Seattle has been lovely. I am looking forward to visiting my beloved home city for a couple of days at the beginning of April, perhaps, to see Glasses in the Rocky Horror Picture Show, and my parents, and take my little bicycle back to LaLa with me on the Amtrak. It will be so romantic!

I am moving in with a cute kid named Carey. We met at a lesbo dance night in West Hollywood the day after he moved here from SF. As the girls doused themselves in booze and jiggled about the bar surfaces at Truckstoppin' those few months ago, we made a bunch of eye contact on the dance floor, knowing that our friendship was destiny. However, yesterday he told me that I'm actually just one of those "staring people" that stares a whole hell of a lot. He and his adorbs girlfriend told me that it seems like I'm thinking sexual things even when I may not. So there's that. Hmmm....no one has ever told me that before. AND apparently it's obvious I'm a gay. Girls at school assume my partner is a "she" automatically, or at least they did the other day. So now I'm an obviously gay stare-er. This brings up a funny conflict for me. On one hand, I really like the idea of people thinking I make a lot of eye contact, and that them perceiving me as a perv doesn't sway their interest in me as a friend. But on the other hand, I just really don't want babes--I mean girls--WOMEN--to think "Oh, God, that Lesbian over there keeps looking at me in a sexual way, " and getting scared or feeling awkward. I feel like one of the main reasons it took me so long to come out is because I just didn't want to make my girly girlfriends all uncomfortable. What if they don't want me to come to their sleepovers anymore? But I digress.

College is harder than I remember...

I have been doing so much homework I feel crazy. I've been getting almost no sleep, staying up late doing so much drawing I've had to get reading glasses to help my eyes. They keep doing this thing where they dart back and forth really fast--like a spasm--when I concentrate too hard for too long. My body is suffering a bit. I've got some dark circles, a weird pimple on my lower back (what?) and I've been eating too many snack bars as meals, so I've lost weight but I'm feeling bloated. I really shouldn't be blogging, but my presence on the internet must live on! I must remain on the map. I can't let my social life, even if it is only facebook and a blog entry every week, disappear completely. Superbowl Sunday was spent painstakingly hunched over a sewing machine, cursing searsucker and its tiny tiny stripes that simply must match on my bias-cut summer dress or I won't feel satisfied! I am going the over achiever route, as well, which doesn't make things easier, but I do get more out of my work. I am still completely in love with this, even if it kills me, I will still love it deeply.

Poni has left for the weekend to attend a college reunion, and I am left in a quiet house, with only my own mess, for three days. I think I'll throw a party! (Kidding, Poni...and like I'd have the time! Pshaw!)

Anyhow. How boring to only write about how busy I am! I am trying to find new ways to play with my gender on a daily basis. One day I am computer-nerd-meets-Ramona-Quimby and another day I'm fairy-princess-elf-meets-Sailor-Moon, or whatever it may be. I'm into the idea of mash-ups, taking two possibly opposing gender concepts and having them shake hands in clothing form on my body. I currently am into maintaining my hairy armpits, but properly grooming everything else. I just can't find shaved armpits attractive. They creep me out, and remind me too much of babies with diaper rash. Gross.

Looking forward to Valentine's Day, usually a fondly-remembered holiday for me, getting my own place in the next couple of months, having a break from school to let loose on my dress form, and writing a few songs while I'm at it.

Warrior Princess

My friend Kitt just sent me this link on Model Andrej Pejic, androgenous model and babe to boot. Very inspiring. Check it out. It makes perfect sense to me that people with a tad more XY than XX would make excellent models because they often naturally have the long, slightly spindly, or at least the ultra shapely legs required for looking painfully gorgeous in clothes. Why not leave the modeling to those with the natural bone structure?

My ideal runway show would feature all androgenous people, and no one in the audience would be able to tell, or care, what was under the skirts or in the pants of my models. That's also how I plan my future wedding. And my future post-apocalyptic commune, for that matter.

I had an artistic revelation last week. Pink Belly Dancer was in town and for her birthday, we perused Melrose Avenue with avengence, she acquiring tiny dress after tiny dress, our heads all buzzing with the clothes and the people and the weather and the friendship and the frantic fun of it all. I managed to get my ear pierced again, forgetting completely that body art inflicts a certain amount of trauma, on so many levels, to the wearer. My brain slowly congealed at the combination of (window) shopping and pierced adrenaline, eventually finding it rather hard to think, but suddenly bursting into tears over "it all!" when Poni and I finally made it home. Sweetness listened and cooked for us while I let out a slew of worries, most of them my being concerned over lack of inspiration. But the sensation of having my thoughts cancelled out by opposing experiences helped me get to the root of the matter. I had, for a brief window, insight into this very intensely awesome part of myself; the deep, gutteral artist, the cleverest me, the most sensitive to my powers.

I have since felt incredibly tapped into my "art crazy" as I like to think of it. I have been thinking of words that go well with art, like ART FOOD, or ART TART, or (as a reference to a brand my friend Biff invented in our early twenties) ART CRUSH. My theory in this is that in doing simple exercises to think of things in a creative context, even if it's a little tick-lick habit as such simple poetry, will bring me back into the moment and think for myself. Creatively. Melrose Ave. gave me an extra juicy shot of what I find so subtly overwhelming about Los Angeles, all in one not-so-subtle go. It helped me to feel more clearly how senstive I can be to it's influence, and it had started to cloud my own instincts. I should be free.

I feel a bit more liscence to do as I please, and my art projects have been wildly passionate deepening affairs in my head. I am in love with my work, and that feels amazing. The other day I imagined myself a dancing warrior princess while practicing yoga to Lorena McKennit. And you know what? I f*cking felt like a real warrior princess when I was done, having turned on my magical powers.

Freedom restored

The Prius is back in my life!

Freedom!

I decided to take the eco-friendly road this morning to school by parking it at a park-and-ride in Universal City and taking the Red Line train from there. I squeezed that beast miraculously into the sliver of a singular space left on the lot of hundreds of spaces, and hunched to keep myself from toppling under the incredible weight of my bookbag as I took confident lunges into the depths of the public transportation underground I am now so happy acquainted with. Upon realizing I had left my wallet in the car, I turned into a monstrous storm cloud and pillaged the energy back to the Prius, huge bookbag in tow, my grumbling in no way aiding the aching in my back. I would use the rolly bag I have for school, but it's impossible to get over the shoulder to haul up and down stairs when all of LA is in my way and I have to forgo the elevator/escalator (I get those two mixed up).

This week has been a quick one. All of my time has been devoted to school, although I have been taking periodic breaks to bask in sunlight. Oh, glorious, glorious sunlight. Part of me feels very smug about all of this sun. Poor Seattle, all cold and dreary. For endless months it will continue to be dreary. And I get to wear this crochet halter top and none but a light sweater in the evening. I get to squint under the shade of my hand in the city streets. I get to give my armpits air AND sun as I lay spread out on the mouse house patio. What has two thumbs and lives in a sunny place? THIS GUY.

Plans to move out are solidly planned as plans for sure. But the when and where are unsure. For now, I will be concerning myself with textiles, flats, croquis, and pinning my bias cut dress together so properly it will make my teacher's head spin.

Everything's Changed. As per usual. Sigh.

I am in no mood to blog, but I am obliged to write every week because I'm not giving up! Never will I ever give up! So what if I don't really have a stable, sane place to live or a car and I have to rely on Poni to cart me back and forth from the mouse house to the bus stop! So what if I feel like my hair might be thinning, or going grey, and I've still got stomach problems from India! So what if I might never be able to fill all the career demands my creative instincts inspire...I will be tortured with creativity forever! So what if I am down to two beebs and the only song I've written lately is a song commemorating the death of Winona, David's eternal love?! (long story, for those of you who do not know the intense relationships my budgies nurture...) So what if I miss my friends and family, but am numbed by the intensely perfect weather and the copious hours of schoolwork I must constantly be fitting in!

Anyhow...I don't even know why I'm complaining. Life is great, why would I be in a bad mood? I suppose a bit of bitterness is rising to the surface of me as seeming turmoil (i.e. change) again rakes its fingernails over my home life. Anytime my security (i.e. habits) is(are) threatened I become sullen. And that's that. I really am as sensitive as they say. Anything could set me off! The trick is: to hide or not to hide? To communicate or let it go? Which battles of the many that are possible are worth fighting?! GOD I love school. Nothing could be more riveting than the fiber content of every one's clothing in Textile Science, or draping a bias-cut Claire McCardell inspired seersucker dress, or deciding whether a baby hem as opposed to a single needle hem would be appropriate for a blouse, or journaling about fashion theorists and digressing into canyons of self-assertion that fashion matters, damn it! It matters to ME!

Poni got a massage from a lady named Goldenbear recently (a birthday present from me) who can tell you all about your past lives, and often the past lives of others in your life while she does so. She told him that he and I have known each other in a couple of other lives, but not many, and those she did mention included a life in which he and I were both little Russian tailor boys who made cool outfits for ourselves and sometimes got drunk and fooled around (we were into each other but communist Russia didn't allow our rainbows to come out, I'm sure). In another life Poni was an actor on the stage and I was his costume designer.

In any case, I have been into fashion (and gay, apparently) for many lifetimes. I feel like a little Russian tailor boy in many ways as I go about my life at this school. There are plenty of gays (men/MTFs) here, but they may as well be straight California girls, too. Really hot, really bitchy, and really intimidating. Today I was EXTRA fixated on the "fabric" on the other girls in my classes. Must have just been a full moon...yep. Very overwhelming and stimulating, to say the least, to be surrounded by so much beauty. These girls are true glamazons. They wear expensive clothes and are way too cool to be friendly to a nerdy, giggly little Seattle queer like me. I wonder if they can tell that I'm nearly ten years their senior? I wonder if they can tell that I'm queer and even if I were looking at their clothing and not their glistening...features, would they think I was perving on them like everyone else in the world must be? These days, here in California, I wonder that a lot...whether my gayness is written all over me or not? (aside from the rainbow on my wrist...I know, I know...) Whether my age is written all over me or not? Even if I wanted a reliable answer, everyone here in Los Angeles seems just a tad too fake (or is it nice? polite?) to ask.

Second Week of School and Full Upheaval of Sorts

Drama, drama, drama. For once, the world, rather than my own devices, has me sinking in a pool of dramatic circumstances. To view the world from an FIDM point of view would reveal a sea of nobodies with a smallish storm of fashion designers reigning overhead, judging the sea and raining on it because it wasn't wearing the correct water. Fashion students seem to feed on negativity, like high school students (which many of them barely used to be), and I find myself trapped in conversations in which the bulimic girl is not embraced, but shunned for being a bitch...in which the students text under the tables, and complain at the extensive amount of homework. I find it difficult to make friends here, to say the least. It makes me feel old to no longer be the brunt of dramatic episodes, the high priestess of gossip, the girl (or should I say..."woman"?...is that correct yet?) who enjoys and appreciates her schoolwork as a vice rather than a chore. When did I manifest into the homebody work-a-holic my Cancerian legacy promised I would become? When did everyone get so young and bitchy? I no longer look for fat rolls and zits in the mirror so much as wrinkles and gray hairs and varicose veins (we Cancers are also very vain)...that is, when I'm feeling terribly susceptible to the mutiny of fashion consciousness. The most vain of all art forms. Possibly the most ridiculous and necessary art form simultaneously.

Luckily, I feel a deep connection with this art form, and a supreme challenge to have come into this kind of scholastic environment at perhaps the very peak (or a little past the peak) of my youth and beauty. So much emphasis is placed on the designer to be competitive, not only as an artist, but as a beautiful individual representing their art in publicity. As an individual realizing my own deterioration and the sad reality of inevitable change, and as an extremely emotional and most certainly vain individual at that, embracing this career will be a challenge of utmost importance.

Moving on...

Aside from drama and judgment being a general theme as of late in my work life, I have been facing many dramatic and challenging mental twists in my home life as well. What is it about the holiday season that rapes one of so much...composure? Clarity? HAPPINESS? Why must the darkness bring upon darkness? I feel strangely empowered in this years wintry months, and found myself puzzling at the somber moods of my Seattle friends, and unpredictably, my Los Angeles family as well. Poni has found his job challenging in that he is a member of a family for a living, which is altogether invasive, subtle, and deeply impacting. To feel the wave of energy from a family blossoming and pubescent is very humbling, indeed. And I know so well the incredible power of pubescence. Oh, how I continue to marvel at my own ongoing pubescence to this day! Pubescent families, including my relationship with Poni, are like wildly hormonal teenagers. DYING for responsibility, unable to comprehend their inability to fully grapple with that responsibility, and also quite prone to DRAMATIC bursts of immaturity.

On top of all that was vaguely implied above, the car I have been using has broken down (RIP? Gotard the Prius), leaving me completely reliant on my mate for transportation to and from our bungalo in the rolling hills of Laurel Canyon. It is all I can do to keep myself feeling sane in the midst of almost total reliance on other people. My housing has been provided for me, my car was free-ish, my schooling is currently on loan but the same principle applies, and now I'm left without the ultimate freedom of transport. I'm trying to keep my composure and gratitude while enjoying the peace and magic of Laurel Canyon, but also praying from the depths of me to somehow find myself comfortably in the arms of the one person I feel truly comfortable relying on: Me. But alas, lessons are learned when we are uncomfortable, right? F*cking lessons can kiss my....I mean, I'm so happy to be able to have all of these incredibly interesting opportunities, and so many generous and amazing people in my life!!!

The library closes here (FIDM) at 7 PM on Fridays because no one aside from me is dorky enough to want to study on a weekend evening. It is quiet enough to hear the GaGa whining from the earbuds on the guy eight computers down from me. I henceforth pack up my rolling-tote and commence into the dark and tepid night, onto the bus and further into the bungalows of my coveted friendgroup, where we will toast reality all over again.

First Day of School...Again!

I have a love/hate relationship with the first day of school. Inevitably, I am a subtle jumble of knots inside. Nervous, bashful, and anticipating a wave of intense pressure and responsibility so great as to shrink me even further in stature. However, I have new school clothes, a fantastic number of slumber hours under my belt, a relaxed, healthy overall person thanks to an extensive and fulfilling holiday break, and a raring excitement to get back in the game of fashion. Bring on the textile science, draping, fashion sketching, and seminars! Bring on the Hogwarts-style instructors with their blood-painted nails and cat eyes! Bring on the swarm of highly fashion conscious but rarely friendly fellow fashion students! Bring on the young whipper-snappers and the older fashion students poised to hide their inner turmoil over the great tragedy of aging! Bring on the lack of time to eat, play, go out, or do anything but be a fashion design student! Bring on the lovely humming and buzzing of my life as a student, currently on the President's Honor Roll with a 4.0 GPA (we'll see how long that lasts!), armed with years of both matriculation at other establishments, and also years of partying-out-my-seemingly-endless-search-for-some-form-of-freedom-I-can't-put-my-finger-on-it.

Anyhow, I simply must do some asanas now. More updates to come on the fresh quarter of the "winter" we are experiencing here in the this city I fall harder for the longer I stay.

Cheers!

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!