quote worthy
August 30, 2010
Vegas roundup
June 29, 2010
Vegas chewed me up and spit me out. Because I got up at three a.m. to get there. There are laws against that hour, no?
The bride to be seemed generally pleased with life.
Despite the look of epic highz. I am stone sober in this picture.
Five of us pressed together in a surprisingly not roomy H3 with enough luggage to clothe the city and hit the freeway at 4:35 in the morning. The sun rose and the temperature climbed. By the time we hit our hotel, Caesars Palace, the thermometor hovered in the one hundred range. We hit Fat Tuesdays for half yard breakfasts and then the ridiculously beautiful pools, one of which was adults only, where we took our free passes and parked our tired asses. (“The Venus Pool Club is the most well-appointed and exclusive pool experience in Las Vegas, a sophisticated and secluded European-style retreat…”) Many beers and one epic rum concoction later, we actually checked in to our room. Dinner followed at Dick’s Last Resort (“From Rug-rats to Old Farts, from High-Class to No-Class, from the Top of the Food Chain, to the Bottom of the Barrel…”), within Excalibur, a place I’ve always wanted to check out. When the waiter asked, ‘the fuck you wanna drink?’ I felt like I was home. (The gimmick being that the waiters and waitresses are total dicks to you. Obviously this is my dream job.)
A friend of mine became a Vegas resident a few years ago. We don’t see each other much but she came out to play and catch up, which was fantastic, though brief. The early morning hours were catching up to us as we crept towards twenty-fours hours of awake when the bride’s ulcer took over. Many vomits later, we were all tucked in and snoring, passes to Pure keeping our suitcases warm. I didn’t mind in the slightest that we skipped the club portion of the evening. I’m infinitely more comfortable in more intimate surroundings (or less, I suppose, if you consider the dancing proximity) for the most part. There’s plenty of bars and venues I would have rather hit over a sweaty, meaty, schmany club. Don’t get me wrong – they’re great when you’re in the mood. I had the time of my life at Studio 54 in NYNY one year. But sometimes I just don’t want friction burns and the deafening sound of hormones buzzing to the beat of the DJs bass.
The drive home was long and hot. When I finally peeled myself from the leather seat, I was more than ready for home. The maid of honor and one of the other girls had put tremendous effort into the event with gift bags, decorations, custom shirts & champagne flutes, and a decorated car. It was quite the welcome distraction from every day life.
Sometimes though when every day life is a pretty, loud-mouthed seven year old and a shirtless boy making your favorite dinner, you sit back and smile and remember how much you love home.
skippin’ town
June 25, 2010
Okay I shook it. For at least a week.
I’m leaving for Sin City in about twelve hours for the bachelorette party of one of my oldest friends. I’ve left it until half a day before leaving to wonder what I might wear to the ultrafancy club I’ll be at on Saturday. I’m hoping the one frantic text I sent with lots of question marks will solve all my problems. My superswank hot ass heels may be in the mix. I gotta bring those out a few times a year. I do occassionally enjoy the uber-femme thing. I may even watch hair and makeup tutorials tonight!
-CJ
new favorite word
May 11, 2010
muliebrity \myoo-lee-EB-ri-tee\, noun:
The state of being a woman.
gorgeous, wide hips, bleeding, cramping, lotion on freshly shaved skin – or not, combat boots or heels and the option of wearing both in the same day, making sixty-three cents to his one dollar, debating on your means to control your reproductive system and fighting teeth and nails for the right to do so, glorifying hot ass androgyny, lipstick, applauding the matriachy where you can find it, reaching out to your sister(s), owning the innate mama bear inside you, contricting your chest with elastic and wires and sighing heavily at the end of the day when the bra hits the floor, slow moving grace, clumsy tomboys, deliciously scented powders and oils from top to bottom…
From an article in the Washington Post, What It Takes To Be a Woman:
Jenny Ouellet, a 24-year-old who has seen her share of hard times, recognizes [the difference between being a girl & being a woman]. She wrote to me a month ago from her home in northern Massachusetts, fed up with a lack of confidence she was seeing in some of the young women she knew.
It’s not that she didn’t know how they felt. When she graduated from high school, she traveled with rock bands, lost the man of her dreams and ended up with 32 tattoos and a baby. She went to work in a music store, started paying off debts, learned how to cook and is raising her little boy, now 3, by herself, with some financial support from the boy’s father.
Making a life for herself and her son, virtually alone, forced her to realize who she was and what she was capable of as a female.
“It’s not what I wear or how I do my hair,” she wrote me. “I’m convinced it’s that I carry myself with confidence. I don’t feel like I’m the all-around perfect catch, but I’ve been through enough to know I’m a great mother, a loving daughter, an honest friend, a great lover and someday, I’ll make a great wife. You grow into the title of woman.”
And then you wear your title forever, with pride.
-CJ
spot on
May 4, 2010
“All of the feminist theory in the world cannot prepare you for the heart wrenching, maddening and completely unexpected experience of coming to know other adult women.”
-It’s So You: 35 Women Write About
Personal Expression Through Fashion and Style by Michelle Tea
and this is the last few months of my life in the truly fucked up effort of meeting new people.
-CJ
souvenir
April 9, 2010
birthday weekend, round 2
March 3, 2010
In place of any sort of birthday party, I planned a weekend in my favorite city with a few girls. Ree had a company trip that would have cut the weekend in half so we planned it a week later than my birthday and four girls hit the freeway last Friday afternoon. Destination: Ocean Beach.
With the first night came the discovery of the Russian Lineup. This became a theme. Late night Irish pub shenanigans and live reggae music and more laughter than should be physically possible preceded the pick up of a pizza that we munched in our tiny hotel beds before calling it a night at o’late thirty.
We stayed at the Ocean Beach Ho, apparently. She was warm and welcoming.
Leave it to me to want to celebrate at the beach in February. This is the hotel courtyard. I guess you could say the Ocean Beach Ho was pretty wet.
The cold, damp gray might not have worked for some. I absolutely loved it.
You could say the amazing pizza & brew place was celebrating 25 years in business though I’m not convinced it wasn’t for me. (omg, apricot Hef.)
For day two there was patio breakfast, hotel lounging, much speculating on the tsunami headed over from Chile, as we were ON the ocean (the third morning saw seaweed in the residential streets), a very loud and very early surf competition we could watch from our balcony, delicious taquitos, and plenty more Irish pub shenans at Gallagher’s, where every night should end.
My girl, Kristine
My ninja, Ree
My Ma, strangling her BFF
On day three, we packed up and walked to a small cafe for brunch where there was quite possibly the best bad food ever and fresh squeezed strawberry juice in champagne. If I don’t get my hands on another one of those huge ‘man-mosas’ (grrr) in the next month, I’ll have someone’s head.
My girls are fucking iiiiincredible, yo.
-CJ
twenty-five in twenty-ten
March 1, 2010
I’ve been so busy, I generally forget to breathe about once a day. The falls usually only result in bruising, so please don’t worry.
Last Saturday marked my two-five. One quarter of a century down – three to go. That’s right, I’m here until 100, so long as I’m not shitting myself, in which case, take me out Kevorkian style.
Myself and some lovely others spent the late Friday afternoon in my new favorite, local dive bar for happy hour and introductions between family, co-worker friends and outside work friends. I do actually have some of those. It was a fuckin’ sweet turn out and I was ridiculously honored though I might have hid it behind a few Washington Apples.
Cousin Alex
Babydaddy Joshua
Sadly though, my bff/ninja was on a work trip to Catalina. When she got back Saturday afternoon, my actual day of birth, we atteneded a surprise 60th birthday for the coolest neighbor on the planet, Don. When we casually left with a loose and flexible schedule for the rest of the evening, I had no idea there was approximately thirteen people pulling a rendezvous in the best little punk rock drinking joint in Orange County. Well, in the parking lot of said joint, as the doors were suspiciously locked. We never did find out why they were closed at that time on a weekend. Perhaps they hate me or maybe they knew that we’d have to relocate with our big, sexy posse to a nearby gay bar where we would have a friggin’ blast and hit up the hookah bar next door for some cherry and watermelon lovin’.
Thirteen shots of Chocolate Cake for a birthday toast, c/o Ree.
Gratefully noming on Ree’s head.
On Sunday, there was Italian food with my family and my gorgeous new baby cousin that I could just consume whole, she’s so perfect. There’s some excellent pictures there featuring Kiddo ordering off the menu donning my mom’s magnifying glasses and plenty of slightly out of focus, not centered images that Kiddo, photographer extraordinaire, took herself. Sadly they’re on Mom’s digital camera and I might have to wait a while to get my grubby paws on them though when I do, you’ll notice every single birthday related picture that exists includes my awesome new plaid coat. That goes for this last weekend stock full of ridiculous shenanigans, spent in my favorite fucking city, Ocean Beach.
The bit of red in my cheeks? I’m still glowing.
-CJ
Sister Spit
October 8, 2009
I’m an anachronism at the mercy of my youth. The year I was born ensured I’d never see some of my favorite bands live, as they’ve long since disbanded or worse. I missed some fantastic trends and discovered some fascinating names after they’d perished. One thing I missed that has haunted me is Sister Spit. (wiki def: lesbian-feminist spoken word and performance art collective.) Founded by one of my favorite authors, Michelle Tea, I hated having missed the collection of women writers and the gathering that came to see them.
And then? They came back. Sister Spit Next Generation.
When BitchMedia sent out a tweet with a link to an article called Sister Spit: Then & Now I was on my lunch break and made a quick note in my Awesome Monster Journal to read the post and also post something of my own on how bitter I am that I’ve missed out on all those tours. ’Cuz I’m a resentful, sulky brat on a good day. When I returned the office and clicked the link I nearly short circuited when a tour schedule appeared. I’d missed the Los Angeles date by six days but before deep disappointment and self-loathing could fully take over, I saw a Claremont date for the following night.
So on Wednesday evening Kiddo and I rushed home, packed some snacks and juice boxes, and followed our Google Maps directions to Scripps College. After only a moment of wandering the (gorgeous) campus I passed an open door, leading to a small auditorium that housed about ten ladies ranging from femme to butch. A tiny, wild haired woman in glasses was up front, just before the stage, messing with a projector. I knew that was Michelle and still I guided Kiddo into the room slowly, lest I disturb a play in practice or a meeting I had no business barging into. We took third row seats and waited.
As the room filled up, the people in front of us were nice enough to keep the seats in front of Kiddo empty so she could see the stage. I was damn near losing my shit in anticipation. As the crowd grew, everyone that entered the room seemed to be greeting at least a handful of other people. Maybe the lesbian/artist scene is much smaller in Claremont but I like to think they were mostly all students there. Kiddo and I were virtual strangers to what felt like a room full of friends. And yet I’ve never really felt as welcome anywhere. She was the only kid in attendance and numerous people would wave and make faces at her, causing her to blush and bulldoze into my rib cage. Beth Lisick, one of the readers, sat next to me and offered, with a smile, a heads up on the graphic nature and partial nudity that could be on stage tonight. I promised Kiddo was more mature than most freshmen I know and had no worry about her seeing or hearing anything the room could offer.
Girls smiled and waved and said hi. This doesn’t happen. Ever. Not to me. Everyone was so fucking friendly and happy that I think if they’d allow it, I never would have left.
In what I’m positive is the wrong order:
Beth Lisick took the stage and read an absolutely hilarious excerpt from Everyone in the Pool about an internal struggle with whether or not she (or the character, I’m not sure) was bisexual. I was laughing my fool head off partially with her and partially at myself.
Ariel Schrag, a fucking brilliant and funny-as-fuck comic writer showed a page for page excerpt on a projector and read in a multitude of perfectly comical pitches from her book Potential. She left off on a cliffhanger that ensured we’d all run out for the book immediately. It has been added to the grillionty page Amazon wish list though it will never be as fun to read as it is to have it read to you by the author herself.
Kirya Traber approached the mic with a small chapbook in hand, both of which, she soon ditched. She projected spoken word by memory across the room and shook me to the core of my being and brought tears to my eyes and nervous shakes to my fingers. I absolutely cannot accurately express just how profoundly she struck me. Often times a live performance gets deep under my skin but I felt something I’d yet to feel toward music or comedy or poetry – a deep sense of gratitude. You need Kirya in your life. You will be a better person for it. How do I know this? Because you’re human.
This is one of two poems she read: http://www.bodydiscrimination.com/download/creative/KiryaTraber-LaUltimaPalabra.pdf. Though the written word will never, ever do justice to seeing and hearing her, it is so very worth the read.
And because I’ve deleted a dozen sentences to attempt to say something about this piece, I’m admitting defeat and simply going to input a few parts:
“In a world where beauty is a subtraction problem
of infallible ideals minus
the body you were born with
I am not just unusual
I am a stunning abomination.”
and
“and if I make you uncomfortable
is it because I so greatly call to question
your shallow definition of what it means to be woman?
or because you can’t handle the fact
that my unabashed confidence makes me so damn sexy?”
Ben McCoy lip-synced to an audio reading of her piece French Drag Queens, My New Best Friends, which is easily leads a listener along the path of something humorous until it punches you deliciously in the gut at the end. I can speak for the room on this one – we had no idea if we were supposed to applaud or remain seated and slack-jawed. We did a combination of both.
Michelle Tea, host & author extraordinaire, read from a review she wrote of a show at the end of Fashion Week by The Gossip. I was selfishly hoping she’d read from The Beautiful because it’s her only book I don’t own/haven’t read but she could read in an alternate language on moss patterns in the South Pacific and I would have listened.
Rhiannon Argo read from her debut novel The Creamsickle while a kickass slideslow played behind her of women in various dress/poses/places made messes with Popsicles. I’d run into, almost literally, Rhiannon in the bathroom before the show. Had I known I’d adore her so much within a few hours, I might have tried to put my tongue in her mouth.
Sara Seinberg (doesn’t seem to have an up to date site of any kind) read from her very original modern tale of Greek Gods among us in Brooklyn. She was a fucking stud.
Post-show, when I’d normally slink out the side door no matter how bad I wanted to interact with the performers, especially in a tiny venue such as this, I loaded up my fifty-one pounds of sleeping, dead weight, took a few deep breaths and approached Kirya. It took a while to catch her alone but I would have waited all night if needed just to tell her, thank you. She gave me her card, which basically means she’s on board with me buying everything she’s ever touched so I can slowly cultivate and stroke this monster girlcrush I’ve got on her.
I couldn’t possibly leave, despite my numbing biceps, without thanking Michelle as well. For being alive and writing and Rent Girl and organizing a show such as this and bringing it to southern California and Rose of No Man’s Land which is a great book I used to introduce my little sister to her writing and The Passionate Mistakes & Intricate Corruption of One Girl in America which was the first book I ever found of hers and read greedily in my hairdresser’s chair when I was seventeen…
Among other things.
It was a wild good time.
No, fuck that.
It was an emotional, comedic, gut-wrenching, inspiring, motivating, warming, eye-opening fucking HELL of a night and I am fortunate as all get out to have been there.
-CJ
