December Twelfth Two Thousand Nine

Dec. 12th, 2009 | 10:32 pm

I went back to the peep show for 4 shifts this month in between gigs and travel. Opened the month with a trip to Mexico and closing with a visit to the homeland.

The peep show smells the same as always, that green cheap soap feet come and like cash, which there isn't any but one dollar bills repeating their lives through the same machines until they fall apart, but it is like family seeing old faces and having all of the same gripes as I did last time I was with them. It is the most holiday spirit I've had this season, what with all the twinkling lights, multiplied by 8 gazillion in the mirrored girl tank and they put a pint sized silver christmas tree in the corner by booth number 1, just the perfect height for the angel on top to sneak a little buttcrack lick when you bend over, forehead to knee (a new song to pass the time Dolores and Fefita were working on. Dolores Parque used to be called Fushia Black but now she wears a wig. Fefita used to be Evita Loca but she became Evita's freakish hyper cousin who wears glasses and a wig. This is what happens to Crusties, its inevitable really. I adore them both in real life, but you get locked naked for a couple years on stilts in a mirrored/carpeted room playing the same looped itunes pop track on repeat for long enough and you will grow to hate something about the situation.

Anyway, holiday spirit. Peep show, how I didn't really miss you that much but you reel me back and make me love you. There were more familiar faces on the other side of the glass, however, and I missed them too. That's an exagerration of sorts, but the look on their faces when they recognize you is gratifying and feeds the ego of attention - mister "I'm gonna pretend like the Lusty is gross but I've been coming here everyday for decades, no lie", his little cock lit up just like this face and he was grunting a little harder than his usual lackluster wank.

Booth was lonely, though. And a bigger reminder of how few dollars there actual are to make mine with my clothes off.

Bookclub: Not just for Oprah

Jul. 18th, 2010 | 05:16 pm

Our lovely bookclub that often provides my sole social sustenance in any given month, took our annual retreat to Guerneville: home of gays, rivermoss, and good times.

We rotated through the house, lovingly called "Cabin De Menthe" by the cutest of Deep Lez vacation rental owners, Tina and Sue, noshing on perfectly tuned meals, playing our less than tuned violins, sipping wine & whiskey around the firepit and soaks in the hot tub until my fingers shriveled up like a California raisin. I am told that our skin wrinkles in the water because soaking dehydrates the body and sucks the water out. I'm not sure if I believe this but plan to research. Good theory. Although more whiskey doesn't necessarily return the body to its watery hydrated state.


Bookclub is dedicated. We are pushing 2 and a half years of monthly gatherings where 75% of those in attendance have read most of our democratically elected novel for the month. We claim James Baldwin as our patron saint, but recently have had an affinity for the Southern Gothic. Maybe 2 selections out of the 30 months of bookclub, give or take, have been light hearted or comedic. No surprise then, when one of the fearless originators, Jade, suggests we read Dorothy Allison's short story, "River of Names" around the campfire, in honor of her residence in Guerneville. (There was intent of reading and discussing short stories on the retreat, and despite our best intentions, relaxing took the precedent for the weekend.) It is one of those stories that I have read many times, and each time I battle through its six pages, I swear I never want to read it again. I love the rest of "Trash" and her other stories, but that one, I'm better off without it.

Bookclub doesn't have a fancy name, just bookclub. The invitation is open, ground rules tried and true. I appreciate bookclub, the love of my family in that safe space, and all the amazing contributions each person brings to the table.

Corrie tenBoom Huis

Corrie tenBoom is my namesake. she grew up in Haarlem, Netherlands, and when she was 14 she convinced her family to make their home a safehouse for people in hiding from the Nazi regime. Her family built a faux brick wall and hiding place, a resistance student in hiding built an elaborate alarm system and the family and guests would practice daily escaping into the wall in case gestapo came searching.

My grandmother wanted me to be named after her and I've wanted to visit her house for my whole life. I got to go there last week and despite all of the christian influences in Corrie's life, I was so proud to have such a name.



She was born on April 15th and died on her 91st birthday in 1983, three days after my 2nd birthday.



The museum is funded by the foundation she set up and the clockshop.jewelry store below that was originally run by her father. She never married and before the war she was training as a clockmaker. The museum has cut out a segment of the wall where 6 people hid for 4 days when the Nazi regime finally came to the house looking for refugees.



They tore up the floorboards and the ceilings but because the tenBooms had the foresight to built the fake brick wall straight through the floor, it appeared like the wall in Corrie and her sister Betsey's room was an outer wall. Even though the Nazi police never found the people in hiding, the entire family was arrested, interrogated and finally sent to internment camps for the rest of the war. This is the entrance into the hiding place. After weeks of practice, all the guests, their personal affects and any extra blankets, clothing, and dishes could be hid within 70 seconds.



After Corrie was released from the camp, she became a prolific writer, peace activist, human rights and missionary speaker, working solidly for the rest of her life. She wrote on a smith corona, a little older than the one I write on, and all the first editions of her books are on display in the museum.



My parents traveled there when I was 2, the museum wasn't officially opened until 1988, so I'm not sure how they got to see it at the time. The tour of the museum house is now an hour of lovingly told stories, displays of resistance publications, family photographs, and WWII images heavy on the Lord & Jesus business, but so moving just the same.

I am so fortunate to be blessed for this visit, given a name of such honor, such strength.

something beautiful about a dancer’s foot

Knarled. Older than time. Carrying youth and grace. Broken. Bruised. Bloody. Beautiful.

I know a little bit about the pain held in the feet. Walking on bunions, blisters and ripped open toes and ankles to maintain femme status. The more painful the costume, the higher the femme. No complaints.

I put on my work sneakers this morning and my feet said "really corrie? yesterday was the last day." I need a new pair of shoes. Wearing my chucks instead... reminds me of being 13.

I love my feet. I have fallen arches and cantankerous ingrown toenails. It's genetic. When I make a footprint you can see the entire sole of my foot. These peds with chipped nailpolish connect me to the women in my family. Connect me to all women. Make me a woman.

After work I will go get myself a pedicure in honor of the dancing pairs of feet I am watching this month. Also looking forward to drinking with a femme tonight and not driving home to the east bay.

come together over me

the past 2 months feel like two years. or that I've grown up twice my age, but in a good way. I drive a gas effecient honda civic (baby sister's hand me down), I have a job that pays me what I deserve for the amazing talents I give to my industry, I have my own home that I am decorating exactly the way I want, I quit smoking with ease and effeciency, I take two of the f'ing cutest dogs on walks around echo park and they listen to my commands, I remember to take my meds and eat, I have good self esteem and am looking forward to the future.

I remember that overwhelming and recent feeling of wanting to slam my car into a tree and make it all go away. I remember the moment when I decided to do it at 40 miles an hour instead of 80. The world of difference velocity makes. How glad I am that I chose what I did. How glad I am that being BPS means Attempting and not Actualizing. The scars on my chest fade fast. I touch them to remember. I am excited to live. It tastes good.

grey morning musings

In order to be really, really good at what I do (and although I am looking at this from a work perspective, I think it applies to all aspects of my self and life) I need to dig around and embrace those Libras that make up half my chart. Learn to use them to balance out all the driving, bossy, burning too bright and fast Aries, to scrape the broken Pisces ego off the cement and continue to focus on the fun loving Leo that is dynamic on stage and great with people. I made it all work last night, I want to be able to pull that magic out whenever I need it.

I am sore and exhausted from dancing for hours but the feeling of my muscles burning and my toes crunching is reassuring that I'm still alive -- I can push my body to extremes and feel/look so good doing it. I'm proud of last night, proud of where my summer vacation took me since March… the people I've met and friends I've made are treasures that I want to keep polished, not watch collect dust on my shelf.

The way sweat flies off ladies' gyrating bodies on a pool table with a slippery plywood cover, the way my own sweat pools above my lip and on my forehead and the feel of towering above the floor, like I was made to have seven inch spikes attached to my soles. The way that good music spins my torso and I don't have to think about dancing, the movement, it just comes into me. Someone exclaimed that I was barely wearing anything and I replied that this is when I feel most comfortable. My skin is my armor, pounds of makeup my shield, shoes as weapons. I have nothing to hide if there ain't nothing to hide behind. Then again, it is a mask of performance though the smile I wear is true, the high from it is real, the after hours elation stays with me for days.

I awoke from very vivid dreams. I rarely am blessed to remember my dreams. Boss says that everyone in your dream is a representation of yourself, some part of yourself. It felt like community meeting, wednesdays, 3pm, but it was so touching, involving characters from my current life and scenarios from my current thoughts. I had an ice cream cone. It was delicious just like out of MacGregor. There was a banana. There were lots of spreadsheets and diagrams that I saw with clarity. Colorful. There was drama and arguing. There was community. I can only imagine what those meetings must be like now. Thankful to not be a part of that world anymore.

I moved yesterday. To oakland, to my own apartment. It's very cute, just what I was looking for. It will still be a week before I've fully transitioned to east bay living but I am excited.

dirty tarot today

THE FEATHER... flight. freedom. a gentle song, a softness of breath, a tickle of spiritual guidance. floating ease. soaring spirit. idealism. bask in the possibility of beauty.