FACTS! (and things)

• I am making a return to the acting thing (after a bajillion years)! My very talented friend Michael is directing a short film this April, called At Last, Okemah! in which I will be playing the bitchy ex-girlfriend of a musician. Which, of course, is a huge leap for me.


• I am hugely overwhelmed by the amount of people that want to read at next month's show. We can really only do like, 6 people, so I'll probably have to schedule some people for May even though I don't want to.


• I feel like something is "off" about my eyebrows as of late, but cannot pinpoint what.


• FACT: Dudes who complain about other dudes being assholes are usually way more terrible than the dudes they're complaining about.
• OH MY GOD. Ok, so I've been working for a while on a story in which one of the primary characters is a sex worker- so I was looking at the Craigslist Erotic Services section for research on how to write one for the story, and I totally saw a chick that I used to know whom I haven't seen in years who was A) a horrid rotten bitch to me, and b) claiming to be 18 when she is in fact older than I am! Also, retinas=scarred. I did not need to ever, ever, ever see that. Ever. And it really just did not need to involve pigtails. The sad part about this is that the only person who would even get why this is so insane is in the "dead to me" pile- for good reason, of course- but still, I'm a bit of a pathological gossip when it comes to people I dislike, and I really, really need to think of someone else who would understand. (yes, I know. I'm a totally bad person.)

SQUEE!!!!

Oh my goodness!

When we first started doing the Sunday Night Sex Show, I'd walk into the bar at 7:30, find that I was the only one there, and panic and drink too much until like, my 20 or so friends showed up (after I sent them many panicky texts). Well, 20 would be a number I was thrilled with. But like, NOW, I get there, and there are like, already like 30-40 people that I don't even know, already there! According to the bartender, we had about 70 people total! They're actually getting worried that we might be bringing *too* many people, but the owner says he's possibly going to open up a space in the back for larger events. That would be totally amazing, since we keep getting more people each time and we absolutely refuse to leave The Burlington.

YAY.

Check out pictures of this month's show here, courtesy of the lovely and talented Melissa Fisher.

UPDATE: Due to popular demand, I have officially created a site/blog/whathaveyou for the show! You can find us at http://sundaynightsexshow.blogspot.com. Adjust your blogrolls accordingly, bitches.

Do you really love me, or am I just your booty call (Title, Ricki Lake show, circa 1993)

Britni has a great post up about booty call etiquette, which everyone, especially every dude, should definitely read. Now, I myself- not so much a fan (of booty calls. I LOVE etiquette. Manners are my favorite.). My new rule is that I won't even answer calls or text messages from a dude after 9pm unless the plan to make contact at such a time has been established beforehand. I just won't. I have too much other shit to do, rather than deal with the whims of some idiot who doesn't have enough respect for my time to give me more advanced notice.

But I get them. OH, do I get them. I wake up every morning to 6 or 7 missed calls and text messages. That doesn't really bother me. What bothers me are the dudes in booty call denial, who call you at 3am, but pretend that it's totally NOT a booty call. Because he's a "good guy" who would never, ever, do such a thing in all his days. "God! Why does your mind have to go there! I'm calling you at 3am because I think you're smart!" It's such a NiceGuy(TM) move.

Now, I don't know if they think this is true, or if they just think it's a smoother angle than "Hey, I'd sure like to do ya." I have yet to figure that out. Personally, I like to know what I'm dealing with, because like, if I think you're full of it I'm going to get all pissy trying to get you to admit it.

OH MY FUCKING GOD!!!

Do you know who this is? Do you KNOW who this IS? I will give you a clue. It is the motherfuckin' SHAMWOW guy. THIS guy:



And do you know why he's in that mugshot? Because he punched a prostitute in the face. Let me repeat that for you in case it wasn't clear. The Shamwow guy was arrested, because he punched a prostitute in the face. Because she bit his toungue. Nice.

Unfeminism is undoubleplusgood

Cardinal Says New Feminism Must Include God

FACT- When you have a penis, and are a representative of a notoriously patriarchal and sexist institution, such as the Catholic Church, you don't have any say in what "the new feminism" will be. Especially when this "new feminism" involves being anti-choice and homophobic- which, ya know, are two things that feminism is pretty specifically not about being.

How would you like it if I, as an athiest, decided that the new Catholicism was going to be about worshipping Buddha and eating meat on Fridays? It would be ridiculous, because it's not something I have any say in. Duh.

Now, I am totally of the "everyone can and should be a feminist" school of thought. My dad is totally a feminist and also a Catholic (although he belongs to a church that was ex-communicated for allowing women on the pulpit and performing gay marriages/commitment ceremonies. Also, he's pro-choice.). However, he doesn't go around telling women what feminism is or should be about. For heaven's sake, I don't even like other feminists telling me what feminism is supposed to be about!

I am all for the Catholic Church advocating for women's rights. I think that's awesome. I hope that some day they get with the times and allow women on the pulpit. But at the end of the day, the Catholic Church, as an entity, does not get any say in what feminism is or is not.

And this one goes out to Alix...

For reasons well known to her.*

*That's what she said. And by she, I mean Faye Dunaway as Joan Crawford in Mommie Dearest.

Malocchio!

I just found out yesterday, that a woman I believe to be highly sensible and rational, totally believes in the evil eye. Once upon a time, she said, a guy asked her out and she said no, and he gave her the malocchio, which caused her to fall and sprain her ankle later that day. It, of course, had to be cured via that oil ritual thing that people do.

To quickly explain, the evil eye is when someone thinks bad thoughts about you (sometimes disguised by a compliment), and then bad shit happens to you. It is considered fact, not superstition, by many people in my family.

I sometimes suspect that it might be a thing that exists. It's kind of an odd thing because it's not like you always give it by announcing "I place the malook on you!" or whatever- it's not always conscious. You can give it by admiring something and being envious of it at the same time. Because of the color of my eyes, I'm supposed to be especially inclined to give people the malocchio. If it does exist and is something I do, I'm totally an asshole, because I can name like, 50 bad things that have happened to people after they've pissed me off significantly. But so can anyone, I would imagine, if they think hard enough on it- these things are just coincidences.

I also think that sometimes things of that nature are self-fulfilling prophecies. Once upon a time, back in NY, this one chick went and tried to put a curse on me. I found this out because my friend's aunt and uncle ran a Santerian store, and she happened to be there that day. Despite my rational nature, I gave second thoughts to every crappy thing that happened to me that week. I also used to believe that there was a curse on my birthday. I believed it so much that I'd end up freaking out over every little thing that happened on it and blaming it on the curse. It was pretty spooky though- one year a tree branch fell on my new car and totalled it. I think a Ramone died on my birthday as well. I also broke my foot one year. But it stopped when Reagan died on my birthday and I decided that that meant the curse was over. Nothing bad has happened since.

I don't really believe in these superstitions, but if I were you, I'd be nice to me.

You can take your kool-aid, your nikes, and your e-meters, and go elsewhere.

I live like, two store fronts down from a mysterious "store" that is never open, which boasts a sign in the window reading "HOLY WAY MINISTRIES.". Just now, as I was standing across the street, waiting for the dude from the Jalisco to come back so I could get some cigarettes and a diet coke, I noticed that the lights inside were blinking on and off. Naturally, I started to panic a little bit, because I'm just like that and I have a rather vivid imagination. Naturally, as soon as the guy comes back and I get my cigarettes and my diet coke, I go across the street and announce to my friend who works at Cleo's and is outside smoking, that the weird store is blinking and freaking me the fuck out. Naturally, I decide that I am going to play Nancy Drew and investigate, because I'm just curious like that. I must have answers.

This is what is in the window (besides the sign)

- Weird strobe lights from Spencer gifts (including the stop sign that I totally wanted as a part of my decor in 3rd grade)
- Books about Jesus
- A christmas tree
- A picture of Santa Claus
- Tweety Bird's head
- A giant divider wall type thingy preventing me from successfully seeing inside.

I have come to the conclusion that this is either A) a cult, or B) a front for the mob. I'm leaning towards A.

I have a long history with cults, in case you didn't know. My mom had to drag me away from Hari Krishna's offering flowers at Logan Airport a number of times- and... I was once rejected from a cult. I am still bitter about this. Allow me to explain.

Once upon a time, I, like many girls at age 15, was convinced that I was indeed the next Bette Davis. I signed up for an actor's studio class at a place called "Magnum Opus" in the next town over from mine. The studio's claim to fame was that the woman who ran it had once played Marian the Librarian in the touring production of The Music Man. Nothing about it was especially weird at first, as far as I could tell- not any more than any other place I'd taken lessons, anyway. The weirdest thing is that they felt really importantly about my quitting smoking, which I had no intention of doing.

So, anyway, there was like, one straight dude there around my age, and boy, did I think he was dishy. He was in the advanced class, and I totally had plans for us to be madly in love- which I imagined would happen during a production of "Desire Under The Elms" in which I would play Sophia Loren and he would play Anthony Perkins.

However, fate threw a wrench in my dreams, when, after class one day, as my parents were picking me up from class, we all witnessed the dreamy boy get pulled into the back of a van and driven away while a lot of people from the studio yelled after him. We were told that he had come from an abusive family and had been hiding out at the studio to escape them. My dad called the police to report it on his car phone, and I sat in the car and pouted. Because I was deep like that.

I never saw the dreamy dude again. Then, a couple of weeks later, I went to class- only the studio was gone. All the furniture was gone, and there was a sign in the window apologizing and saying they'd left town.

A year later, I opened up the paper to read a story about a creep sex cult. A creepy sex cult that masqueraded as an actor's studio- called Magnum Opus. Apparently, the dreamy guy had been like, brainwashed or something, and was being rescued by his family when that whole thing with the van had occurred.

The thing is- no one even tried to brainwash me. And I'd like to say that this was because I was so clearly strong willed or something- but dude, I was 15. I was retarded- as so clearly evidenced by my Eugene O'Neil plot. I've always felt that it was because they thought I was either unattractive, or because I wasn't a good enough actress. I mean, they could have at least made a gesture of brainwashing, if only to be polite. Everyone likes to feel wanted.

Moving on. My third experience with cults was the time I was asked to leave a Scientology Center. See, this one time my mom and I were having cocktails at some outdoor cafe in Toronto, and across the street there was a Scientology Center advertising free "personality tests."

"I'll give you 50 bucks if you go in there and get one. Swear to god. 50 bucks. Do it, it will amuse me!" says my mom. So, of course, I do- because it's 50 bucks, and she's right, it will probably be hilarious. I go in there, and they hook me up to an e-meter. The guy asks me some questions like "Do you sometimes feel stressed?" I manage to mumble something about demanding to know how many body thetans I have, and then start hysterically laughing so hard I started to tear up and got a stomach cramp. Naturally, they asked that I leave.

I am wanted by no one. At least no one in a cult. Which is why I am so resentful of the one that has taken up residence a few storefronts down from me. They will never let me play their reindeer games.

If I were like, fighting crime or some shit, I would look just like this

ESPECIALLY the hat. I would wear the hat now, actually. I like how the skirt comes with camel toe, as well, as that is always an attractive look for anyone.

But anyway, I spent 20 minutes making a superhero version of myself (and you wonder how I manage to reel in that oh-so-desirable mid-30's dude who still collects action figures market!). Why? Because I'm awesome and also a bit bored. Actually, this is not even far off from how I dressed in high school, after I fell in love with the Army Navy Surplus.

You can make one too with the Heromachine

The Interview Meme from Ren

Oh, memes are always a fun timewaster. This nifty one is from Ren, and the way it works is that you volunteer to be interviewed in the comments, and then I interview you and you post it on your blog. However, I don't think too many people who read this even *have* blogs, but if you do, feel free.

Jazz or Blues?

Blues, definitely. Bessie Smith is pretty much my favorite ever.

Your dream job is?

Something that involves not having just one job. I am compulsively all over the place.

One thing you always have in your purse/pocket?

Chanel Red No. 5 Lipstick

Your motto in life?

I have many sayings- but I don't think I could settle on one as my official motto. Some favorites are:
"I have a gift for enraging people, but if I ever bore you it will be with a knife"
--Louise Brooks

"Throw your crazy on the table"
-- My mom. (Basically it just means that if you freely admit to everything horrible and ridiculous about yourself it becomes less horrible and ridiculous, and also no one can accuse you of being a hypocrite)

“I've been a wicked girl," said I: "But if I can't be sorry, why, I might as well be glad!”
-- Edna St. Vincent Millay

"I shall stay the way I am, because I do not give a damn"
-- Dorothy Parker

Favorite food?

Baked stuffed lobster and clam cakes- but only when I'm back in New England. Otherwise, eggplant parmesan.

Confession: I think Sylvia Plath was kind of an asshole

It was the summer Lorena Bobbitt cut her husbands dick off with a Ginsu knife...

I first read The Bell Jar when I was 11 years old. I often joke with my mom about how appropriate it was for her to hand that particular book to a girl that age- but she maintains that 11 would be the time to read something like that, considering how mental everyone is during puberty. I think now that it might have been because it's one of the few times in one's life where being an ungrateful twit seems like a rational personality option, and thus the book would be more appreciated at that age.

Truthfully- the only thing I *really* liked about it were the parts with Doreen- who seemed pretty bad ass, and I didn't quite approve of Plath's somewhat snide attitude towards her, anyway. Even when I read it later in highschool, I found it difficult to muster up a huge amount of sympathy for either Esther or Sylvia. It just wasn't in me to do it. I tried, but my head kept popping up with things like "Oh for godsakes. She should go out in the world and meet some people with real problems and then try feeling sorry for herself." She just seemed so ungrateful for the things and opportunities she was given. I don't know, I think I read Jonothan Kozol's Amazing Grace at around the same time- so my empathy level for such people was not exactly at an all time high.

It's not that I don't think she was a good writer, but I do think she was an asshole. It's perfectly possible to be an asshole and a writer at the same time. I can provide you with some examples if you like.

I think she was an asshole for killing herself with her kids in the damned apartment. I mean, I think you have to be pretty selfish if you're going to go and off yourself when you have children that are dependant on you, and, you know, might want a mother-- but to not care if your kids saw you lying there dead- well, you might as well be a sociopath.

I think she was an asshole because Olive Higgins Prouty was kind enough to finance her education, as well as her stay in the sanitarium- and she thought she'd pay her back by writing a scathing caricature of her as Philomena Guinea. That was a crappy thing to do. If someone paid for my school and my treatment in a fancy dancy sanitarium, I would probably have nothing but lovely things to say about them. But that's just me. What kind of an asshole to do you have to be to turn around and do that? And may I just mention that Prouty was alive and well at the time The Bell Jar was published (which, along with her snide depictions of other people, is why it was originally published under a psuedonym).

Would you want to be friends with Sylvia Plath? I sure wouldn't. Nothing you did would ever be enough for her. You'd probably have to sit and listen to her prattle on endlessly about her psychic pain for hours and hours, and she'd never say thank you- she'd just assume that the privilege of being privy to her deep thoughts and unending anguish was thanks enough. She'd deliver a lot of hidden stabs about you being "shallow" as well.

By the way, I happen to like Prouty a lot- she wrote the novels that two of my all time favorite movies were based on- Now, Voyager and Stella Dallas, which is how I started reading her books in the first place. She's actually pretty awesome, and I'd heartily recommend checking her out.

I've never found weakness and frailty to be especially charming qualities in a person. I think that part of what bothers me about Plath is actually something Bette Davis once said:

"The weak are the most treacherous of us all. They come to the strong and drain them. They are bottomless. They are insatiable. They are always parched and always bitter. They are everyone's concern and like vampires they suck out life's blood."

True dat.

A girl you can take home to meet your mother...

(Not a picture of Robyn. At all. For any reason.)

So, the other day, I watched the premiere of VH1's Tough Love (What can I say? I'm a masochist.)- and by the way, can I just tell you that the host dude sounds exactly like Scott Baio? Anyway, the "sad and pathetic" women did some challenge where they got makeovers and then went to some fake party to socialize with fake dudes. Then, after the challenge, the fake dudes critiqued them and talked about what they did right and what they did wrong. I'm not even kidding.

So, anyway, the girl that won the challenge won because some dude said "She's the kind of girl I could take home to meet my mother!" Which the host informed us all, was the single greatest compliment a man could give you.

Oh puke. Coco Chanel was a girl you couldn't introduce to your mother, and I would way rather be Coco Chanel than the lady on that show. Fact is, the type of girl described by men who say that sort of thing isn't the type of girl I'd ever want to be- and those are the kind of men I'd never hang around with anyway. They're always total sickos- trust me. Someone in that equation is an asshat, and it's not the girl you can't take home. But I digress.

After I thought about it for a while, I called my mom to thank her. Because that thought has just never occurred to me. My mother always says "In some families, people keep the crazy relatives in the attic. In our family we sit them right down at the dinner table and have a lovely chat." I am not accustomed to being ashamed of people.

She, of course, says "Oh, you think that's because I like everyone. Not true. I hate everyone. But I hate them equally." This is just her way. But the fact is, I'd never feel uncomfortable introducing anyone to her, because she really is awesomely accepting. It's not even a second thought with her, it's not like she's all "Hello! Look at what a tolerant person I am!" or anything- she just has this innate ability to find everyone interesting, and to bring out the best in people and make them feel important. She firmly believes that everyone has something to offer. She can sit and talk for hours with a good ol' boy from the South (mind you, she's an East Coast feminist and radical liberal), or with a heroin addict, or anyone else for that matter.

My friends have always LOVED my mother. Ever since I was a kid. I remember this one time, she volunteered to work at our school's Santa's Workshop- you know, where you go and get cheesy weird presents for your parents and siblings during school? Well, all these kids came up to me saying "Your mom is so cool! She taught me how to shoplift!"

I asked her about it when I came home, and she told me that the teacher had made the kids who didn't have money with them sit up against the wall, and they weren't allowed to walk around with the other kids who did have money. So, my mom walked up to the kids and announced that they were going to be in her group, and then walked them around and jokingly taught them how to shove things up their sleeves. They didn't ask her to volunteer again, but she wasn't too broken up about it.

I ALWAYS want people to meet my mother. Although, I'd have to say that the people generally thought of as the type others would introduce to their mother would be further down on her list of people she'd want to hang out with.

Notice!

Once upon a time there was a giant douchenozzle named Kyle Payne. He wrote a smug little blog about what a super awesome feminist/pro-feminist/feminist ally he was. He counseled rape victims. He was totally against porn because of how totally awful it was. He talked a lot about social justice. And then, one day, while working as an RA at a college, he walked into a girls room, lifted up her shirt, and filmed her bare breasts. He was charged, rightly, with sexual assault.

And now he's back- not mentioning his abuse, blabbing on again about what an awesome "feminist ally" he is, and linking to blogs about feminism, and blogs by rape and sex abuse survivors. This man has absolutely no place in any nook or cranny of feminism, and though he probably loves the attention, as Ren says, it's better to make sure that any Google search of his name turns up this information about him.

Fucker.

The Fuck-It List

Inspired by Jill at Feministe, who was in turn inspired by the always glorious Kate Harding, who was inspired by the generally dreamy Michael Ian Black... I am creating a "Fuck-It List." Which is like a Bucket List, except it's things you don't care if you ever do. Best idea ever.

Miss Robyn's Fuck-It List

- See the Grand Canyon.
- Swim with Dolphins
- Get Married
- Have babies
- Go Camping
- See any Star Wars movie all the way through
- Own a Car
- Be Mysterious
- Cut out Carbs
- Take dance classes again
- Quit Smoking
- Quit Drinking
- Stop Being Petty and Spiteful (at the end of the day, it's just more amusing that way)
- Stop buying new clothes in order to put off doing laundry

I don't want to die in the dairy aisle.

There is a very, very creepy dude who works at the Dominick's next door to me. He looks like he's disintegrating. He looks hepatitis-y. He looks kinda like Iggy Pop. His yellow face, which looks like it might fall off at any second, blends in with his straw-like yellow hair. His eyes are that weird super pale blue/almost white color that always reminds me of this:




And he stares me down. Always. Always asks if I need help. Follows me from aisle to aisle. Always smiles at me with his yellow teeth that match his yellow skin and his yellow hair. I'm pretty sure he wants to kill me so he can wear my skin around or something, and I spend a good deal of time suppressing my instinct to say "Just so you know, dude, I am not in fact a size 14."

My grocery store time is my "me" time. I like wandering aimlessly through the aisles, putting things in my cart and then taking them out because I don't really need them. I like hearing Wilson Phillips' "Impulsive" while I carefully decide which bag of "8 O'Clock" coffee is best suited to my purposes. I like "8 O'Clock" coffee because drinking it makes me feel like an old-timey film noir detective. Don't ask me why, it just does. I like hearing Kelly Clarkson's "A Moment Like This" while I stand there with a box of wine, in my yoga pants and Slits t-shirt- with my hair all gagoots, staring blankly at piles of Brie and Camembert at 12 o'clock at night. I hope to god that no one waits a lifetime for a moment like that. I like it when some dude walks up to the Starbucks counter and asks for a bottle of water, and then gets mad that they don't have one. Like he's not even in a grocery store.

And, you know, I really don't like being watched. Or followed. Or smiled at. Not while I'm contemplating whether I should bother getting two bags of Nature Sweet tomatoes- because I really only need one, but they're buy one get one today, and I might as well.

Leave me be, creepy grocery store dude, leave me be.

Guess who is totally famous?!?!? I'll give you a clue!

Oh, fuck clues. It's totally me! And Allen! And The Sex Show Team! I present you, in it's entirity, the New City article this week about The Sunday Night Sex Show (with a couple small corrections, from me, in bold face):

Sex School: The Burlington offers everything you’ve ever wanted to know

Where can you find six women in one room who would happily don a strap-on and take on a guy? Or a bar full of men who shout out the maximum distance they’ve managed to shoot a load?

Logan Square bar The Burlington is home to the monthly Sunday Night Sex Show, where creators and hosts Allen Makere and Robyn Pennacchia infuse your mind, libido and sense of humor with any and all things sex-related. In case you were wondering, the longest distance shouted was nine feet.

With the Sunday Night Sex Show celebrating its sixth month in existence, it’s no surprise to find that most of the audience members are regulars and well acquainted with Pennacchia and Makere. The room fills up quickly and nearly every seat in the place is occupied.

Trivia questions that win you leather whips and penis-shaped lollipops teach you such things as Objectùm-Sexuality (to love and be intimate with objects; from the massive Eiffel Tower to the average clock radio), the state with the highest in-state percentage of porn subscribers (Utah, 5.47 people per 1,000) and that a former second lady wrote a controversial novel allegedly depicting graphic scenes of rape and lesbian sex (”Sisters” by Lynne Cheney). (The creepy-ass graphic scenes of rape were actually from Scooter Libby's novel "The Apprentice"- but there was a lot going on so ths is understandable, duh)

In between the various questions and naughty prizes, local writers are given the chance to read short works of creative non-fiction about their past and current sexual experiences. While most of the writers seem to be Fiction Writing students from Columbia College, anyone with a fun and wild tale of sex, or attempted sex, is encouraged to read.

Audience members are encouraged to write and anonymously submit questions concerning sex and relationships. The audience is also asked to participate if they know an answer or at least have a suspicion about it, and everything is open to a fun, laugh-filled debate.

Sounds a bit group-couples counciling-ish, but with questions like “Can you get a guy off by just kneading their tank?” (Taint, is what that was supposed to be, actually. But, you know, it was loud in there.) to “How does one become a squirter? Is it a learned ability or are you vaginally born with it?” it’s anything but. While Makere and Pennacchia don’t seem the doctoral types, they answer questions based on their past experiences. In response to the squirting question, Makere tells a hilarious tale about his encounter with a Spanish boarder with “a cooch like a volcano.” (Khaveri Campbell)

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

The two small mistakes are totally nothing, because they actually spelled my name correctly, which is pretty fucking awesome and impressive. I'm so excited! It's like, the first official article about us so I am just kvelling all over the place! Eee! Go Team Sex Show!!!

Jigsaw Youth

I got all sorts of nostalgic last night after seeing this posted on Jezebel last night- it's an 11 part documentary on YouTube titled "Riot Grrrl Retrospective," featuring Tobi Vail, Corin Tucker, Allison Wolfe, Sharon Cheslow and other heroines of my youth. I get really gushy about that shit, you should know. It turns me right into a 12 year old fangirl.

When I was in middle school, I lamented the fact that I wasn't quite old enough to really take part in the whole riot grrrl thing- other than reading Sassy and a bunch of west coast zines, buying albums and writing "riot grrl" on my knuckles during study hall. But, you know, upon further thought- I was the exact right age at the exact right time. A couple years later, middle school girls would be fed "girl power" in the form of the Spice Girls and Britney Spears... and Sassy wouldn't even exist anymore. It was an important age to get that message- that feminism was awesome, that you were awesome, and that you shouldn't take any shit. It's a message I got from my mom, of course- but who listens to their mother half the time anyway? Who knows how cool I would have thought feminism was if it weren't for these chicks?

I'm a tough ass broad, ya know. I owe that to my mom, to The Golden Girls, to Jem and to Kathleen Hanna and the whole riot grrrl movement. I still listen to Bikini Kill, Bratmobile, The Gits, Heavens to Betsy, Sleater-Kinney, Babes in Toyland etc. I still have copies of Girl Germs and Rollerderby and Sassy tucked away somewhere, and knee-high black docs in my closet here. I like to think of my show, and of most other things I do as a product of the riot grrrl aesthetic. Things change, ya know, we don't wear baby barettes anymore, but the message is still the same.

/sap.

I will not be ignored!

So, according to some study I read over the weekend, the Justice Department has found out that text messaging is becoming a popular method of stalking. To which, I say- duh.

Let me tell you a story. A couple weeks ago I was out with a friend, and a friend of her friend decided I was very impressive and awesome or something due to my ability to sing along with both Frank Sinatra and Biggie Smalls (which, you know, means a *lot* of people are very impressive and awesome. Probably most people you and I know.). He went on about this for some time, and when I went to the ladies room, he took my phone, put his number in it, and then called his own phone.

THUS, I have been receiving various random messages from this dude for the past three weeks or so. I have yet to respond. He has also found me on Facebook and "poked" me like 37 times. I have yet to respond.

I don't think that's actual stalking, of course. But it is annoying. In the olden days, people were much easier to avoid! The thing about text messaging is that it's less ignorable than other things. You can't really pretend you never got it- and if you don't open it, your phone is going to keep beeping at you until you do. Oy.

Varied and Sundry- Daylight Savings Time Edition

1. Happy Daylight Savings Time! I have yet to figure out how I ought to celebrate *this* Daylight Savings Day... other than being annoyed at having to wake up an hour earlier. It's not like Time Travel Day or anything amazing like that. I'll figure it out.

2. I got a weird text message at 5am. Which, you know, is not unusual for me, what with the hours my friends keep and the creepy stalkers I seem to attract. But it was from a number I don't know, and it read "I've got the guy for you and he has your number." Ok- now, I'm missing a lot of numbers because I got a new phone recently, and for some reason the back-up assistant only backed up numbers I'd gotten prior to June, and I also tend to delete numbers pretty often, especially if it's a dude I've decided to stop seeing. It's a good way to avoid calling them whilst intoxicated, and you get the added pleasure of sending them the "Who is this?" text... but still. How weird is that?

I mean, I met some dude last night whom I think called me an Eskimo and asked me to go to Tavern, and I gave him my number for whatever reason before going home- but then he called my phone right after and that's not his number. MYSTERY!

3. A five year old invented my outfit today. For god knows what reason (well, rain, I guess), I felt that I ought to wear a 1950's style polkadot dress with a beaded cardigan, bright red tights... and my black hunter boots. I am a vision, I tell you.

4. Last night, after having smoked grass- not something I generally do, so it tends to affect me a bit- I came home to find a letter my dad. In it, was a page torn from a magazine, an advertisement featuring an astronaut and reading:

Private Astronauts Wanted

If you have ever dreamed of space flight, space adventures can turn your dream into reality.

And then a bunch of stuff about how you can go fly around in space for ten days if you happen to be really rich. What the fuck?

"But I hate regular travel, even! With regular planes! For an hour, going back to NY!" I thought. "Did I want to go to space camp when I was a kid? I don't think so. I really don't think so, I mean, I remember seeing the commercials come on after Punky Brewster... but I don't recall ever wanting to go. I do, however, remember thinking that that spinny hamster wheel thing they always showed people riding in looked like something that would make me nauseated... Why? Why would my dad want to send me into space? Did I screw up? Is 'space travel' the new 'boarding school'? Maybe he wants to go there for a vacation? Mom will never go along with that, she's claustrophobic and I doubt they let you smoke in space..."

And it went on, and on, and on... until I turned over the other side... and saw an article about the Hunter boots I was wearing in RI (the same ones I'm wearing today), with a note saying "And you thought I was out of it! I'm learning! ---love, Dad" The article, of course, was from Forbes, which is what all the hep cats are reading these days.

So, yeah, that's my story. If you, however, feel differently about space travel... you can go to www.spaceadventures.com. And be my private astronaut, astronaut for money...

Love to laugh, but you're making me gag

As you may know, one of my favorite hobbies, for various reasons, has always been reading personal ads. I'd like to say it's because of the interesting cross-section of humanity, or something like that- but really it's because they're hilarious, and also I like the feeling of superiority I get reading them. You know, because I can spell and form complete sentences. Also, I tend to have an instinctual aversion to saying painfully cheesy things, especially self-complimentary cheesy things. There's nothing like someone trying to sound deep, or super hip to trigger my gag reflex.



But anyhow- out of the kindness of my heart, and because the bus took forever yesterday, I have compiled a list of the most painfully cheesy phrases written in the Reader personal ads this week!



"My attributes are still being discovered"

"appreciates every day"

"Someone who knows what they value, what's important to them, and can take a moment to enjoy a moment: a hug, a sunset, a cup of tea, a smile, a song."

"regular kinda gal"

"heart of gold"

"I'm a smart alack" (SIC)

"I am looking for the soul that can not only keep up with me, but make every day of my life that much better just by being there to share it"

"Would love to meet people who don't ask me who Fellini and Bergman are." (Oh, puke. How awesome and deep you are that you can name the two most well known "art film" directors ever. I knew who Fellini and Bergman were when I was 11, ok? It's not a major accomplishment.)

"I enjoy the art of curiosity."

"heart of gold"

"I'm looking for a girl who is interested in interdependence"

"My family is worldly"

"Simply looking for friends who are transparent, earnest, and attach value to living life"

"My short and sassy haircut sums me up. Short and sassy!"

"I've been told I have an outgoing personality making friends easily." (This is not a sentence.)

"There are no strangers in life, only friends we have yet to meet" (Like Ted Bundy.)

"Protege wanted for life expedition"

"Muse Wanted"

"I am very much grounded in the present. I believe that it is our responsibility to paint our masterpiece we call our lifetime. I have a cornucopia of activities I like to do from yoga to found art sculpture and everything in between (like Mongolian throat singing and eating mushrooms)."



And then there is one truly priceless ad, which I will post in it's entirity, just because it is *that* amazing.



OPEN HEART AND ACTIVE MIND

(Note: please imagine this in the J. Peterman voice)



I love to lay on a beach, and journey through the stars and wonder about the universe. The innocent joy of children singing (Your first date will be a 2nd grade choir recital!). Self effacing humor. To be at a trancendent symphonic performance. Service. Culture and nature. Being present. You: interested in exploring Chicago, museums, music, ourselves and life, with a potential for a long-term connection. I love to learn, and am willing to try anything I haven't already done. Love stretching the mind and the body. I'm seeking a woman attractive on the inside and out. More than just a pretty face. Independent, and willing to try new things.



Analysis: He has a totally deep reason for wanting to fuck you in the ass.

I thought I wanted an apple cinnamon muffin, but it turns out I want to eat a baby

Oh Christ. I thought/hoped I was hallucinating the other night when this thing popped on the telly:



Via http://www.videogum.com/


Really? Baby hungry? Baby hungry? Ew. I don't know a single "single girl" that doesn't screech in horror or throw up in her mouth at the mere mention of child bearing/rearing, so I do not know where you are getting your information from, Mr. Dude I've Never Heard of Before, but I suspect that you might be the delusional one here.

Yeah, we're all totally after your super high quality sperm, there. I dream of the day when I might drop a mucus plug and squeeze out a nine pound demon child with my eyes and your hairplugs. Also, I want to be your girlfriend and subsequently marry you, despite the fact that you are basically terrible in every way possible. You know, because you've got a penis and all. Everything else is just gravy.

Oh, and also, I'm Cathy. Ack! And I love shoes! And chocolate! And talking about my weight! And, um, whatever else the womenfolk are into these days! Ack! Marry me!

See, this is the thing- women are just not like this any more- not the vast majority anyway- and at least no one I personally know. To tell me to stop being desperate for a man and baby hungry is in the same league as telling me to stop speaking German and wearing leiderhosen all the time. In fact, as a whole, I think we're way better at being independent than men are. And I think that's a kick in the balls to some dudes who might prefer that we were not.

I don't think that the weirdo who tells me he's not "ready for a relationship" after two dates really thinks that that's what I'm after- I think it's wishful thinking. Not that I'm such great shakes, but I think he would like to assume that pretty much any lady in town would be thrilled to pieces to have him all to herself, or to bear the fruit of his loins or whatever. It's nothing but blowing smoke up your own ass.

It seems as though certain men are trying to create a strawwoman narrative that just isn't there anymore. It's a narrative more flattering to themselves than based in reality. And despite the fact that shows like this, and books/movies like "He's Just Not That Into You" claim to be intended to show women how to not be pathetic, they seem to be more hung up on creating perpetuating the idea that this is what we are in the first place - and that we, of course, need a brilliant, tough lovin' dude to show us the error of our sad little ways.

Shut up and let me go

Hey, here's a tip! If you are interested, for whatever reason, in not seeming like a creepy stalker, it would behoove you to not text a girl late at night telling her you can see her in her living room from the bar you are at on the street below her window. That would not be the best way possible to ask someone for a drink. And, um, even if a girl really, really likes Tom Waits, it's still weird to follow that up with seven text messages highlighting various stalky sounding lyrics from "Downtown Train." And then later, some stuff about your being "broken." It's just weird. Weird, weird, weird. Especially considering the girl lives nowhere near the train, and is firm on her position that you are, in fact, an asshat.

I am PLOTZING, I tell you!

Last night was our half year mark at The Sunday Night Sex Show... and it was GLORIOUS. Glorious I tell you! There were so many people there that I did not personally know! We were almost at capacity! Oh, and a girl from New City came to write things about us- it'll be out on Thursday, I think. How nifty is that?

Eeee!

I'm working on some stuff too- like someone to be officially in charge of taking pictures and stuff, and possibly video. Yay!