Thothmuffin
Don't get any crumbs on the scale of judgement.
Sunday, June 27, 2004
Ah, Pride, that gayest of all gay days. . .
Just got back from Pride Fest, which is a lot like most civic festivals only with less clothing and tackier souvenirs. And a big parade. Needless to say, I had a fabulous time. Some of the highlights:
1) Adorable lesbians selling recycled t-shirts stenciled with feminist slogans. “Every dyke’s a hero,” “the constitution is not a weapon of mass destruction,” that sort of thing. My best friend bought a t-shirt that preaches “Amen to gay men” (more on her later). I am now the proud owner of a shirt that reads “use the F-word” on the front and “f*minist” on the back. Some of you might remember a little conversation I had with my father concerning listing certain work experience on my resume. I have to confess to thinking of him when I bought the shirt. The most adorable part was how the girls (womyn?) selling them had worked out an intricate double-tagging system to track how many shirts they sold, because they’d just found out a few days ago that the government (what’s that?) collects things like sales tax (omg!). Inventory lists? Receipts? Please, let’s not be bourgeois.
2) The realization that my best friend is a gay icon. In the Cher sense. I do not think there is a gay person in my state who does not know her. I am boggled by the sheer amount of cheek-kissing that erupted about her as people greeted her throughout the day. She’s notorious. People she doesn’t know come up and introduce themselves and talk about how long they’ve been wanting to meet her. I think I should become her Secret Service agent, because I like guns, suits, and earpieces, am inconspicuous and steadfastly loyal, but most importantly...
3) I have realized that, in clubs or large crowds of people, my location somehow becomes the relative center of the only noticeable path of movement for several meters. It’s really uncanny. Wherever I am standing, there people try to walk, nearly without fail. I would guess that I am invisible to most human powers of sight, except the people attempting to carve a path through me take the time to jostle me out of the way. I figure that if I can somehow harness and channel this power of mine, I will be able to project it outwards and form corridors through densely peopled areas, with myself at the head of all movement. You may recognize this move from such popular tales as “Moses and ‘wait, we have to cross *what* to get out of Egypt?!”” Not that I have any such lofty aspirations. I just think it would be good crowd control for my Secret Service job.
4) The BDSM community, in my opinion, could use a little work on their aesthetic. I don’t know if the leather hat, vest, and chaps combination was ever sexy on anyone. Maybe in a different era? But when the Bears are hotter than you, it might be time to do some rethinking. (The Bears have Utilikilts. I respect that.) And where are the female participants in the BDSM community? There must be lesbians into leather somewhere...perhaps they are part of the Dykes on Bikes? But the good men of the BDSM community in these parts do get fantastic float points for their icon of a clenched metal fist dangling by a thick chain from a silver triangle. I think I managed to get a picture of that. . .^_^
5) Goths for Pride. They marched in full gothtastic getup to raise awareness of the overlap and sisterhood between the goth and gay communities. Goths are a talented people. It takes so much work to affect as many pretensions as they do. Their devotion to their personal aesthetic makes my heart sing with joy. Two great goth moments: extraordinarily tall, lovely, mohawked gothboy in a skirt and heeled boots striding down the main street, welded metal case/purse swinging in one hand as he lit a cigarette with the other. That, my dears, is talent. And number two, goths applying sunscreen with morose and furtive gestures. My chu overflowed.
6) Don’t poke human-shaped bundles of old blankets to see if they’re dead bodies. They might just be homeless people sleeping. You know, wrapped like the dead. Sleeping. In the middle of a crowd of 150,000 wildly celebratory people. (No, I didn’t actually make this mistake. But I thought about it. More to the point, I offered my friend’s little sister a quarter to poke it for me. She refused, wisely, and the bundle started moving then anyway, so the experiment turned out not to be necessary.)
I suppose that’s all of my reflections for now. I’m probably still recovering from sensory overload and dehydration. I might have pictures sometime soon for interested folk, though.
1) Adorable lesbians selling recycled t-shirts stenciled with feminist slogans. “Every dyke’s a hero,” “the constitution is not a weapon of mass destruction,” that sort of thing. My best friend bought a t-shirt that preaches “Amen to gay men” (more on her later). I am now the proud owner of a shirt that reads “use the F-word” on the front and “f*minist” on the back. Some of you might remember a little conversation I had with my father concerning listing certain work experience on my resume. I have to confess to thinking of him when I bought the shirt. The most adorable part was how the girls (womyn?) selling them had worked out an intricate double-tagging system to track how many shirts they sold, because they’d just found out a few days ago that the government (what’s that?) collects things like sales tax (omg!). Inventory lists? Receipts? Please, let’s not be bourgeois.
2) The realization that my best friend is a gay icon. In the Cher sense. I do not think there is a gay person in my state who does not know her. I am boggled by the sheer amount of cheek-kissing that erupted about her as people greeted her throughout the day. She’s notorious. People she doesn’t know come up and introduce themselves and talk about how long they’ve been wanting to meet her. I think I should become her Secret Service agent, because I like guns, suits, and earpieces, am inconspicuous and steadfastly loyal, but most importantly...
3) I have realized that, in clubs or large crowds of people, my location somehow becomes the relative center of the only noticeable path of movement for several meters. It’s really uncanny. Wherever I am standing, there people try to walk, nearly without fail. I would guess that I am invisible to most human powers of sight, except the people attempting to carve a path through me take the time to jostle me out of the way. I figure that if I can somehow harness and channel this power of mine, I will be able to project it outwards and form corridors through densely peopled areas, with myself at the head of all movement. You may recognize this move from such popular tales as “Moses and ‘wait, we have to cross *what* to get out of Egypt?!”” Not that I have any such lofty aspirations. I just think it would be good crowd control for my Secret Service job.
4) The BDSM community, in my opinion, could use a little work on their aesthetic. I don’t know if the leather hat, vest, and chaps combination was ever sexy on anyone. Maybe in a different era? But when the Bears are hotter than you, it might be time to do some rethinking. (The Bears have Utilikilts. I respect that.) And where are the female participants in the BDSM community? There must be lesbians into leather somewhere...perhaps they are part of the Dykes on Bikes? But the good men of the BDSM community in these parts do get fantastic float points for their icon of a clenched metal fist dangling by a thick chain from a silver triangle. I think I managed to get a picture of that. . .^_^
5) Goths for Pride. They marched in full gothtastic getup to raise awareness of the overlap and sisterhood between the goth and gay communities. Goths are a talented people. It takes so much work to affect as many pretensions as they do. Their devotion to their personal aesthetic makes my heart sing with joy. Two great goth moments: extraordinarily tall, lovely, mohawked gothboy in a skirt and heeled boots striding down the main street, welded metal case/purse swinging in one hand as he lit a cigarette with the other. That, my dears, is talent. And number two, goths applying sunscreen with morose and furtive gestures. My chu overflowed.
6) Don’t poke human-shaped bundles of old blankets to see if they’re dead bodies. They might just be homeless people sleeping. You know, wrapped like the dead. Sleeping. In the middle of a crowd of 150,000 wildly celebratory people. (No, I didn’t actually make this mistake. But I thought about it. More to the point, I offered my friend’s little sister a quarter to poke it for me. She refused, wisely, and the bundle started moving then anyway, so the experiment turned out not to be necessary.)
I suppose that’s all of my reflections for now. I’m probably still recovering from sensory overload and dehydration. I might have pictures sometime soon for interested folk, though.
Saturday, June 26, 2004
Household
I wanted to write you a love story
but I ran out of love.
I checked the secret stash
under my bed
and that was all used up, too.
The store wouldn’t be getting any in for another week,
they said.
Too bad for them—
I’ll take my money elsewhere.
Turns out no one was selling any
on eBay
or those other places where you can get old stuff.
I’d try to substitute something,
but it might turn out like that time when I used
peanut butter
instead of plain old butter.
Butter is a very elemental thing
just like love.
It’ll turn up eventually,
I bet.
When it does, it’ll be everywhere
dust-bunny style.
Then we’ll be busy
sweeping it up
laughing
and chasing each other with brooms.
Who’ll have time for stories?
but I ran out of love.
I checked the secret stash
under my bed
and that was all used up, too.
The store wouldn’t be getting any in for another week,
they said.
Too bad for them—
I’ll take my money elsewhere.
Turns out no one was selling any
on eBay
or those other places where you can get old stuff.
I’d try to substitute something,
but it might turn out like that time when I used
peanut butter
instead of plain old butter.
Butter is a very elemental thing
just like love.
It’ll turn up eventually,
I bet.
When it does, it’ll be everywhere
dust-bunny style.
Then we’ll be busy
sweeping it up
laughing
and chasing each other with brooms.
Who’ll have time for stories?
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Rainbow Brite has got it goin' on
By now you’ve all noticed the 80s nostalgia craze that has been going around. I realize this is mainly targeted at Gen-Xers who have finally begun to raise their own squalling spawn, and for some unfathomable reason, wish to subject their children to the same toys and media that their parents used to raise them.
This does not, however, explain the general 80s-ward trend currently overtaking fashion.
Most of us know the 80s when we see it. Similarly, most of us have done our best to purge our closets and drawers of nearly everything that smacks of the 80s. However, not until last night (when I had to prepare a last-minute 80s costume) did I realize the diabolically brilliant, nearly viral nature of that infection upon fashion that is sometimes called “80s style.”
The key to the 80s is this: it is not that you do not own “80s clothes.” It is simply that your own taste has matured, and will not allow you to wear your clothes in 80s fashion. As I discovered last night, it is dishearteningly easy, once all restraint and taste has been abandoned, to change the everyday components of any reasonably stylish wardrobe into something out of The Breakfast Club.
The secrets of this awful metamorphosis? Distress and layers.
For those of you unfamiliar with theatrical costuming terminology, to “distress” an article of clothing involves every kind of indignity that fastidious mothers have fearsomely warned their children against since time immemorial. Distressed clothing may be bleached, ripped, cut, pinned, rolled in dirt, painted, dyed, wrinkled, or otherwise mutilated. This being the 80s we’re talking about, the more of these abuses you can perpetrate on any given article of clothing, the better.
The other secret is to wear layers, and wear them proudly. Your tanktop must show from underneath the distressed neckline of your sweatshirt; belts are added simply for the sake of furthering the dimensionality of an outfit; necklaces and bracelets are stratified like gaudy cross-sections of the Grand Canyon. And so, by selecting two outfits that flew in the face of my every fashion instinct and then attempting to wear them at once, I became a living host for the 80s.
Now, you might have the impression that I hate 80s clothes. That’s not entirely true. Knee-vented bleached jeans, off-the-shoulder shirts, ripped fishnet stockings, aviator glasses, tapered-leg pants, combat boots, bangles, hoops, chains, blazers with shoulder pads, horizontal-stripe polos...yes, I am swayed by their charms as much as the next muffin.
But I suspect that for now most people, like me, only find them delightful because of the nostalgia of awfulness. Much like how looking at pictures of yourself from junior high fills you with euphoria because, no matter how bad things are now, at least you don’t still have to look like *that* every day. Perhaps it is even the exact same effect: X-ers reclaiming the "cool" clothes they never had when they were in junior high, or buying for their children the toys their parents refused to get for them. I predict that those of us who were alive and reasonably cognizant in the 80s will tire of this trend well before the younger generations finally catch on to the fact that, after the first flare of audacious charm has died down, the 80s just starts to look like mess.
Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com
This does not, however, explain the general 80s-ward trend currently overtaking fashion.
Most of us know the 80s when we see it. Similarly, most of us have done our best to purge our closets and drawers of nearly everything that smacks of the 80s. However, not until last night (when I had to prepare a last-minute 80s costume) did I realize the diabolically brilliant, nearly viral nature of that infection upon fashion that is sometimes called “80s style.”
The key to the 80s is this: it is not that you do not own “80s clothes.” It is simply that your own taste has matured, and will not allow you to wear your clothes in 80s fashion. As I discovered last night, it is dishearteningly easy, once all restraint and taste has been abandoned, to change the everyday components of any reasonably stylish wardrobe into something out of The Breakfast Club.
The secrets of this awful metamorphosis? Distress and layers.
For those of you unfamiliar with theatrical costuming terminology, to “distress” an article of clothing involves every kind of indignity that fastidious mothers have fearsomely warned their children against since time immemorial. Distressed clothing may be bleached, ripped, cut, pinned, rolled in dirt, painted, dyed, wrinkled, or otherwise mutilated. This being the 80s we’re talking about, the more of these abuses you can perpetrate on any given article of clothing, the better.
The other secret is to wear layers, and wear them proudly. Your tanktop must show from underneath the distressed neckline of your sweatshirt; belts are added simply for the sake of furthering the dimensionality of an outfit; necklaces and bracelets are stratified like gaudy cross-sections of the Grand Canyon. And so, by selecting two outfits that flew in the face of my every fashion instinct and then attempting to wear them at once, I became a living host for the 80s.
Now, you might have the impression that I hate 80s clothes. That’s not entirely true. Knee-vented bleached jeans, off-the-shoulder shirts, ripped fishnet stockings, aviator glasses, tapered-leg pants, combat boots, bangles, hoops, chains, blazers with shoulder pads, horizontal-stripe polos...yes, I am swayed by their charms as much as the next muffin.
But I suspect that for now most people, like me, only find them delightful because of the nostalgia of awfulness. Much like how looking at pictures of yourself from junior high fills you with euphoria because, no matter how bad things are now, at least you don’t still have to look like *that* every day. Perhaps it is even the exact same effect: X-ers reclaiming the "cool" clothes they never had when they were in junior high, or buying for their children the toys their parents refused to get for them. I predict that those of us who were alive and reasonably cognizant in the 80s will tire of this trend well before the younger generations finally catch on to the fact that, after the first flare of audacious charm has died down, the 80s just starts to look like mess.
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
Weirdly Accurate Personality Drink Meme
| How to make a thothmuffin |
| Ingredients: 1 part pride 3 parts self-sufficiency 1 part energy |
| Method: Combine in a tall glass half filled with crushed ice. Add emotion to taste! Do not overindulge! |
Personality cocktail
From Go-Quiz.com
Sunday, June 13, 2004
The Heterosexual Myth Of Romance
So I just saw The Stepford Wives, which I recommend. It’s funny; it’ll make you think. Also, the costumes are fabulous, and the movie makes fun of people from Manhattan *and* Connecticut.
I’ll tell you what it made me think about, but first, in case you haven’t been paying attention, you should know that I’m a romantic. Yes, I am practically the essence of schmoop. Waltzing: doki-doki. Shiny fabrics: waku-waku. The chu runs deep. Roses are my favorite flowers. Nuff said.
Due to the post-college doldrums, I’ve been reading an unhealthy number of het, OTC, pulp romance novels. Historical romance novels. (Ready? It gets worse.) Regency romance novels. If you read an average of, say, two of these novels, you start to see patterns. Men are hard, women are beautiful, sex is vanilla ... I could go on, but you’re all familiar with the conventions.
So for a long time, I’ve written romances that I thought battled those conventions, conventions which both charmed and disgusted me. I wrote gay marriage before gay marriage was cool. I just wrote a lover’s dialogue with my lamp. I’ve written romances about dominant women, self-destructive tendencies, equal partnerships, slavish devotion, power struggles, philosophical dialogues, stalking, and deception in love’s name. Never all in one story, of course--a lack that I can blame only on my own shameful dilettantism, and which I shall remedy post-haste.
And yet I wonder: did every moment in every one of those stories that seemed romantic seem so only because of its relation to a heterosexual ideal in the minds of my readers, no matter their sexuality? Every time someone yields, is rescued, dresses up, is wooed, protests chastity or thrills reluctantly, will my audience understand it only as the woman’s part in a romance? Likewise, when a character pursues, saves, seduces, overpowers, protects, and fights impure lusts, will a reader think, “Ah, so this one is the man!”?
It’s a disheartening thought, for someone like me.
Or, am I putting the chicken before my eggs here? [I have a gift for mangling idiom. Somewhere, my advisor is crying.] Perhaps that’s the insidious power of “understood” heterosexuality: it takes scenarios and emotions that are common to us all and parses them nicely into gendered interactions. Whenever you deviate, Het Norm points out condescendingly that he was there first, not to mention more often, and most people like his way better, so you can get back in the kitchen and bake him some pie. So it’s probably just force of habit that makes people, sometimes even me, wonder if romance can ever be detached from gender norms. If every attempt at romance is just an act of capitulating to the Man.
But still ... even a gay man in Stepford Wives admits that the heterosexual idea of romance is “fabulous.” Perhaps he’s not the best-characterized or most rounded example, but the point remains: over and over again we are charmed by roses, gowns, beauty, strength, rescues, and yes, even by love as a hierarchy. Romance has a noble aesthetic: it makes us feel rich, proud, courtly, dignified, special. But does it blind us to the full range of love’s expression?
I can think of only one obvious solution. Next Valentine’s Day, everyone, and I do mean everyone, should go about wearing both a purple evening gown and a rapier. Entire hosts of people will waltz and perhaps have a bit of champagne, and later in the garden there will be shameless fondling as the roses and moonlight stare scandalized, and at last we will all stagger home. When we awake we will have forgotten all the details, but specifics won’t matter, because you can rest assured that at least everyone got their fair share (you rake, you!) of romance.
I’ll tell you what it made me think about, but first, in case you haven’t been paying attention, you should know that I’m a romantic. Yes, I am practically the essence of schmoop. Waltzing: doki-doki. Shiny fabrics: waku-waku. The chu runs deep. Roses are my favorite flowers. Nuff said.
Due to the post-college doldrums, I’ve been reading an unhealthy number of het, OTC, pulp romance novels. Historical romance novels. (Ready? It gets worse.) Regency romance novels. If you read an average of, say, two of these novels, you start to see patterns. Men are hard, women are beautiful, sex is vanilla ... I could go on, but you’re all familiar with the conventions.
So for a long time, I’ve written romances that I thought battled those conventions, conventions which both charmed and disgusted me. I wrote gay marriage before gay marriage was cool. I just wrote a lover’s dialogue with my lamp. I’ve written romances about dominant women, self-destructive tendencies, equal partnerships, slavish devotion, power struggles, philosophical dialogues, stalking, and deception in love’s name. Never all in one story, of course--a lack that I can blame only on my own shameful dilettantism, and which I shall remedy post-haste.
And yet I wonder: did every moment in every one of those stories that seemed romantic seem so only because of its relation to a heterosexual ideal in the minds of my readers, no matter their sexuality? Every time someone yields, is rescued, dresses up, is wooed, protests chastity or thrills reluctantly, will my audience understand it only as the woman’s part in a romance? Likewise, when a character pursues, saves, seduces, overpowers, protects, and fights impure lusts, will a reader think, “Ah, so this one is the man!”?
It’s a disheartening thought, for someone like me.
Or, am I putting the chicken before my eggs here? [I have a gift for mangling idiom. Somewhere, my advisor is crying.] Perhaps that’s the insidious power of “understood” heterosexuality: it takes scenarios and emotions that are common to us all and parses them nicely into gendered interactions. Whenever you deviate, Het Norm points out condescendingly that he was there first, not to mention more often, and most people like his way better, so you can get back in the kitchen and bake him some pie. So it’s probably just force of habit that makes people, sometimes even me, wonder if romance can ever be detached from gender norms. If every attempt at romance is just an act of capitulating to the Man.
But still ... even a gay man in Stepford Wives admits that the heterosexual idea of romance is “fabulous.” Perhaps he’s not the best-characterized or most rounded example, but the point remains: over and over again we are charmed by roses, gowns, beauty, strength, rescues, and yes, even by love as a hierarchy. Romance has a noble aesthetic: it makes us feel rich, proud, courtly, dignified, special. But does it blind us to the full range of love’s expression?
I can think of only one obvious solution. Next Valentine’s Day, everyone, and I do mean everyone, should go about wearing both a purple evening gown and a rapier. Entire hosts of people will waltz and perhaps have a bit of champagne, and later in the garden there will be shameless fondling as the roses and moonlight stare scandalized, and at last we will all stagger home. When we awake we will have forgotten all the details, but specifics won’t matter, because you can rest assured that at least everyone got their fair share (you rake, you!) of romance.
Thursday, June 10, 2004
D/s at the Local Wal-Mart
SCENE: The local Super Wal-Mart. Dressed to blend in, THOTHMUFFIN wears an overlarge black terry-cloth sweatshirt and dusty work jeans. Our hero prowls the aisles on a quest to liberate a few things of purity from this gray and soulless place.
*TM catches a flash of something at once dark and brilliant [this is LAMP] and pauses*
TM: But soft! What is this I see?
*LAMP is a small, black-domed affair with hints of brass, perfect for the nightstand, and also happens to be on a very handsome sale.*
LAMP: *sleek, silent*
TM: *approaches* A lamp, verily, but of such style! You shall be mine. *caresses LAMP, then halts in sudden realization* Treachery! Where is your mechanism of operation?
LAMP: *smug*
TM: *fondles LAMP first subtly, then more thoroughly, incensed beyond regard for the delicate eyes of passersby by the lack of obvious switches*
LAMP: *can barely hold back cruel laughter*
TM: INSOLENCE! *slaps the LAMP’s shiny brass*
LAMP: *brightens*
TM: ...
TM: *slaps again*
LAMP: *even brighter*
TM: *purrs* You are most responsive to my touch, as well befits thee. Come, away with me, and I shall teach you what love it is to be owned!
TM: *purchases tap-touch LAMP*
EXEUNT ALL
*TM catches a flash of something at once dark and brilliant [this is LAMP] and pauses*
TM: But soft! What is this I see?
*LAMP is a small, black-domed affair with hints of brass, perfect for the nightstand, and also happens to be on a very handsome sale.*
LAMP: *sleek, silent*
TM: *approaches* A lamp, verily, but of such style! You shall be mine. *caresses LAMP, then halts in sudden realization* Treachery! Where is your mechanism of operation?
LAMP: *smug*
TM: *fondles LAMP first subtly, then more thoroughly, incensed beyond regard for the delicate eyes of passersby by the lack of obvious switches*
LAMP: *can barely hold back cruel laughter*
TM: INSOLENCE! *slaps the LAMP’s shiny brass*
LAMP: *brightens*
TM: ...
TM: *slaps again*
LAMP: *even brighter*
TM: *purrs* You are most responsive to my touch, as well befits thee. Come, away with me, and I shall teach you what love it is to be owned!
TM: *purchases tap-touch LAMP*
EXEUNT ALL
Wednesday, June 09, 2004
[fic] Love Letter #112
He rereads the first sentence of his letter and wants to giggle, but refrains. Giggling makes his tie look incongruous. He rides the commuter train to the City five days a week, squinting into the glow of his laptop screen. Others on the train type furiously, or read, or sleep. He does these things too, sometimes, but when he forgets to be serious, he composes love letters.
Today’s epistle seeks to seduce Luke Giordino, his neighborhood sanitation engineer. Luke wrote him a polite note a month ago, thanking him for the precision with which he separated his recyclables. He recalls its fluid poetry with glee on certain dark mornings:
Mr. DeLindsay--Thank you for always seperating stuff right. Some of these bastards make it real hard for a guy to do his job. Luke Giordino, your trash guy
His trash guy! Luke was obviously smitten with him. He waited anxiously for another love token like the last, but weeks passed with none forthcoming.
Two days ago, in an act of reckless desperation, he placed a single empty can with his newspapers. It was a foolish attempt to rouse Luke’s ire, a dastardly move indeed, but anything for another note of such lyric beauty!
Luke coyly pretended not to notice.
Dearest Luke, You are the sexiest garbageman who has ever handled my bags.
He wiggles his tongue back and forth over his teeth as he tries not to laugh. He has never delivered any of his love letters, but Luke’s may tempt him.
Today’s epistle seeks to seduce Luke Giordino, his neighborhood sanitation engineer. Luke wrote him a polite note a month ago, thanking him for the precision with which he separated his recyclables. He recalls its fluid poetry with glee on certain dark mornings:
Mr. DeLindsay--Thank you for always seperating stuff right. Some of these bastards make it real hard for a guy to do his job. Luke Giordino, your trash guy
His trash guy! Luke was obviously smitten with him. He waited anxiously for another love token like the last, but weeks passed with none forthcoming.
Two days ago, in an act of reckless desperation, he placed a single empty can with his newspapers. It was a foolish attempt to rouse Luke’s ire, a dastardly move indeed, but anything for another note of such lyric beauty!
Luke coyly pretended not to notice.
Dearest Luke, You are the sexiest garbageman who has ever handled my bags.
He wiggles his tongue back and forth over his teeth as he tries not to laugh. He has never delivered any of his love letters, but Luke’s may tempt him.
Monday, June 07, 2004
Now With Comments
Trying out this whole comments thing.
