Yo yo yo…
So for those of you with any interest (it’s hard to tell now that I’m off of the myspace blog and its constant reassurance in the form of numerous loving comments from indulgent friends), it has become more difficult for me to blog as I’m sincerely putting forth the effort to write with publishing in mind. The Word documents are slowly accumulating and my dog spends a lot of time gazing up from the foot of my desk, confused as to why I am home but ignoring him. So one day, one day perhaps, I will have something substantial to show the world.
The W.O.(e).R.D. event went very well, and I’m so grateful to get the first reading out of the way. I am sending out a giant thanks to my friends who attended, to those who couldn’t attend but wished me well, to those who read, and to Heather Litteer and Jo Weldon, who put the night together. I was so nervous that my hands shook, it is very different to stand up alone under a white light and quietly read something you’ve written instead of stomping around screaming heavy metal. When you sing in a rock band there is so much action going on onstage that you can hide behind the volume and persona. With a reading it’s just you and your words, good or bad. So that was cool and a challenge and I actually made some people cry with the heavy piece I read, and that was pretty fucking awesome. I never thought I’d be so pleased to see my friends upset. And Beth Lasch filmed for her F Sharp TV, so if I get some video I’ll post it.
So I have been paying attention to Sandra Bullock’s marriage debacle quite intently, for a number of reasons. One, because relationship trust issues are at the top of the charts for me, two, because I’ve always been a fan of Sandra Bullock (rah rah white lady football movie notwithstanding), and three because the bean-spilling, money-grubbing, skinny-ass ho in question looks like someone I could be friends with. I would even venture to say that she looks a bit like a cross between me and my gorgeous friend Remy Vicious.
I would never pose wearing a Nazi armband and licking a knife (well, okay, the knife-licking is not out of the realm of possibilities), nor do I have any plans to tattoo my forehead. However, I am a long-standing member of the bad-attitude tattooed rock chick gang, and many of the men we consort with are of Jesse James’ ilk. So I can’t help thinking that Michelle “Boobshit” McGee (Michael K’s nickname, not mine, I just think it’s funny) is not doing our crew any favors in the PR department.
Tattoo discussions and issues are pretty overworked and boring at this point in time, and I know that what once was a specific group of people is now a very wide, broad-based, and substantial portion of the Western population. So I’m not taking it too personally. But it does seem that many of the insults being thrown at Michelle by the uneducated internet passer-by could easily end up smacking the innocently inked. So I’m stating it for the random person who thinks all tattooed biker chicks are amoral, trashy losers–I assure you that many of us are not, and that the majority of us would never dream of sleeping with a married man and then jamming a knife (licked or otherwise) deep into his wife’s back a mere week after the biggest day of her career.
And in that direction, Marisa Kakoulas DiMattia says it a bit more eloquently than I have, so I’ll leave you with her blog today: NEEDLES AND SINS.
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MISS ANTHROPE'S HOUSE OF HIGH DRAMA 