A FIRE TO KEEP YOU WARM

When I was 14 I went to go see Miranda July perform in Berkeley and the opening band was MeMe America, which was Wynne Greenwood and Sally Quaasar. They were fantastic. The whole show was fantastic. The next year I saw Tracy + the Plastics perform at Ladyfest Olympia, and Wynne got a me a copy of their VHS tape "album". I also bought the Plastics' Turn Video cassette and was totally hooked. Tracy + the Plastics mean a lot to me. I made a glow-in-the-dark Tracy + the Plastics t-shirt, and because of wearing it to queer punk shows in San Francisco, I met my first boyfriend at 16. So, Wynne Greenwood's music and artwork have a lot of significance for me, in terms of coming out and being queer and living in the world. I've had the good fortune to meet her when I was in college and booked bands to perform at the school. I think I have pretty much everything she's ever released, and it's all great. And I know that she was making art work on the west coast, and that there were songs that had been recorded, but they've finally been released.

Last month, Wynne's first solo record under her own name, titled A Fire To Keep You Warm was released, in conjunction with her new solo exhibition Peace In at Lawrimore Project in Seattle. It's pretty much my favorite thing, and I can't stop listening to it.



I'm kind of also into the fact that I didn't even know this was a possibility. I wasn't expecting it. Like, last summer, at almost exactly this time, Planningtorock put out W and it definitely changed my life and was the best record I heard all year. But Wynne's record I was nor prepared for. It feels like a gift from the Universe or something. It's definitely my new favorite record, and unless she puts out ANOTHER one in the next six months, it's probably my favorite record of 2012.

YOU CAN BUY IT HERE.

Okay. What to say about it. Now seems as good a time as any to share the review I wrote of the record over on Noisey. Did you know that I sometimes write record reviews for that site, under various sundry pseudonyms? Well, I do. And I was so glad to talk about this record!

So much of Tracy + the Plastic's work, I think, was about potential. Was about changing, imagining, leaving, digging up, moving. Being in transit, going from one space, one world, one reality, into another. Mapping out distances and articulating them. The new record seems to be much more about going inside. About internal states.

It feels, and I mean this in the best possible sense, like self-help. Like, I feel smarter and more sensitive and more engaged when I am listening to this record. My favorite song on the record is "New Mouth". I mean, my favorite song changes a lot, but I keep coming back to "New Mouth". It's functionally an R&B jam. Wynne Greenwood, as a singer, has never sounded better ever, and I always thought she was a really good singer. But on "New Mouth" there's a part of the song where the melody pauses and a chorus of voices call out "EVERYTHING IN THE ROOM IS ABOUT TO SAY SOMETHING TO YOU". Like: duh.

I am so moved by this music. It is the sound of the room you're in talking back to you. We are so often astounded by the bolt from the blue that we forget that it's the blue, and not the bolt, whom we should be thanking.

This record is also about taking care. It's about work. It's about changing, I guess, from your outside self to your inside self. In so many Tracy + the Plastics performances, Wynne would introduce one of my absolute favorite songs of theirs "Dawn Feather" by saying that it is about being better, a better audience, a better performer, etc. I'm paraphrasing. But it's a theme that she's used before, and it's always surprised me. So much rock music, pop music, indie music, so much art, so much video, so much of our identities seems to be about wanting to articulate ourselves, to be taken seriously. To be celebrated. But, for me, Wynne Greenwood's artwork has always been about articulating not just the present circumstances, but imagining beyond them. It gets me riled up.

Here's a video for "Big Candy" which surfaced a few years ago, and never fails to bring a tear to the eyes:

<iframe width="640" height="480" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/Ej6xlA6ofVE?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen>iframe>

The songs on the record are slower, more pared-down. Definitely funky, definitely sexy. Kind of restrained. Pared down to the absolutely most economical sounds and themes. And still, there are unexpected touches of levity and joy and beauty. Little 1960s-style riffs appear sometimes, vocal hooks murmur beyond the verse or chorus, adding a little shine. Like how real people are, when you are really paying attention to them: they unexpectedly surprise and charm you. Maybe you could do this to yourself, if you listened closely enough.

These are not songs about displaying darkness, plumbing the depths of isolation and pain. These are songs about doing the opposite, making fantasy and hope into reality. Turning something difficult and hard to put into words into an anthem. Making love. You know this phrase? I don't mean having sex I mean making love. That's what this album is about, to me.

(picture by Devin Elijah)

BAD PENNIES RETURN FROM WHENCE THEY CAME
I'LL BE BACK LIKE A BOOMERANG
BOOM BOOM BOOM BOOM

You Will Know

Hey listen everybody: I am going to be reading at The Spectrum this WEDNESDAY, MAY 23RD. With M. Lamar, Tanya Philipovich, Nicholas Gorham, Elizabeth Orr and Nath Ann Carrera. I adore the Spectrum and all of the co-stars and I still have to 100% decide what I want to read. I have some ideas. I hope you can come! It's $3 at 59 Montrose Ave and there sill be cheap drinks! More info HERE.



Last Wednesday I went to go see the Blow perform at Mercury Lounge. It was really just the best. I was thinking about how I first saw them perform more than ten years ago, when they were called Get The Hell Out Of The Way Of The Volcano. Or, actually, I think the first time I saw them perform they had JUST changed their name to the Blow, and at the performance I saw (which was at 40th Street Warehouse in Oakland-- does that place exist anymore?) there was a question and answer period, and one of the questions was why they changed the name. I like the Blow, as a name. I think it's a great name. (SIDENOTE: did you know that the name of my band, Max Steele and the Party Ice, came from Khaela of the Blow? It did. The band used to be called the Icebergs. I think Max Steele and the Party Ice is a better name).

So what was the new Blow show like? There are a bunch of new songs, from a forthcoming new Blow record. The new songs sound a bit more sure of themselves, in a way that is sort of disorienting and exciting. Like how when you drink something really fizzy, it takes a second for your face to process what's happening. The performance itself was a little bit different than previous performances I'd seen, where there was an overarching narrative or story guiding the whole show. On Wednesday it felt a bit looser, structured much more subtly, simply sharing these new songs and the places they take you. The songs are a lot about, it seemed to me, getting real with yourself. In a way that the Blow's songs sometimes are: about rising to the occasion. Dealing with difficulty. It's about a kind of resourcefulness.

It was also, for me, such a really intense and nice experience to go to a show by myself, to see this band I've seen for ten years, and has been totally one of my favorites ever, and to see these new songs. And, like, the crowd, man! Listen, the last full-length album by the Blow came out more than a minute ago, and it was really rad to see this super energetic crowd excited to see what comes next. Like: oh, yeah. We're all excited about what comes next. How fortifying or something. I really can't wait for this record to come out.



Friday I went to see Jack Ferver's new show, Two Alike, at the Kitchen. It was a collaboration with Marc Swanson, who designed the set/space. I really liked the show, a lot. But it didn't make me feel good. I don't think it was supposed to. I mean, duh, right? Like, art being exclusively about enjoyment, how small of a feeling, etc. I think jack's new piece was about exhaustion and about economy and about resourcefulness. And also about trauma. And also about how to articulate, survive, and reflect the experience of pain. I always love going to see Jack's work, and he is definitely one of these things that makes me so excited to live in New York. You can just... go see Jack Ferver do his new show, and it will pretty much always be brilliant. It's easy. I felt really excited to get to see this work. It did make me feel sad. Sad, I guess, but not hopeless. It's so funny, because Jack has been giving some really pithy interviews promoting the new work, where he says that his work is not about hope, saying "I feel it’s a very corrosive thing. People can get sleepy and lazy in hope." But his work, and especially Two Alike, did make me feel pretty optimistic, in the sense of, say, widening the discussion around queerness and pain and ways of talking about it. I think: oh, cool, look what Jack Ferver did, he made this performance about these experiences which a lot of people have had, and did it in a new and interesting way. That does makes me feel hopeful. I think that is the word for it.

After the performance I went home and hung out, drinking this white wine, Cupcake brand. It was okay. Perfect Little Daniel and I went to this TOP 8 party in Williamsburg. It was nuts! Like being in the future. I saw a lot of really cute, I guess I'm going to say Seapunk kids, raver kids, kids with dyed hair. Tons of adorable chicken dressed in glossy superhero drag. It was really nice, a wonderful change of pace. I did see some of the rad kids whose tumblrs I wrote about a few weeks ago. Was nice and shy to say hi. Hello! I am your creepy aunt. I am sort of relieved and also anxious that there are all these cool parties happening and I would have no idea. A totally different world. And I like nightclubs. It's strange. You think you know the world and then you go to bed and when you wake up it's a totally different world. Or you're different. Or both! Who cares. A fun experience.

Saturday I woke up early and went to the gym and watered my houseplants and did my writing homework and then went to have B0DYH1GH practice and recording for this new project we're working on. Then we went to the JUDY! boat party! It was really the most fun. Mykki Blanco and Cher both performed. Both looked great.

I sometimes get paranoid that certain cool kids in New York are mindlessly hating on me. Like it seems to be a thing about people just not liking me. This one circle of friends. That did cross my mind on the boat. But you know what, fuck it. Some people won't like me ever because they're too busy hating themselves and I'm often a target of projection. I don't know why they're so mean to me! Some of us, I guess, are only capable of living out the things we experienced as kids. Whatever. Again, brief dark shadows.

But only for a second! It was all in all a really nice and fun and perfect evening. I was sad that it ended. It almost didn't end, really. The open gin bar was great, too much fun. I had four cocktails before the boat even LEFT. I had too too much fun. Two much fun. On that BOAT.

Sunday I took the B43 home, then back down to Prospect Park for Ben Ha'Bear's bday picnic. We got insanely, epickally, three hours in the wrong direction, LOST in Prospect Park. But I got to see the park and get some sun and walk around so it wasn't all bad. A Led Zeppelin cover and was playing. It felt like we were sent back in time. Like: Friday had been the future, and Saturday had been the open seas, and Sunday was back in time. When we finally got to the bday picnic it was just in time for cake and margaritas, so, you know. Some things work out.

I came home and finally took a shower in my newly renovated bathroom and it was great. I ate Chinese take -out and fell asleep, really hard. And then I woke up to the sounds of thunder. And now it's raining alllll day.

It felt like a really great weekend. I am okay.

CURE 4 MONDAYS

- Take a shower even though the bathroom is still being renovated and there is plaster dust everywhere (in the air) and it is killing you.
- Splash your whole body with Florida Water.
- Wear all red including the Malcolm X t-shirt that one of your mom's friends (aka teachers at your high school) gave her to give you to. You also have this exact same t shirt in white as well.
- Because the floors (and every surface in the apartment, really) is covered in carcinogenic plaster dust, you will wear shoes. Your old Doc Marten creepers. And socks, so that your freshly-washed feet don't stink. Worry about which pair of socks to wear. You know what you have too many socks. You choose an old pair of dress socks you never wear and roll them on. They're really tight. You cut off the elastic at the top of the socks. They feel more comfortable and you look like a total creep.
- Cook beans and rice (add spinach, +5 invincibility points).
- Listen to Lee Perry and the Upsetters.
- Burn sandalwood incense.
- Drink sake mixed with pineapple juice.

I lose my temper so easily and I get so angry sometimes and I feel so tremendously guilty for it.

HEY QUEEN presents GYM QUEEN!

Hello NYC I am performing as Max Steele and the Party Ice this Saturday night:

Autobiography of Reflex

Spent most of the weekend being indecisive, sleepy, hungry. I feel like there are a bunch of things I used to be good at, or at least used to care about being good at or enjoying doing and these things just don't have the same appeal right this second. These things are getting dressed, picking out an outfit.



But like any New Yorker, what does one do when one doesn't want to choose an outfit? One wears black. There's something so coy and perfect and beautiful about this. It's emblematic of how not making a decision, as my wise friend Caroline recently tweeted, is a way of making a decision. Wearing black is a way of not having to make a decision. A reflex has a story. Shall we let them say it out loud?



In other news I did have a super duper fun reading on Saturday with dear hearts Brontez and Kat Case and Cristy Road and Joseph Whitt oh goodness. Hung out after the reading at a big house in Bushwick. It felt like San Francisco. So many buddies and friends, drinking and smoking and carrying on. I had entirely too much fun and by the time it was 11pm I headed home to bed.



11pm on Saturday night. Cinco de Mayo. The Supermoon night. Not for me. I bought cold noodles and ate them in bed while half-heartedly trying to speed-read my way through the last suite of essays/reviews in Eileen Myles' The Importance of Being Iceland before falling asleep. I woke up, did writing homework, walked around a bit.



My buddy Emma aka The Duchess was in town this weekend and although I did miss her on Saturday night (she came to the reading then we got parted) we had dinner and walked around on Sunday evening. Which was actually not just fun because I love her, but fun because for the last month (or two) I've been sort of obsessed with these fancy people that go out to dinner on Sunday night. Who are you? Why can't my life be like that? It could, I guess, it was.



I think maybe I need to be interrogating my reflexes a little deeper. It just sucks, though, how something can be really interesting and important and then it changes and is no longer those things, at all. I guess that happens to everybody. Probably all the time?



This might be where reflexes come from. The story they would want you to tell is that they're trying to help. They're trying to, have always been trying to, see their ultimate higher purpose as trying to help you adjust, acclimate. When really they hold you back.



It's possible to know something about someone else that they don't know about themselves. And it's similarly possible that someone else could notice or believe something about you which sounds ridiculous to your own ears. Our autobiographies might not be right, they might be holding us back but then what is the alternative?

Deux Plus

A) Look at this cute photo from last Friday!



Photo by and © Amos Mac
(B0DYH1GH) Max Steele and Daniel Sander.
Photo Assistant Mars Hobrecker

We're so cute, huh? Do you like my dress? It's Lanvin.

b) I'm doing a really cool reading this Saturday, 5/5/12 (Cinco de Mayo):

"What We Do Is Secret" Free Reading at Essential Hues Art Show
Wayfarer's Studio, 1109 DeKalb @ Boadway, Brooklyn (J train to Kosciuszko or M train to Central)
Readers: Kat Case, Terry Clifton, Brontez Purnell, Cristy C. Road, Max Steele, Jessica Strang, Joseph Whitt
Get here on time, enjoy a cocktail, and see all 7 readers.
THIS SHOW STARTS AT 4:00 p.m. SHARP. Not punk time.

This reading is a collaboration with the Essential Hues art show. Essential Hues is a collaborative group show featuring the work of Adee Roberson, Anna Luisa Petrisko, Caitlin Sweet, Caroline Paquita, and Sam Lopes. The exhibit includes paintings, works on paper, sculpture, textile art, video, and more. This collaborative installation will be up until May 13th, 2012.

So that's gonna be rad, too! See you there.

More Than You'd Know

Woke up this morning extra early again to go to the gym before work. Such a chore. I must say, though, going when I'm pretty much not really awake does take some of the sting out of it. Like, I can exercise for an hour, listening to the same three Janet Jackson songs and time does just seem to fly. It does seem, though, like every time I try to do this thing of getting up early, that I have some insane scary dream or something the night before. This time at 3am there was some kind of street fight, or performance? I thought I head clapping. I thought I head a guy screaming about how something was "fucking gay" and I heard applause. And it was so loud! It woke me up! But then I heard the sound getting quieter so maybe the performers walked down the street. I heard something like a garbage can get kicked over and fell back asleep. You can never tell.

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Sister Spit on Monday night was so fantastic! I of course know and adore Brontez and Justin Vivian Bond and Erin Markey and fucking THRILLED to get to see them read and sing. I've been unspeakably jealous of them all in that Sister Spit roadshow van. How awesome. Seeing Eileen Myles read, as well, always a fantastic treat. I had never seen Michelle Tea read, actually, and it was so cool. She sort o, vocal cadence-wise, was giving me a little bit of Gerry Visco effects, but maybe it's a Boston thing. It brought back memories of reading her first two books, (The Passionate Mistakes and Intricate Corruption of One Girl in America & Valencia) and how much I really loved them. What a wonderful night.

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This morning on my way to work in the rain, I ran into that one shopgirl. The one who is sort of nice, sort of not nice (depending) to me. I mean: I don't deserve to have her or anybody be nice to me, least of all because I never buy anything. But so I ran into her at an intersection this morning, and we had an awkward moment where we recognized each other, outside of the usual  context-- the boutique. On the street though, I felt more powerful. Like: "Now we're both real people. Now I'm not the only real person. Now I'm at work. (Or on my way to work.)" She looked away. I don't know. It was strange. It's not like we would have a conversation or anything. She's actually been nicer to me the last few times I've gone in.

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Okay, so. I feel like I'm about to make this huge mistake of posting about this, but, y'know, mea culpa and shit. This is a mistake because now this thing I've been quietly and secretly obsessing over in my own individual way is gonna be something I will probably have to discuss with other people, which I am kind of loathe to do sometimes? Let the cat out of the bag? I love it and I hate it. Whatever.

I feel like recently, with queer male people my own age, and actually mostly a tiny little bit older than me (tee-hee), there's been a lot of talk about how "the younger generation" is more radical and more apt to be into drag and freakiness and embracing femininity, and how they've had all this access throughout their adolescence, etc. because of the Internet. And I guess that's all mostly true, but I kind of hate this generational thinking. This gay generational thinking. It seems unnecessarily divisive. As an older sibling, I'm also really wary of anyone younger than me being cooler or better adjusted or happier than I am or was at their age, and these things are obviously inevitable. Plus: I feel like I'm still part of the younger-ish generation?

The point is: I'm really into all these freaky queer "boys" on Tumblr and I think you should get into them too. Now, I don't really know them, in real life, but I want to? I think I met the first one at Pussy Faggot, in the green room, he's one of Gerry Visco's Twinks.

That Gerry Visco is kind of on the cutting edge and doesn't get nearly enough credit for being such a genius. I'm being serious. Remember that really brilliant interview she gave to me over on the Birdsong site? But like, for real. These kids are young and freaky and cool and doing their own thing and I don't know where! It's happening totally apart from me, from a different world than the ones I am in, I think? And it's exciting.



Okay so this is a photo of Hari Nef taken by Ben Taylor. These are both new names to me. I guess he's in school and from reading his blog he's kind of a club-kid. He seems cool and I think we maybe met at Public Assembly after or before Gerry's set (I was drunk sorry). He makes hilarious jokes and good looks. This is art. Slash: is this art? Slash let's all start a band, right?



Okay I don't know this person's name but his Tumblr is Prince Nebulas. He posts a lot of cute self-portraits and Japanese stuff but this one is by far my absolute favorite. Is he a model? Are they all models? What is going on.

I feel like Kathy Acker interviewing the Spice Girls. Err, maybe a little bit less creepy.



Here's a pic of the two of them out together. At a party I had never heard of in NYC. There's so much I don't know about. I'm not being sarcastic when I say that it's great.



The lovely and be-braided style activist and Certified Funky Chicken Spacepopstar. Is she a ginger? Am I hallucinating? Sometimes her self-portraits are kind of giving me a little bit of post-apocalypse raver mixed with vintage La JohnJoseph, no? This might be wishful thinking.

I feel like I definitely went through a thing, in my life, on the Internet, where I got so much fucking shade for posting pictures of myself, and or talking about myself. Like maybe even this blog too: people really resented it! So I do feel vindicated to see that actually cool kids, way cooler than I ever would've been at their age (I don't know how old these kids are, I'm being hyperbolic for effect) using themselves in interesting ways.

It used to be, I used to feel that having a lot of friends on the Internet was different from being famous. Then that changed, or I changed, or something changed and now I see it as the same. Or, actually, I see it as an irrelevant distinction between two pretty irrelevant concepts. These freaky queer kids are making looks and making slogans ("&what", "goddess blog", and Hari Nef's new one: "french mani"), seemingly without concern for popularity, fame, whatever. How refreshing! Like, what if this was just real life now? You know? Like, about being articulate and DOING YOUR OWN THING rather than, say, trying to look like people on TV or trying to emulate someone else. I'm into this especially to the extent that it is and is not "a scene". Like do these kids and their friends even live in NYC? Does that even matter? Do you even have to be here, physically, anymore, to participate? I guess the answer right now, right this second, is "Nope". These kids aren't here, and if they are here then I don't know them so they may as well not be, but I still want to have elaborate conversations about how rad I think they are. Are there more? Is everyone secretly awesome? Am I 100% late to the party?

It's springtime, now. Let's all make new friends, eh?

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So tonight I'm going, after work, to these Ryan McGinley art openings. I am excited and also pretty nervous because the last time I went to one of these it was really. fucking. nuts. But like it's okay to be sort of nuts, sometimes, right?

Listen To Your Body

I kept waking up in the middle of the night, or I should say the super duper early morning. I woke up at 2:30 and then again at 3:30. I guess I had been having some kind of dream but both times I woke up I staggered out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to chug a glass of water. Both times I kept thinking "But... I'm not even thirsty..."

Having done a fair bit of yoga, acting exercises, meditation, acupuncture, chiropractic and massage work, I've come across the phrase "listen to your body" so many times, and it never fails to make me giggle. But it is true, I guess. Your body can want one thing and you can be totally ignorant of it, consciously. Maybe my body wanted extra water. I think actually what it was is that I ate a ton of salty Thai food before bed last night.

Friday night, Amos Mac and his intrepid young assistant Mars came over to take some photos, both of yours truly (rolling around on my bed) as well as B0DYH1GH. I was a bit nervous, I must say, if only because Amos' work is so great, and I want to live up to my life! He's a total sweetheart obviously, and we had a blast. Besides, I had kind of an ace in the hole. Something which I knew would make for a perfect photograph, and which I knew Amos would fucking love. And that is the freaky new haircut my room mate Justin's cat, Frida, got last week. She's a very nice 8 year-old Persian kitty, and she's had very long and kind of matted hair since I've known her (she and Mama J moved into the apartment in September). Last week, however, Frida got a very strange and beautiful and strange haircut:



It's kind of a haircut you'd give a poodle, right? I mean, Frida looks good, don't get me wrong. The only problem is that she kind of knows she looks good. It's sort of bringing out her inner diva. Which, again, is totally cool. Except that she was part of my fucking photo shoot. Amos and Mars were obviously charmed with her, and we did get some very nice shots of her with Perfect Li'l Daniel and I as B0DYH1GH, with Friday clawing my hair, running around our feet, etc. She totally stole the spotlight for a minute. But it's hard to get angry with a cat. I do sometimes make the mistake of projecting human feelings onto animals. Sometimes animals act like people though (more on this next time) so I feel like: Okay, you wanna be gay? Let's be gay.

Anyway after the photoshoot I tried (sort of) to wash off (some) of the eyeliner, and PLD and Ptrck began early bday celebrations with 40s in the kitchen. We went to his friend's house also for more drinks. White wine, though I do adore it, is not a mixer. FYI. This just in. We went to a warehouse party but it was far too crowded for this old lady and I begged off and went home at 2am, feeling quite musty. Mustardy.

Saturday I went to the gym and meant, seriously to go to the Scott Hug book party at Printed Matter as well as the Cindy Sherman opening at Metro Pictures, but I didn't get it together. I was working on a new writing project and puttering around the house, so I just barely made it in time to meet Sister Pico at the movie theater to see this Hart Crane biopic written, directed, edited by and starring my boyfriend James Franco, who also did a Q&A afterward. Now, I don't like to say any negative things about anybody ever but the movie was not fun for me, and the Q&A was not as illuminating as I would have liked and Pico actually walked out of the Q&A portion. I stayed in my seat to finish eating the dust at the bottom of the popcorn bag, but then I left too. We forgive you, Jimmy! The scene where Jimmy, as Hart Crane (ps: Hart Crane-- who gives a fuck, right?) gets fucked in the ass, and Jimmy plays the scene a little too exuberantly-- it's kind of unbelievable. I would like to me Jimmy's sodomy acting coach. That is a job I think I could actually do.

So after the movie I went to dinner with Teebs where we talked about how I got totally hurt last week by somebody though I want revenge it's silly so I will move on. Processing is nice. I went downtown to an art party where PLD and Ben Ha'Bear were DJ-ing, playing Yoko Ono and Uncanny Alliance. It was a super fun party! And early! I had some cheap drinks and ran into my old college chum Morgan, who had just that minute moved back to NYC. After the boys' DJ set (which included a dance cameo by that one really sexy art critic who I have kind of a hopeless crush on, but who doesn't?) the next DJ played SWANS' "Time Is Money (Bastard)" which I hadn't heard in forever, and which I love. SWANS were kind of my favorite band for a while in high school. Let's talk about this: I think Jarboe is a fucking genius and I sort of forgive Michael Gira for his casual obsession with being evil.

After the dance party Ha'Beer and PLD and I went to the GAG! party at the Metropolitan, for, like, a second. Just long enough to gather up our buddy Ryan and collectively decide that it would be a fun, lighthearted adventure to go over to Sugarland.

It was.

It was my other room mate Michael's bday on Saturday and he was celebrating at Sugarland, so I did kind of have an excuse for actually waiting in a line to get in there. Has that ever happened before? Where am I? Sugarland was obviously crowded and fucking insane and full of crazy people and the music was not good. It is nice, though, how everybody knows everybody. Anywhere you go, you have a friend there. Maybe just one you haven't met yet. I did have a good time there actually, but maybe because I had been drinking for a couple hours beforehand. Anyway it was fun-ish, and I left kind of early. I was pretending to be Kyle. Someone asked me if I was Kyle and I said no. But then I felt like "You know what? Fuck this. I am Kyle. If you're looking for Kyle, Look no further." It kind of worked.

Yesterday morning, a bit hungover (or actually still drunk) I decided to start re-potting my houseplants. I want to grow a forest in my room. Mark my words: I will do this. I took a gardening break to go get lunch at my new favorite place, Vanessa's Dumplings on Bedford.


So cheap and so good!

I go there kind of way too much. I was just there on Thursday, after the brilliant Paul Sepuya book party where Wayne Koestenbaum read. I was so excited that night that I had literally one million glasses of white wine and then went immediately to get dinner at Vanessa's. It's comfort food, for me. Because it's so cheap. It's comforting that way. I don't want it to get crowded though. It might be a mistake to write about it except hey no body reads this! Alright alright.

After lunch and gardening I met up with Julia aka Jiddy No-No aka Ewok Vixen for rehearsal. I'm performing at the next Hey Queen! on 5/12 and doing a very short nightclub Max Steele and the Party Ice set and Jiddy is gonna sign and dance the back-ups. So, rather than flying blind as I am usually wont to do, I booked us a rehearsal at the Spectrum Space. Which I do love so. Nicholas and Gage are so sweet and wonderful and I am glad that they've made this fabulous queer art haven right near my house! rehearsal was fun. I'm a fucking horrible singer. I like being bad. It sort of takes the pressure off, eh?

After rehearsal Jiddy and I came home to hang out and process and it was actually a highlight of the weekend. I was exhausted from my epick and productive weekend and slept very early. I did, though, get up twice to drink unnecessary water, before getting up for real this morning at 5am to exercise. I listened to a lot of Janet Jackson. Give me strength.

Tonight, in just a few hours, I'm going to see Erin Markey and Justin Vivian Bond and Brontez and Eileen Myles and Michelle Tea and Narcissister and so many others perform at Sister Spit. I am BEYOND excited.

Okay here I go.

A lot of times I do, yeah, circle back to familiar songs and records as a way of getting myself to feel better. I'm remembering now how I went through this big Lisa Germano phase in 2007, when I was super bummed out. It didn't make me feel, you know, better or anything. But I did think how nice it was to have these songs she made, about feeling shitty. Feeling smart about feeling shitty.

It's like going to the doctor's office and describing your symptoms, but only after having spent serious time checking them out online. It's like I'm going in to see a professional, but all I want is a second opinion. I know what's wrong with me and I know what I have and I'm just hoping, you know, that maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there's some clinical drug trial I can get into, maybe there's some radical new therapy an experimental treatment which someone could administer to me. Maybe at a university somewhere. I'm coming into this whole thing with a sinking feeling. "You don't have to tell me doctor. I already know." In a way I want to be contradicted. Tell me it's not a heart attack but acute angina. Tell me it's not a terminal illness but a food allergy. I want a misdiagnosis, I will pay you to give me one. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I kind of think that you and I are meant to be together and that us, being together, is a way for us to ruin our lives. Let me back up, and explain. I sort of feel like we're meant to be uptight together. We're meant to be scared. Do you want to raise a gluten-free child? I don't but I would, with you. Pretty much everything about you I find attractive and I am guessing that there's some kind of deep childhood trauma, or some really old and unprocessed fear whirring away inside of you, which you are constantly struggling to overcome. And you totally did! You have totally done that. I don't know a nicer way of saying that you've beat your inner demons. The nicest way I can think to say it is that I am totally, deeply attracted to this success (or delusion) and want to spend as much as time as possible around it. Do you think we could be happy together? Put another way, are you positive that we would be unhappy together?

You are picky. You're fussy. You have pretty strong preferences about what you like and don't like. I bet it would take some serious convincing to get you to even try a new food, but hey: I wanna do that. I feel like you, and I, could have this whole secret world where we push beyond our comfort zones in the smallest possible ways. Like: let's get Tibetan food. You know? What would Tibetan food even be? Totally not that brave. Maybe we'd have a shitty meal. Even then, that would be perfect because we'd have a funny story. I bet you wouldn't even go out for Tibetan food, to try something new, with me. Maybe you would if you really liked me. I would probably take up eating meat again if we were in love. I could do that. I could promise to try to do that. I might fail. But wouldn't you sort of, deep down, like to have a boyfriend (me) who is so hopelessly vegetarian? Think about it: you could feel like I was the one who is too uptight, and that by comparison you would be so open-minded. Wouldn't it feel good to feel more open-minded than your boyfriend? Just a little bit? I want to be that, for you. Because I feel the same way about you. You're too perfect and I am chipped. You have a perfect face, perfect teeth, perfect hair, attitude, body, friends, job, interests, past, everything. And they all go to waste, right? Like, behind glass. You're like a sculpture or jewelry or something like a television. I want to put you in the corner of my living room and just watch.

You make me want to be boring. Compared to you I feel like a junkie, a hooker, a thief, a killer, a leper, a pederast. I like it: a kind of debasement. I bet it would take real effort, I'd have to try really hard, I'd have to push you very far to get you to lash out and try to hurt me. All this humiliation, this shame, it's all in my head; i know that. But I wanna bring it to you and with you I want to move to the suburbs.

We could run. You know. We could quit. We could leave New York. We could watch basic cable. We could stop going to see bands play, stop hearing about movies. Stop reading cool magazines and trying out new restaurants. Stop drinking. We could stop smoking. We could give up on participating in the culture here, at the end of the world, where we come from. The Underground we thrived in in the suburbs, where our roots are: we could forget it. We could sell out. We could live a bourgeois dream. We could sleep. Finally, I mean. I could finally sleep. We could settle. We could give up. We'd be denying a part of ourselves, yeah. We could be double gay white male amputees. This is the fantasy, the dark secret I've been sitting on for weeks, months. We might be able to be happy as quitters, as runners, as losers. Together. That might be a way out.

Happy Birthday, Barbra Streisand

Last Friday my gay goth rap band B0DYH1GH played our Special Gala evening at CultureFIX, organized by Johnny Sagan aka SNOWY WILDERNESS. We had collaborators in the forms of live video projections by Patrick Dyer and dance performances and pyrotechnices by Bradley and Coco.The title for the show was DEEP-FRIED CANDYFLOWERS. Here's a video of it that Ryan took:



I gotta say I think we really nailed it. Thanks for the vid Ryan!

I think we're really sounding great as a band. I think we sort of sound like the KG. You know? Or, I hope we do? Is that okay to say? It's totally been a minute since Nature Morte came out. Tae Won Yu, I was just thinking about this last night, is sort of the cutest boy in Indie rock, right? He might be the ultimate fantasy boyfriend. Anyway, I love the KG. It's totally beautiful and heartfelt songwriting but there's absolutely none of this rock star bullshit. No swagger. (Remember when swagger used to be a negative thing?) Anyway I was listening to this record last night and fantasizing about Tae's voice and how I did, you know, see the KG perform once, at Yoyo-a-Gogo but I didn't recognize any of the songs. But Tae was wearing all white, it was so cool. But it's like, is he even queer? You know? Maybe.


Tae & Liz “Girly Sound” Phair in Girl Germs.

I sort of have bad gaydar but it's only because I have such a good imagination. Here's a rad recent-ish interview with Tae from A Fog of Ideas. Awesome!

Saturday was another smashing time, I saw Justin Sayre's new play, directed by dear heart Ben Rimalower and assistant directed by Austin Dale (straight outta jail). It featured good buddies Cole Escola and Ian Scott McGregor and Paul Iacono. Perfect Little Daniel and I sat in the front next to Dad aka B. Blackwell and we all just loved it. It's really nuts to me to be friends with these people! It was maybe a little overwhelming and intimidating. But so much fun. I thought the show was fucking hilarious. We saw lady tigress Rachel Shukert and sisterhood of the traveling pants Dan Fishback at the afterparty, a mysterious place in Hell's Kitchen, called Fusion (of what? I wondered, and what else?). They had a cocktail there called Nasty Girl aka Dirty Boy. I spent more than a few minutes thinking about what that might mean. The bartender carded PLD and Dad but seemed to make a point out of not carding me. Ouch! After the afterparty we took a long walk in the rain and a long long long train ride went to a high school prom-themed rager for heterosexual children in the abandoned basement of a very fancy brownstone building in Carroll's Gardens. I'm not kidding. PLD and I went to meet out friend Boogers, who lives in a true mansion (I haven't seen it-- yet). By this point it was midnight, officially Daniel's birthday. There was cake at this party, and we ate some with our hands. Travis my dancer friend showed up with a very glamorous homegirl and we all had so much fun hanging out, commandeering the darkened moldy rooms of the basement.

Sunday I stayed indoors pretty much all day because of the rain. Which was great. Not all day, I went to the gym actually.



I dunno. Do you ever feel like someone has something that you want? Like just sort of fundamentally jealous? Ever? It's probably totally not about a particular person or a particular thing that I want, it never is, it's just this thing of feeling down on yourself. Feeling deficient. And I guess I do.

This is a totally corny example, but I got invited to the Jil Sander sample sale and I went, today, after work. Even though a) I'm broke, and b) I don't need anything. But last year I got a pair of shoes for like $45. Anyway I went after work, and the thing was supposed to go until 6pm but they cut off the line at 5:30. And the guys in suits running the show said to come back tomorrow at ten am, but it's like... I have a job. I can't wait all day in line to buy discounted clothes. You know? Like a sample sale should be accessible to the people who are buying the things, right? These aren't the rich assholes, because they can just go to the actual stores or call up the office on the phone and order what they want 360 days of the year. These five days are for, you know, the proletariat.

I have a really big chip on my shoulder about not being let into places. I wonder, you know. I guess I don't really believe in nation-states.



But, so, like, regardless: that was kinda a bummer. And I just sort of feel like I constantly have to prove myself, or something. Like, I printed out the e-mail with the invitation to the sale. This is totally uncool, people. This is needlessly dorky. If they were actually checking invitations (which they were not, duh) I could have just shown them on my smartphone, right? Who prints out the invitation? It's literally like printing out a coupon. I'm not really embarrassed of this. I'm just using it as an example. I feel like I need to always like prove that I'm worthy or belong somewhere or something. And like, I get it. That's on me.



I've just been feeling this really intensely lately. I'm trying to organize my thoughts in such a way that I don't feel constantly left out and down on myself, but it's really hard! And it sucks to be honest, and real, about the fact that I might just need to chill out. Things might not actually be happening, I could just be in a bad mood. Whatever. I'm just trying to say that, you know, things are super cool and also not, at the same time. I'm sure I'm not the only person who feels this way. Who feels like it's work. Fun work! But work. So that's there, too.



My amazing former professor, Judith Rodenbeck, shared this awesome quote online last week and I can't stop thinking about it:

"Pedagogy as a performative modeling asks people to try on versions of the better good life that hasn’t yet found a world. Along with new knowledges, it can provide voice, embodiment, and desire modes to try on and speak from that are unwarranted  by history, unsanctioned by norms, unprotected by institutions, but amazing to experience in life as something that life should sustain. From experiences like this, lived utopias emerge."
From this conversation between Dorothea Lasky and Lauren Berlant

I keep looking at this and the interview. Not to totally debase the actual conversation this is coming from, the maybe the whole idea of pedagogy is the thing I want to get into. Not in terms of, say, being a teacher or anything, but as a performance practice? As a way of inhabiting and "embodying" what I want to see, what I hope to relay, the seeds the utopias I think we could be living. This really resonates with me. What a cheer-up.

Hey also, today is Barbra Streisand's birthday. It's totally Taurus Time.

Here's my favorite Barbra number, which is actually written by Laura Nyro (duh):



I just love how when she sings "Cause the fury of the broken thunder's come to match my raging soul" and sort of starts screaming "SouuuuuUUUUUUUL!" I listen to this song a lot when I'm running on the treadmill at the gym.

And, for a more contemporary twist, this comes at the end of a sweet audience interaction routine:



"I love the truth, y'know? It's so powerful."

Eaten Alive

Epick catching up to do, you guys. I'm on it! At the top of my list is that I recently went to the Brooklyn Zine Fest and I got the newest issue (#4) of Brontez' brilliant zine, Fag School. The title and theme is JOIN THE PROFESSIONALS. You can buy it online from Pegacorn Press. It's totally great, and worth at least the $5 it'll cost you.



So, y'know: Zine Review Time!

FULL DISCLOSURE: I know (and adore) Brontez, and have contributed to a past issue of Fag School, he's contributed to my zine. Scorcher, and we've done a few readings together here in NYC. So, I'm biased. I'm a fan. I have pretty high expectations for his work, and I was not disappointed.

The zine is split neatly in half: one-half is a collection of new fiction writing, detailing his glamorous and exciting life as a working artist in California, and the other half is interviews with a number of luminaries about what it means to be a "professional". Among the greats who Brontez interviewed are: Daniel Nicoletta, Kenyon Farrow, Michelle Tea, Javier Perez, Josh Cheon, Suppositori “Spaz” Spelling, Robert Yang AKA “Robot Hustle,” Justin Torres, Chris Owens, Tobi Vail, Juan Velasquez, and Stevie Shakes.

All the interviewers give great quote, and I'm deeply envious of Brontez' vision here. Taken as a whole, the interviews reveal not only the subjects, but of course the dynamic, versatile depths of Brontez' thinking. He's able to get people from a variety of backgrounds and practices to speak to similar themes, and is able to tease out juicy bits of information. The conversations illuminate each other.

Like Brontez, I do feel a certain fundamental ambivalence towards professionalism as such. And yet there's a certain way the notion of professionalism or being "a real artist" can be re-appropriated in the context of queers and people of color and folk artists and women and punk rockers as a way of signaling the context we are creating for our own work. Such a deceptively smart idea! Michelle Tea's interview was actually pretty great, in terms of how she and Brontez discuss writing as memoir vs. fiction and how people deal with being written about. A definite must.

The other half of the zine, subtitled "Johnny, Would You love Me If My Dick were Bigger" is a collection of stories by Brontez alone. I had the good fortune to hear him read from some of these the last time we did a reading together (with the studly genius Joseph Whitt) at P.P.O.W. Gallery a few months ago. I'm always struck with the combination of courage and vulnerability in Brontez' writing. He's able to simultaneously be tough and tender, to be articulate about his impulses, to be riotously funny as well as sincere and serious. I really admire these things, and I wish I could do them as well as Brontez does! Reading this paragraph, I'm afraid I am making his writing sound too cute or something. It is cute, though. It's totally cute; it's adorable. But I don't mean that in a dismissive or pat way. Brontez' writing is, like him, so cute, appealing, and attractive precisely because he's not (or doesn't seem to be) scared of failing to be cute. It's just, like, a bonus. This is writing that doesn't beg for identification, validation or approval from the reader. There's a kind of brash punkness to this "either you get it or you don't" mentality. But the basic fact of the matter is: you will get it.

I think a lot of time first-person narratives dealing with the queer sexuality get referred to as "confessional" which I kind of hate. Confessional implies disclosure in the context of shame. That's, I mean, what it implies to me (and is why I hate it). Brontez' writing could well be referred to as confessional, I guess, by a straight critic. There's a very graphic (and hilarious) story about poopdick in here. But the thing that makes Fag School not confessional is that it's not shameful. He doesn't seem to be battling his insecurities or notions of what people will think of him for revealing this. Instead, he's charging ahead with the life work of a writer and finding ways to relay his experiences and impressions in language that is engaging, beautiful, smart.

There's also a bit of heartbreak here. Brontez is, among other things, a total romantic! It's kind of fucked up how, even in 2012, male-identified punk rockers writing about their heart feelings seems somehow fresh or radical. Maybe it doesn't seem that way, but Brontez' writing does feel fresh and radical. He'll talk about experiencing intimacy with someone he may or may not want to beat up. He talks about connecting with people despite his better judgment, and is able to comment on the decision-making process to, say, hook up with a junkie, or an asshole, or detail the myriad ways we can sometimes be disappointed by the guy who is so sweet and could be perfect for us. He can relay a story, and also comment on it. It's like he's watching himself in a movie. It's great. His understanding of himself makes me want to understand myself better.

Fag School is kind of my fantasy of what a queer punk zine could and probably ought to be. It captures a voice, a personality, a perspective. It's smart, fun to read, informative, emotional, and portable. There are spelling and typing mistakes. It's not elaborately designed. It's immediate. It makes my heart beat much faster. Go buy it!

Brontez is currently on tour with Michelle Tea's legendary spoken word road-show, SISTER SPIT. The tour is also featuring some of my favorite writers and thinkers (including Tea) such as Erin MArkey and Saint Mx. Justin Vivian Bond. They're bringing the road show to Issue Project Room in Brooklyn on April 30th, where they'll be joined by Eileen Myles and Narcissister. I've been told to get tickets NOW (which I did and so should you).

Justin Vivian snapped this photo of Brontez from the Sister Spit tour:


SO ADORABLE! Don't you wish you were in the van with them? I fucking do.

For some more information on dear Brontez, check out:
Interview with Lambda Literary.
Interview with Michelle Tea for RADAR Productions.
Brontez' piece on Tobi Vail's JIGSAW.

Okay, bonus round!

How I Met Brontez. The first xmas after I had moved to the East Coast to go to college, I came home for the holiday break which lasted about a month. I had gone to see Gravy Train!!!! perform at the Bottom of the Hill in San Francisco. The show was a pretty big deal, because GT!!!! had just finished recording their debut album HELLO, DOCTOR!!! for Kill Rock Stars. They were also my absolute favorite band, and I still think of them as the first celebrities I ever met. So the Bottom of the Hill show in San Francisco was a big deal (at least for me). I was hanging out with them in the dressing room and Chunx asked if I had met Brontez yet. I said no.

I hadn't met him yet, but I did, of course, know who he was, from the internet. He had been on this e-mail list I was on for a minute, devoted to/about fans of the Bangs. He had also been pretty active on this old forum on the Kill Rock Stars site, where you could e-mail questions to any of the bands on their roster, and they'd publish the answers. Which, by the way, was totally awesome and I hope someone has the transcripts of the interview questions. Brontez flirted a bunch with the kids from xbxrx.

So I totally knew who he was, and in a way I sort of resented him? Can I say that? He seemed, to me, at the time, to be living the dream. He knew everybody, meaning people in bands. He was totally out, totally connected to the music and social and political scene. Like, the world he lived in: he seemed to be living in it in a bigger and more fun way than I had been doing. And I was jealous! Like, how does he know the fucking Bangs? Who knows the Bangs? But you have to understand, this was the early aughts. We were still kind of all (in the indie world, the underground world, the punk world, whatever) getting hip to the fact that we could actually connect to and organize our communities and interests online. Like, anybody could know the Bangs, you just wrote them a fan letter, right?

So whatever. Back in the dressing room above the stage at Bottom of the Hill (you know I was feeling particularly V.I. motherfucking P. up in that dingy green room), catching up with Funx, Drunks, Hunx, Chunx, their manager Julie. Drinking beers and smoking cigarettes. I had known all these kids from Gilman Street when I was in high school. I had been 16 and they had been, what, twenty? They seemed so grown-up and cosmopolitan. So anyway we were chatting and they asked if I knew Brontez. If I had met him yet.  I guess that he had just moved to the Bay Area, right after I left to go to college? This is before he joined Gravy Train!!!! Our paths had not (yet) crossed. I said no, I hadn't met him, not yet.

"Oh...." Chunx said, rolling her eyes.
"He's gonna eat you alive!" Hunx giggled.

That night, Gravy Train!!!! played "Double-Decker Supreme" and pulled me up onstage to dance in between Chunx and Hunx. It was absolutely the most exciting thing that had ever happened to me at the time (I was on stage! At the Bottom of the Hill!) and I barely noticed that there was a persistent tugging, pulling, yanking at the cuff of my jeans. Someone in the pit at the front of the stage was grabbing me. Were they trying to pull me down, I wondered? Or were they trying to pull off my pants? It was, of course, Brontez. That was the night we met (I think).

He has not yet eaten me alive but I sort of wish he would.

This is what a curator does.


Dan FishButt!


Lola dressing up her little sister's Maltese puppy, Lucy (referred to as "Goose-y" or "The Goose"). Lola SWORE up and down that The Goose enjoyed getting dressed up, that dogs love, deep down, to be swaddled. She seemed to be onto something as The Goose was all too eager to put on her finest frock for us. And then, when presented with her travel bag, she kept jumping into it. Maybe all dogs don't like to be swaddled, but this dog does.


Reading at Walter's book launch party!

DEEP-FRIED CANDYFLOWERS

This Friday 4/20/12

Snowy Wilderness and CULTUREfix present:
“DEEP-FRIED CANDYFLOWERS” a 4/20 Special Gala with B0DYH1GH

NYC gay goth rap duo B0DYH1GH (Daniel Portland + Max Steele) will perform a special gala evening-length production, titled DEEP-FRIED CANDYFLOWERS at CultureFix on April 20th. Drawing from a multitude of artistic practices and genres, they will present work from their acclaimed "mythtape" PRETTY BEAUTIFUL as well as new music and special Holiday cover songs. Joining the band for this multimedia extravaganza will be Brooklyn performance art dance duo Bradley and CoCo, as well as multimedia projections from Patrick Dyer. Presenting both their own original dark gems, alongside the matriarchy which makes them possible, B0DYH1GH will turn you on, freak you out, and take you on a magickal journey.

MORE INFO HERE

I'm thinking a lot this morning about Jean Smith and Jay DeFeo. Jean Smith from Mecca Normal, I feel like, is maybe the most best brilliant kind of genius, because she has stayed punk and not sold out. This might not have been a choice. It might not have been an option, but part of me thinks it is. Mecca Normal (Jean Smith and David Lester) are fucking anarchists, you know? There was absolutely a time in the early 1990s when they were sort of talked about a lot in what was then the alternative rock press as like "ones to watch" and they have had an extraordinary career, but always without seeming to have to pander to the middle of the road. They're stayed weird, and expressive. I'm thinking a whole lot about this trajectory lately. I sometimes think I shouldn't be allowed to moralize, because it's hurtful and insensitive. But then I realize that I can do whatever I want, and really the fun part is just interrogating what I think of as morals. The point is to have a reason to do it, I guess, not worry about whether or not it's allowed. 

And I think a lot about Jay DeFeo because of The Rose. During college, the first time I ever went to the Whitney, it was to go see The Rose. I didn't know anything about art, really, or the Whitney or anything. I knew a little bit about DeFeo, specifically that she was from California, like me. And that she had spent a very long time making this painting. It was like church, maybe. 

...And I'm also thinking a lot about Anaïs Nin lately. I can't bring myself to re-read her books though. Maybe I'm just thinking a lot about eye make-up. 

I'm going to go buy a wig on my lunch break. A really pretty one I've been eyeing for a long time. It's blonde and black. 

This weekend was really so much fun. But it's over, in the past and now we're moving onto this weekend. Time will fly. 

excerpt from VALEDICTORIAN

Everyone’s always like “Don’t get caught." Don't get caught red-handed, don't get caught trying, to change, be different. Don't get caught being dishonest. Don't get caught making stuff up. Don't get caught dreaming. It's okay to do it at home but don't get caught. But I’m always like “Get caught!” Don’t worry so much. Get caught, honey. You’ll feel better. The wait’ll be over. Listen: as someone who has been caught many, many times, I can tell you. You have nothing to worry about. Whatever it is you’re worried you’re not getting away with. You’re getting away with it. Whatever secret you’re afraid is gonna slip out? Is never going to slip out. Everything’s fine. No one notices, but you. Get caught. Your record’s clean.

Okay WOULD YOU RATHER: be a secret trend-setter, blissfully unaware of the fact that everyone admired you and wanted to be just like you, and never know it?
OR, would you rather secretly feel like everyone admired you and wanted to be just like you, and have it never be true, have to do battle every day with the suspicion that you might not be who you thought you are? As perfect as you are? It seems like an easy choice.

WOULD YOU RATHER be me right now, up onstage giving her Valedictorian speech, or be you, out in the audience, getting to watch me, having no idea what I will do next? I know, right?

Yeah, but you guys, okay: some of us didn’t get to make that choice. Don’t get to make that choice.