YES ON PROP K

A wee break from the usual wife news.... though since any wife of mine will be exceptionally well versed and supportive of sex workers rights issues this is not completely irrelevant.

The election is in one week. In San Francisco we have a measure on the ballot that needs serious support. If passed, Prop K will essentially decriminalize prostitution and de-prioritize persecution and racial profiling of sex workers in San Francisco. If strongly supported, it could set a crucial precedent for dismantling the legal persecution of sex workers not just in San Francisco but throughout the nation, as well as make leaps in granting visibility to the public's support of sex worker's rights thereby chipping away at social stigma.

Please read a very well-written email my friend Harvey Rabbit sent out today regarding Prop K and make a stance as an ally to sex workers by donating money, telling your friends about, and (if you live in San Francisco) voting for Prop K.
It is 10,000% more likely that I will marry you if you do some active support for all of the people making their living through eroticism. Your odds for recieving oral sex from me also sharply increase with working as an ally for hos and their ilk. Any way you slice it, it behooves you and your sex life to vote Yes on K.


Friends,

Truly, I never do this. I'm not really into politics, but I am writing this from my heart, beseeching you to vote yes on K if your voting county is that of San Francisco.

I appeal to your sense of decency.

By voting yes on Prop K, you send a message to our local (and hopefully someday federal) government that sex workers are people, too. Sex workers are women and men with feelings and families, just like you. And they have to pay rent and eat food, just like you. And some of them love their job, just like you. And some of them hate their job, just like you. Some are clean and sober and some are not, just like you.

Really, the only difference, when it comes down to the nitty gritty, is that sex workers have made a different career choice than you have. So why should they be penalized for their decision?

If a person who has chosen sex work as a means to pay her way through college, graduate, or medical school gets arrested for prostitution, what does this do to her future?

If a person living in a residential hotel or halfway house gets thrown out of their rehab program because of an arrest for prostitution, where will they go and how will they stop using?

If a person is raped and they practice sex work as a means of survival, how can they prosecute?

Just because you wouldn't want to be a sex worker doesn't mean it should be illegal. After all, I don't want to be a coroner or a garbage man.

Please Vote Yes On Prop K on Tuesday!

R.I.P. Del Martin, One Bad-Ass Wife

Del Martin, lesbian activist, co-founder of Lyon Martin Clinic and the Daughters of Bilitis, first out lesbian elected to office in the National Organization of Women, and wife to Phyllis Lyon, died this past Wednesday.

She was partners with Phyllis for 55 years, and they got married during the first wave of Newsomized gay marriages a few years again, and then were the first couple to (re-) wed once same-sex marriages got the green light in the state of California this year.

Del sounds like not only a totally amazing person, who personally did a lot for the openness and acceptance of queers in this country (including me being able to conduct my wife hunt out here on the internets, for all to see), but also a wonderful and committed wife.

May we all, those of us who want partners anyway, be so lucky.

Rest in Peace, Del Martin. You kicked a ton of ass, and we are incredibly grateful for it.

I love my wife day: October 15

Man if only my special one were with me now, I could spend days talking about the glory of my matrimony at the I LOVE MY WIFE CONFERENCE. Apparently God (not my god/dess, but the one with the beard and the smiting and whatnot) wants you to do marriage a certain way, and then get together with a bunch of other happily marrieds and talk about the grandeur of their joyous unions with their righteous wifeys.
For realz.
Not only that, but they made a day just for lovin' on your little legally bound muffin: October 15 is "I love my wife day". Now I doubt I'd be welcome at the con, and I know everybody loves to hate on the forced attention and emphasis of love-related holidays (as one parent of a friend, long un-married to his life partner said: "I don't need the man to tell me that I'm in love"), personally I believe that the wives of the world probably need a little more love and attention, and don't give a shit that such a thing calls attention to my wifelessness. In short, screw the wackjobs, but I think their "I love my wife day" is a sweet idea.

I may also be a wackjob though, depending on who you ask.

Tough Ass Femme Sex Top

That's some of what I'm looking for. Not a top like a Domme, I like that role plenty fine thank you, but some one who will pull the old "No. You're Hot, I'm doing it to you." on me; someone that I want to pull that on me. I need how to learn how to receive, and I really need someone who's desire is strong enough to override my service-top standard. Not so much a "how can I please you ma'am" as much as a "pleeeeaaase let me do you ma'am". From the right person, pleading out of desire goes far with me, since one of my major erotic triggers is the feeling that the other(s) is/are being pleasured. Like I said, service top. While I'm not stone, exactly, I'd still like to learn how to more readily accept and enjoy the energy being directed at my pleasure directly instead of somehow ricocheted of someone else's good times.Well, that repertoire has gotten limited and limiting so someone who just can't stand how much they want to fuck me is the trick I'm pretty sure I need.

And I love me some tough ladies in lacy undies. Leathemen and lingerie.....mmm, get's the job done.



Thanks to Tara for the condensation of needs into a couple of phrases.

Lactose, Legal and 'Lyst Free

Well good ol' snake-loving redheaded ice cream scooper never wrote back.

Neither did the hot cop (!?) who elicited dazed tingles from the top of my pigtailed head up and down my peace loving, hippie skirt clad body to the rings on my toes in the produce section of Trader Joe's. I know... a cop!? Who knew? But it's cool; she's exempt because:
A. She is the Capulet to my anti-authoritarian Montague, cop love would be so star-crossed for me I'd need the Enterprise to get me to a date.
B. Well, we just looked at each other. She never actually got any information with which to write me in the first place.


Nor did the gorgeous queer writer from LA, who though male-bodied could totally pull-off some sick bastardization of wifehood. Which would be great by me. I think we'd make a gorgeous Todd Haynes flick. (And now that gays can get married in CA, he and I could even make it legal!) But he's famous and lives in L.A. so he's also exempt. Plus he *did* give me a free copy of his book and a spontaneous hug upon first meeting, so I feel pretty special about all that already.


Anyhoo, the good news is, I'm actually kind of trying. I took a little winter slug break from ye olde wifey chase, but now; well I may not be back in the saddle exactly, but I'm at least in the stable and giving some of the horses the eye.

Yee-haw.

Brand Spanking New Gay Day Proposal

I took the snakes for a walk to the ice cream parlor yesterday and Wendy convinced me I'd be arrested if I went in the nude so I wore the skimpiest slip that still covered bits I could find.
The heat really makes me want to act out. There was a new scooper I'd never seen before and she freaked out, in a good way, about the snakes. She was beautiful: long red hair, nice arm tattoos, looked like a lovely femme but sounded like a rough and tumble dude when she talked. Perfect. Did I mention she works at the ice cream parlor?

As I was sitting outside with Wendy, covered in snakes and ice cream dribbles, I realized; hey, that's my wife.

I borrowed a piece of paper and a pen and wrote a note:
"Gay Marriage is legal in CA as of today. Whaddya say?
<3 Sadie and the snakes" and my email address.

I folded it up, kissed one side with my smeared and ice cream sticky lipstick (an accurate, if not glamorous representation of me) and squeezed past the line to go back inside.
She was bent over, her arms deep in the freezer, hair blocking me from her view.
So I took the passive agressive approach: handed the note to her co-worker at the register, said "Will you please give this to her?" and ran away.

Hah!

So far, no email. No surprise. But at least I celebrated brand spanking new gay day to the fullest extent I was able, i.e. proposing to a stranger.
You can't say I'm not trying.

Too damn hot.....

Where's my wife and her biodiesel truck!?
Take me to the beach! I'll slather you with sunscreen.
I made really good ice tea from super fancy tea I bought in France. Let's complain and get naked together! I want to act out and you know just how to goad me into doing something crazy.
We might have a little fight, but its just because our blood sugar is low and its so damn hot. We'll make up by smearing bodily fluids all over an alley when the sun goes down.
Get me some water?
I love you!

Show me the Wives!!!!

All right ladies and womens and sir-ma'ams and ze's and she's and those who prefer to remain labelless.

This just in from a webiste off-shoot of my former East Coast daily:
Gay marriage now legal in California. Arnie says he'll uphold the ruling.
Step up.

Bride me. I'm ready. I won't propose via text. I will shower you with chocolate or flowers or kisses or bus tickets or fish eggs or vegan fish eggs or whatever you prefer.
Buy me an opal ring. Let's do this thing.


And some food for thought:As previously noted I dabble in magic. When I started this blog, Gay Marriage *was not* legal in California, though hardly anyone could quite believe it.
Less than 6 months later gay marriage *becomes legal*. Now I'm not saying there's a direct causative correlation, but I'm not not saying that either.

Think about it.

Sick :(

Being sick makes wanting a wife an intense and pragmatic desire. I'm a really good sick nurse, and I want a wife who is too, a lovely lady laden with tissues and juices and dvds. I want the kind of wife that will hug and snuggle me even when I'm sick not one who won't touch me for fear of her own contamination. And we'll work out a system of herbal remedies with western medicine as the back up, and try to avoid anti0biotics together. She'll have wet cloths in a rainbow of temperatures and read a mean story. Most importantly though, she'll kind of enjoy the chance to baby loud, headstrong me, definitely not resent it, and know well that when she's the one sweating snot I'll be there with a bottomless glass of water, some tinctures, her favorite story and a smile.

Winona?

Winona Ryder might be my wife.

I've always liked her since her portrayal of hot goth Lydia in Beetlejuice, and my taste in women definitely run towards the lovely, brunette and weird.

But after recently reading this on (don't judge me!) people.com*:

"Though single, Ryder would like to have children. "I think I assumed I would be married and have a kid by the age I am now," says the 35-year-old. "It kind of occurred to me for the first time last year: I actually want to go on and have kids."

And while her past boyfriends have included such famous men as Matt Damon, Dave Pirner of Soul Asylum and Johnny Depp, Ryder says she's still looking for the right man for her. "You know how people ask, 'Who is the love of your life?' God, I hope I haven't met that person yet, in a way, because I'm single," she says. "I hope I haven't had that, since that would be sad."

...I feel the wheels turning.

She lives in San Francisco now. She sounds like she's ready for kids and a commitment. She has similar concerns about her love life. And she's using gender neutral language like "that person" instead of a pronoun like "him".
Enh? ENH?!?

If anyone knows how to set me up with the charming Ms. Ryder, please do be in touch. Rest assured: I'm an excellent, and if need be, discreet, date.
It's just crazy enough to work!



*(Seriously though, that was the only time I've ever read people.com. Things have been strange lately and I find myself doing very out-of-character things sometimes. Which means I can definitely relate to Winona's shoplifting incident. Like for awhile, I was really entranced with the Britney Spears saga. But even writing that gives a warped impression of my interests; I don't even have a TV! If I sound defensive, it's because I am, I do not know myself to be a mainstream-celebrity interested person, and the only explanation I can give is that we all go through odd phases now and then and I guess I've been going to the nail salon without a book more often recently. I don't know. Bizarro.)

8:34 p.m.

Tonight, at about 8:34 pm, my biological clock went off.

I felt it ring like an alarm in my body. I've wanted a baby for years, it's been one of the most stable aspects of "the plan", in fact I used to want seventeen, but as I've gotten closer to a time that such an undertaking would be a good idea I've lowered the number to one or maybe two. I've also started wondering "oh yeah, when is *that* going to happen?" as I've gotten out of 'too-young' and into 'exceptionally reasonable' child-bearing age. This is true for a number of my bigger life goals; I sat in 'too young' long enough to totally miss the beginning of 'auspicious time'.

I kept meaning to address this issue, the baby thing, here, but I wanted to write some big fancy essay about the history of my desire for motherhood, the implications of overpopulation and my goals as a parent and yadda yadda yadda, but instead, I'm ovulating and in the middle of my first Mindfulness class I had a visceral feeling of a baby alarm. I laughed out loud when it happened. As usual my elaborate and procrastinated intentions get severed and overthrown by immediate reality. I want a baby. Growing, inside me. I want to be pregnant and I want to raise a child and I'm scared shitless of it but I want it anyway.

It's not surprising that this happened now. I just got the news this week that my two best friends from high-school, one of whom was my first love, are both pregnant. I've known of their marriages for some time, but the fact of their simultaneous pregnancies felt like a big bowl of cold spaghetti falling in my lap. (This image possibly courtesy of The Sopranos.)

Feelings ranged from the classic: "Holy Shit!?!?!"
to the skeptical: "Really? Both? Married? And pregnant?... Holy Shit!"
to the childishly jealous: "I want a spouse and a baby!...and *I* wanted to knock her up!!!!"

On further investigation of my high school coterie, it seems that most of them are married, and many be-childed. While this may seem like a big ol' duh of normal life, I live in queer San Francisco and I, for one, was shocked. I really haven't heard of so many people I know being straight, married, or breeding....ever. It puts a new perspective on my search for a wife, like, gender aside, actually it's not such a weird thing to want...or to get! Everybody else seems to get them, and some of them used to be the people who projected their wedding fantasies with me. Not just that, but people I fucked! Quite a few people I have fucked are now married. I know, its normal, no one else is impressed, but my mind, she is blown. How this whole marriage thing happens (and so regularly!) amongst 20-somethings remains a mystery to me; most of the people I know in the day to day who are married got married in their 40's or so or did it for health insurance. The decisions, the process, the family dinners...all foreign and intriguing to my little colonialist anthropologist mind.

So now I'm out, not that I was ever trying to be in, but yes; I want a hot, sexy, healthy loving commitment, and make that with a side of progeny. No, it doesn't have to be immediate, but no, it can't be ignored.

Mommy once told me when I was very young and I asked her why it took her three years of marriage to get pregnant with me, "It's fun to be married for a little while before you have a baby." I'll buy that, though if I was her, I'd already be married for two years by now....

Momma says....

Today during a scattered phone conversation with my mother she suggested I find someone (i.e. a partner) I can "do things with", in other words collaborate. Well, gee, why hadn't I thought of that? This whole time I've been hoping for a mate, but I should've been hoping for a mate *and* a co-producer. This is like the apple of knowledge as far as I'm concerned, most tantalizing and most terrifying. It's like the dirty fantasy I can't even really admit to myself I have.
Oh, what of the potential emotional carnage!? It's best not to envision. At this point, I will be pleased as punch if I find a nice wifey and some artist types who want to work with me and leave the rest up to.....well hopefully something with a good sense of humor.


On that note, I am jealous of and impressed as fuck by The Wasteland Comedy Hour, with T.S. Elliot which was directed last winter by my friend Jason in Boston. I always get a little envious when I see groups of collaborators that obviously work tremendously well together.
Someday, my collaboratrices will come.

Work it, Baby!

Some quick thoughts on what my wife might likely do for a living.
(This list is by no means representative of any professional requirements, just an assemblage of the type of people I am likely to meet and get along with and the type of jobs I find sexy or would be useful to me. Not a ranking of preferences.)

Most likely, or most attractive/compatible to me:
chef
sex worker
former sex worker
circus performer
work at a non-profit
non-sex work sex industry work
sex educator
trust fund/independently wealthy
landscaper/gardener/permaculturalist
herbalist
work at a co-op or collective with food, books, sex, art/art supplies
writer
maker of movies
musician
photographer
child care
mid wife
Douala
"alternative" health care practitioner
Chinese medicine
acupuncture
body work/massage
illusionist
librarian
carpenter
plumber
social services
therapist/counselor
witch
food service
small business owner
milliner
street performer
teacher
perfumer
jeweler
inventor
designer/seamstress
sociologist

Second most likely:
geek
yoga teacher
grocery store worker
retail
____ and grad school
cleaning/janitorial services
pet care service
scientist
nurse
stylist
engineer


What she will most likely not do for money:
practice law (unless its non-profit/social service or civil rights based)
police officer
banker
insurance salesperson
corporate......anything
middle management
advertising
tv broadcasting
professional athlete
military

Gorgeous Art from a Gorgeous Admirer

Before? During? It's all such a blur, but sometime closer to the beginning of my month away than now, one of the lovelies who have shown interest in me thanks to blogger sent me this. With some alterations it may have to be a tattoo. Tentacles and a trapeze....? Come, on.

Ah, Malamor, when will you be done having your way with me? Sorry about that, I think I just stumbled into the little goth club in my heart for a second. All better now.

Malamor by Chiara Bautista, aka Milk

Jetlagged and Cranky

Pretty much sums it up.

My international P-W (potential, prospective, or possible - wife) meeting didn't go as plan, but was nevertheless delightful, except for both of our sneezing and coughing and my snoring. We ended up only having one night to meet, the limbo of my trip when I arrived back in Berlin from Paris only to leave for the States in the morning. I arrived as a kind-of pathetic bride/groom; voice half there, burdened with baggage, running low on Euro. I came bearing a droopy wilted rose and a real Parisian croissant.....totally forgot she was vegan. But she took care of me and let me relax from my capable, independent traveller mode into a happily ignorant follower. The sick leading the sick. Each of us, independently was hoping to convince the other to go to the new Holocaust Memorial for our one-night, International date. I introduced her, in concept and image only, to Pee-wee. She translated everything and explained why Sweden may need my pleasure activist gospel. There's strange, mostly solo, soft-core porn on free Berlin TV late at night. She bought me octopus, and ate the croissant anyway.


Back up weeks ago to Berlin when I'm really there, there for more than the great, snotty, between flights date. I find and ad with a compelling photo on the artists section of Berlin Craigs List. I email the artist, telling her that while I realize she is not posting in the personals, I think her work and name are hot. Then I check out her site. She seems to be in the states, and holy shit, I think this may be my wife. The themes, the images, the my-typeness of it all....we are cut from similar conceptual cloth. I almost write her again just to say " And I think you may be my wife..." but refrain for the sake of appearances of sanity. Surprisingly, I get a reply, and quickly.
Even more surprisingly, she seems to have addressed my unspoken, unwritten lunge towards connection...well, ok, betrothal:

"Haha...well, thanks but I am happily hitched. Glad you liked the work.
~Kalliope"


Beautiful, talented....psychic!? But alas, apparently not for me.
It's cool though, I think the practice lunges keep me in shape.


I encourage you all to check out her site and give her money and shows.

Berlin is Changing My Body

I'm back from a quick and delightful sojourn in Prague. That city is so hot. I've decided the next time I fall in love, we are going as quickly as possibly to Prague together.

Berlin is lovely and cold and it even snowed last night! My first experience with snow in years. The bad news is today is the beginning of a 10 day public transportation strike, yikes! Getting around town will be totally different from now on.

The city is changing my body some, already, while my ass is getting tighter, my belly is getting larger. Mmmm.....spaetzle mit kaise.....I found Czech food less charming, the dumplings do not live up to their title in my opinion. But they do have this wonderful pastry that is like a cheese danish except the filling is a stripe of poppyseed paste, a stripe of cheese and a stripe of fruit jam.
Heaven for a Polish girl!

"The Mushroom"

I have seen the future of American bad-queer hair, and I dub it "the mushroom".

In Berlin I've noticed quite a few queers with this new, just as hard to take, anti-mullet. It consists of a severly lined bowl cut about a third to half way down the head (above ears) with the sides and back shaved to skin. While it does look better on some than others, mostly it looks like Moe of the three stooges with good politics and a pocket full of latex gloves. I predict that Valencia St. will be popping up with mushrooms within six months.

Goddess help us.


P.S.
Two days after I originally posted about the Mushroom I saw this picture hanging in the window of a hair salon, which I first mistook for a theater or bar, in Berlin. Mushrooms for the whole family! Just please, please, spare me.

Kisses from Berlin

I have been neglecting the wife-search in the interest of getting the hell out of dodge. Now I'm writing from a grey-green velvet settee from a lovely little apartment in Berlin. My snowglobe needed some shaking, for sure, and luckily for me I had resources enough to skeedaddle for a month.

This is my first trip to Germany and is mostly the responsibility of my dear friend Tara who is Dominating and loving her way around Europe. I'm taking advantage of her trend-setting and hoping to find some queers to love on and some men to beat on. Or vice versa, if it comes to that :)

Also, I am excited to be meeting a prospective wife on this trip; as fas as I know this woman is the only person interested from outside of the U.S. Long distance love seems to be all the rage in my friend circle these days, but I doubt I have the stomach for it. I like to be all up in love's grill. Regardless I am thrilled that a Swede is curious enough about me to make a trip to Germany to meet, and she sounds like a wonderful person. Plus, I saw a picture of her in a sailor suit. Hello, sailor!

So far I have remembered why everyone seems so crazy about packing light (a skill I have yet to grasp) and why traveling alone can be a drag. I also met some sweet and generous, legally married fags on the plane who helped me get started on the bus and U-bahn. So while I already know I couldn't hack the weather/sunlight ratio/land-lockedness of Berlin, it's great to know that if I do happen to meet my wife here I could get my romance with a side of health care benefits.

On the trip into the city from the airport I felt a lot like I remember feeling on my way into Amsterdam, years ago, the air has a similar quality, a potent greyness.

Here are some of the first things I noticed about Berlin:

-White birch trees

-A restaurant called: Piraten Restauranten, all done up in Arrrrghhh!

-Dark, cold canals

-Beautiful brickwork, hyper modern glass building in a row of ancient brick row houses

-Giant cheesey-looking sex stores: I passed at least four on the bus, the first one with a giant neon sign reading "LSD"- Love Sex Dreams

-Quite a few Thai massage parlors

-An old man with his hound on the bus

-The U-bahn is cute an cozy, almost kitschy. Everyone sits on a long bench, no seat segregation, which is covered with patterned vinyl that reminds me of a granmother's shelf lining

-In Kreuzberg there is graffitti *everywhere*. I love it!

-A four story brick building with a giant astronaut stencil on it

-Few non-white people

-Punk buying a beer at 11am outisde the U-Bahn station

-Tiny washing machine aptly called: Privileg

-Many of the younger people in Kreuzberg have dreads

-There doesn't seem to be many German restaurants around here, mostly Turkish, Middle Eastern, Asian, Mexican-influenced cafe food

-A small Kurdish demonstration was flanked by about 30 Polizei in drab green uniforms with lopsided little black berets. Just standing around looking fierce and unnecessary.

-Not many people where bright colors, mostly black and dark brown, red, blue and grey

-Something about the bricks and the climate and the vibe makes me guess that heroin is a popular drug here

-Most people speak some English

-Hipster stores are easily identifiable regardless of language or cultural differences

-I always feel unsure of my queerdar in other countries

-Long chartreuse budding willow whips streaming over the canal

-Lots of creaky bikes, bike lanes on everywhere on the sidewalk, demarked by a different texture and pattern of cobblestone

-Lots of vegetarian options (even some vegan!)

-Lots of piegeon and dog shit

-Milk coffee with Malt!

One of the German fags on the plane told me that Germans never smile at each other and everything is very constrained. I've been smiling extra hard. Whenever I'm in an atmosphere of constraint I get intense urges to act out and be extra crazy. Kreuzberg doesn't feel very tight, but we'll just see if it gets to me running amok.
I hope to go to Prague for a day or two as well, I've never been and feel like it would be a shame to miss it since I'm so close. If you have any must-experience ideas for me in Berlin or Paris, please email me. Generally for a long trip I do a couple of months of research and planning, whereas this time I bought my ticket a week ago and feel like I am flying by my seat-less pants!

As always, my main interests are: art (especially weird/underground), sex culture, queer culture, food, nature, and maybe some "lefty" (as Tara's German friend calls it), politics.

Enjoy yourself, no matter where in the world you are.

And many many thanks to those who helped me errand and pack, it made all the difference.

Happy Valentine's Day

I have been totally swamped with a project for the last couple of weeks, and though I am a master procrastinator, it got to the point I knew taking the time and energy to blog would just make me feel more guilty. So that's why I've been M.I.A.

I mostly was just dropping in to announce that despite my lack of Catholic faith, I have given up Craigs List W4W for Lent.

But since I'm here, I would also love to wish you all a Happy Valentine's Day.
I just wrote this about the good ol' VD, which historically has done me mostly wrong:

Hello fine folks. I know you all are very cool and forward minded and are completely impervious to the throes and passions and consumerism of the manipulative construction known as Valentine's Day, but me, I'm susceptible as shit. I love an excuse for an occasion, a date with a ritual,(hell when I'm dating I celebrate monthiverssaries), and plus, I'm a sucker for all of these things: chocolate, flowers, the color red, and love.

But whether you have a care about Valentine's Day or not, I want to thank you for your unique love: for making your love the way you envision it; with and for the people who speak to your individual heart, regardless if they do or do not look like the deserveds or beloveds on TV; which you make on any or every day that may be best for the inimitable recipe of love that you formulate; to be cooked in just the right way; with courage and sweetness and vulnerability, even (or especially!) when everything else is going absolutely batshit and loving seems like the silliest and most impossible thing to do. Thank you for doing it anyway, your way.





So go out and love some today, if you can in the way that works for you. I suggest starting with yourself and working outwards. I'll be spinning that spiral myself. Good luck and good love to us.

Crazy Love

Could you Love This Person?



(warning: spoiler, especially in the links)

Crazy Love: The marriage I will do anything to avoid.

One of the craziest love-abuse-marriage stories ever. Seriously. A reminder that at this point, falling off the 'crazy' wagon for me is a neutral-friendly email, and all those thoughts about flat tires and spray-painted windows and bottles full of piss and disemboweled abdomens stay in my active little head, while this world is really full of genuine wackos passing themselves off as human beings, and in this case, more than getting away with it. I feel like I'm crazy when I get to feeling like Mr. Tehn but actually I don't hurt people except for mutual consensual pleasure and money and have never once contracted anyone to throw acid at any of the people who get new shiny girlfriends. Not once. This movie may elicit some hatred of men, I must warn you, especially if you are susceptible to that anyway. Or it may just boggle your gender-neutral mind, completely.

Regardless, when Irene and I left the video store today I showed her the cover and she said: "Looks like you. Both of them."
And I don't deny it. In fact I feel like the above picture is an accurate portrayal of about 70% of my personality and internal image. I've got many little people living in this Mer-cat (including a beautiful and demanding Princess that hasn't held court in far too long; a nurturing Mommy who cooks, cuddles, and reads aloud; a dapper vintage cad with a foppish hat and roguish cane; and a little hobbling naked imp covered in snake skins and dried glue) but this double image of femme glamour and intense wacky creep makes up the lion's share. The Burt Pugach part of the picture reminds me a lot of R. Crumb, a figure I have taken to relating to more and more over the last year (but only mostly because I am a notorious pervert with similar taste in women). Note the -weeesque bow tie. The Linda Riss side is the fancy lady from my photo shoots, though in fact she was a very nice girl and a virgin until her 30's. We have similar eyebrows.

Though the resemblance goes a bit deeper than appearances, or more accurately, self-image.
So while the story of these people horrifies me, as components of the psyche, I am fascinated with them. More than that, I recognize them as my own. I relate to both the drastic obsession and the appeal of being loved fanatically. I understand the dark barbed lure of insanity, the seductiveness of passion untempered by reason. These days I channel that urge mostly into art and BDSM and also the occasional harmless rant in my living room. Not as romantic as a heroin addiction, but easier to recover from and probably more sustainable. This is a picture of boundlessness, in wanter and wanted. Rumi always puts it in terms of the lover and the beloved.

As usual I am, and want, both.

844-WIFE

A few weeks ago I watched a movie I hadn't seen in many many years: True Stories.
I had been wanting to re-see it for a long time, ever since David Byrne became a regular part of my household via my aforementioned practically daily listening of Sand in the Vaseline. The film is a weirdo-vision look at a small (fictional) town in Texas in the late eighties, but also very much a examination of post-modern consumerist culture through an ironically naive perspective. David Byrne narrates as the outsider he tends to be, touring different parts of town in a giant 10 gallon hat as the people prepare for their big festival for the state's sesquicentennial. Of note is the speed-lip synch scene where people of all demographics jump onstage sequentially to dance and lip synch to a few seconds of the Talking Head's "Wild, Wild Life", the "Puzzling Evidence" musical sequence about TV, conspiracy, and religion, and named after my friend Doug Wellman's long-running radio show, as well as the incredibly Burning Man-esque fashion show scene that takes place in the new mall.

But the thing that was most interesting to me in this strange little movie is that the plot, as much as there is one, follows John Goodman, who plays Lewis Fyne; a man vainly in search of a bride. He has a lit-up sign like the kind in front of cheap movie theaters or liquor stores that advertises his search and he runs a commercial on TV with the number 844-WIFE for interested prospective brides. He dates many of the local women, and even plans to perform a song he's written at the big sesquicentennial festival as self-promotion, but can never quite find what he is looking for...well until the end of the movie, of course.

I had TOTALLY forgotten that this was the major sub-plot of this movie, since I hadn't seen it since I was a child, and it was so bizarre to see myself reflected in the 'traditional yet modern', good-natured Texan, Louis Fyne. Is my repetitive exposure to David Byrne's music somehow influencing and shaping my actions in Byrneian patterns? Does this explain at all the fact that before moving to California I was staunchly anti-Texas and yet have mystifyingly dated at least five (5!) Texans since 2004?

Just what the hell is going on here?

When I think of posting a personal ad, I often think of just posting the lyrics to "This Must Be the Place". As I told my friend on Friday night, its one of those songs that feels likes it crawled right out of the center of my heart and then into the brain and out of the mouth of some other guy. (Have I mentioned my very ambivalent feelings about Senor Byrne? Based on what I've heard about his narcissistic and assholic personality? And how I can't fucking stand that artists who are deemed to be geniuses are often then excused from being decent human beings? And how maybe, that's actually how you get to be an artist deemed to be genius? And how much I fucking love his music despite it all!?)

I was talking about how my big job, my main goal for this next year of my life, is to really get the self-love shit figured out and firmly down, and the retreat I went to in Oregon (Heart of Now) where I made that realization. We're driving in the rain, looking for parking in his maroon station wagon, and right as I'm explaining the theory that if I can just fully open the channel to my deep internal well of self-love, everything else will be fine, "This Must Be the Place" comes on the radio. And part of my practice of concrete self-loving actions is singing that song to myself as I walk down the street; it always fulfills me and makes me serene. And then at the end of the song the DJ comes on and tells a story that he read about how David Byrne wrote that song in the early art-punk days of the Talking Heads, but kept it from the band for years, always fearing that it was too normal, and not weird or cutting edge enough.
What a perfect story!
And then I got to go to a Girl Pile orgy. Which just goes to show you.

So here are the lyrics to my little heart song, for anyone who may not be familiar, and just think of sadiewantsawife@gmail.com as my 844-WIFE.
(Oh, and I know it's "burn with a weak heart" but I always sing "born with a weak heart"...)

Home is where I want to be
Pick me up and turn me round
I feel numb - burn with a weak heart
(So I) guess I must be having fun
The less we say about it the better
Make it up as we go along
Feet on the ground
Head in the sky
It's ok I know nothing's wrong . . nothing

Hi yo I got plenty of time
Hi yo you got light in your eyes
And you're standing here beside me
I love the passing of time
Never for money
Always for love
Cover up + say goodnight . . . say goodnight

Home - is where I want to be
But I guess I'm already there
I come home - -she lifted up her wings
Guess that this must be the place
I can't tell one from another
Did I find you, or you find me?
There was a time Before we were born
If someone asks, this where I'll be . . . where I'll be

Hi yo We drift in and out
Hi yo sing into my mouth
Out of all tose kinds of people
You got a face with a view
I'm just an animal looking for a home
Share the same space for a minute or two
And you love me till my heart stops
Love me till I'm dead
Eyes that light up, eyes look through you
Cover up the blank spots
Hit me on the head Ah ooh

It Has Come To My Attention....(Polyamory I)

That the quagmire of polyamory, which I have hinted at here and there, but not yet addressed full-on, needs to be explored here. Now.

I met someone a week ago who is an party/conference/event acquaintance, who "confessed" that they have found my Blog and read it. It was exciting to me because neither of us could quite figure out where or how they had found this, they aren't a person that I had notified, and probably followed a link somewhere...anyway it seemed exciting that this bulgy little monster is just out there wreaking havoc on its own, without my nurturing. I had a little image in my mind of a cluster of dots connected by lines super-imposed on the city, with more lines and dots popping up on the borders, forming a little web. I'm sure either some telephone company ad back from when I watched TV, or tribe.net back from when I did tribe put that image in my head.

So we were talking about the blog, blah blah, and they mentioned that my quest seemed fairly unique in this particular ven diagram slice of subcultures, and I was bitching a bit about how uncool it seemed to actively be seeking out a committed partnership amongst my "demographic", and then they said

"Well, yeah, you know, everyone seems to be poly and so I imagine that's pretty hard."

Woah, woah, woah. Hold on, buckaroo. Who said I wasn't poly?

I was grateful for the feedback, because if on somewhat casual perusal it is not clear that I have a vested interest in polyamory, then my message is as good as lost. So to clear things up:

I WANT A POLYAMOROUS, "OPEN", AND/OR OTHERWISE SEXUALLY UNCONVENTIONAL MARRIAGE!!!

Now to convolute them again (and the reason I've been avoiding writing this post): what does that mean, exactly *to me*?

Well shit. Like most things I'm interested in, that's complicated.

I'll start with some stats:
I've been practicing polyamory for about 8 years now. That's been about 3.5 major primary partnerships, 4 major dates/almost partners, and a plethora of 'secondary' and 'tertiary' relationships (see aside). Plus the casual sex. Let's not forget the casual sex.

Aside: By the way, while my heart is organized in both expansive communist terms as well as a hierarchical caste (always *and* over *or*), I kind of hate the language of numbered relationship status. This organizational system is not of my choosing, its just how it seems to be, but I'm always working on opening and expanding all the rooms in my bloody mansion. ( Like the Winchester House, may it never be finished!) 'Primary' I can deal with, it's simple, and the point, if not the protocol, gets across. Beyond that it just sounds to me like deflating people's worth and value in your life, making them 'less than' which I don't dig, semantically.


I am designed in such a way that I seem to have the most and fulfillment with dating, casual sex, and play partners when I am in a solid, loving, strong partnership. It is the place from which my magic is strongest. I am very grateful to have gotten to the point where I feel that I can focus when appropriate and expand when able and generally act according to my integrity with a little wiggle room for learning and practice. I don't make the mistakes I made 6 years ago, and I hope you don't either. I manage to spit out what I need to even if its still a little scary. I enjoy doing things in the right order if given the option. I have been both overwhelmed with socio-sexual activity and very alone, so I have some perspective and a great reverence for the idea of things happening when the time is right.

I don't feel the pressure or the FOMO (fear of missing out) that I once did, at least, not often. I will not apologize for my emotional structure, just keep looking for someone(s) who fits it well. I am not perfect, but I try damn hard.

My new rule: No Shenanigans. If something feels, looks, smells even a little bit fishy, chances are these days I won't do it. It isn't appealing anymore, not even in that sexy-risky, well I'll take my chances sort of way. Negotiation is hot. Honesty is hot. Consent is hot. Clarity-hot. Knowing no one will freak out or cry or get pissed or feel full of regret later is hot. Talking to all involved to be sure, if possible, is hot. I can get plenty of risky/dangerous/scary hotness once all of those other things have been taken care of, there are endless places and things and ideas to play with to make things crazy enough to be sexy without breaking someones heart, getting someone sick or fucking someone over. These things will all still happen plenty without my help. Life isn't safe, and sex and love are most certainly not, but I'm not interested in these kinds of dangers, I'd rather balm this kind of pain. Lying, forgetting, omitting, not asking, doing it anyway, not being able to help oneself....not hot.

Except in roleplay.


Basically at this point I want a poly partner who can respect and follow thee spirit of the law, rather than the letter of the law. Someone who can vibe out the appropriateness of a situation *on top of* being a kick-ass communicator who is not afraid to ask or share or inquire about the possibly scary stuff, actually, who maybe very afraid but will fucking do it anyway. Someone who has had practice shaping their actions to their ideals and their promises. Someone who doesn't lie and doesn't omit, unless it has been negotiated that that is appropriate. Someone who will give me enough time, attention and space to fall in love, to feel that I am important, respected, a priority, and to get jealous if it happens and also to get over it.

Someone who understands that hard feelings are hard to have and that neither of us enjoys feeling crazy, and in fact we aren't. Someone who is committed enough to be willing to have periods of temporary monogamy if things are particularly rough. Someone who loves fun and play and is also fine refraining if appropriate. Someone to gang up on others with. Someone who can tell me how they really feel and work with me to help them get what they need. Someone who understands and works with the ideas of accountability and consequences- both fun and easy and harder and rougher.

Someone truly committed to respect, honesty, effort, pleasure and trust, and who knows and understands that mistakes happen but the real test is in doing the work to make up for the mistake or misunderstanding and re-establish intimacy and trust.

Someone who knows that there often isn't as much a single truth to these feelings and experiences as there is an individual truth, and that people all have different triggers and different things that don't bother them a whit. Someone who feels that that personal landscape of needs is more important than some super-imposed structure from the outside.

Someone who will encourage and nurture my sexual witch and adventurer, and who will bloom and expand and rejoice themselves in ways that fulfill them and help our relationship flourish. Someone who likes making crazy good sexy stories happen with me.

Someone who gets that being well informed with prompt timing is really important to me. They won't tell me that is doesn't make sense or isn't ideal, they'll just get that that's what matters to me.

Someone who looks forward to figuring out, together, what dreams and practices will work best for us.

Yes, I need a lot of attention. Yes I am passionate. No, I don't do well with indifference or apathy. Yes I sometimes get jealous and yes, if treated well, I can get over it. Yes, there are some lovers that I am never jealous of or have low emotional expectations of, but no, my wife is not likely amongst them. Yes, I am committed to addressing and working past and dealing with jealousy when it arises. Yes, I appreciate other's jealousy more than their denial of it, though very mellow people are awesome and inspiring. Yes I deal better with vulnerability than acting out in others. Yes, change can be difficult. Yes I give a lot. No, I am not willing to settle, be consistently treated unfairly, or stay somewhere if it's unclear I am important, desired and respected. Yes, I understand we are all humies, and how frail and ridiculous and sad and scary that can be sometimes. Yes, I also see the glory in it (but am always interested in being shown more!) Yes, this sounds like a lot of work, though for the might person it may be fairly organic, smooth, easy; hopefully we are at similar places of values, ability, understanding and needs.

And yes, yes yes! the point is fun and joy and pleasure and fulfillment!




P.S. Thanks 'V' for being my "beta tester"!

My First Missed Connection

This weekend at dinner with friends I was the big ol' 5th wheel. Two butches, two femmes, and well, me. Like many people, especially in this city, my gender is more complicated on the inside than it may seem on the outside, but as with most things I tend to qualify as kind of a: yes, please, some of each and all of those, and..and..., mixed up, not easily boxable weird amalgam of genders. Think of a mermaid-cat with a curly French villain mustache and a dapper hat and you're close. So. Anway.

One of the femmes was Irene, who was proclaimed to have "porn-star hair" that night. It's fun watching her dimple dance while she blushes.
At one point during the meal the other femme turns to me and tells me she was perusing Craig's List Missed Connections at work and found an ad for a Miss Sadie that mentioned a play party and a scene with a submissive and I should check it out. I love this weird little world, where an in-person dinner conversation can lead you to your online CL stalker. We go both forwards and backwards and in swirling loops these days.

So at home I looked up my name under Missed Connections for the first time in some months, and, sure enough, pop comes an ad that really must have been written for me. It references a BDSM party at which I had a fantastic time last fall as well as some hints that were obscure enough that it took me another full day to remember who this person was. The timing also added another layer to the host of strange and unexpected messages coming at me from the past this last great weird weekend. We have since corresponded and I am very flattered.

But that's not the point. The point is, that after oh, say thirteen years of scouring missed connections, from the small print in the back of the Baltimore City Paper to the occasional traipse through Craig's List, fantasizing that there is someone out there, someone whose sticky mind is stuck on me, someone intrigued and interested and compelled enough to toss that message in a bottle out in the hopes that by slim chance or fate it'll end up on my shore....that one of many simple adolescent fantasies has actually come true. Oh happy day.
I'm quite pleased.

Maybe that means this will also be the year I *finally* get fucked in a graveyard. How many fucking goth clubs does it take to make that happen? Apparently more than I've gone to and sadly I stopped going. Years ago. Except when I travel of course, for some reason gay bars and goth clubs are both still interesting and more fun when in a different town. I always feel a little bit like a colonialist, turn-of-the-century anthropologist when I'm traveling and venturing to these exotic venues; one of the kinds of anthropologists that believed in order to fully
understand and document foreign cultures it is necessary to lay them or be laid by them. Not that that necessarily works, but hey, can't blame a scientist for attempting thorough research.

But back to Missed Connections. While I am super excited that it *finally happened to me* ( I feel a little like a middle schooler with her first menses, thrilled and just slightly disappointed) let it be known to future wives and courtiers that this does not mean that appealing to me through MC is now irrelevant or no longer necessary. There are still many points to be gained there, and this is for sure a good birthday/special occasion aide. Frankly, with all the people I've dated in the past and told about my dream of having my connection missed, I'm pretty surprised none of them picked up on that hot tip and got themselves tons of free, easily attainable credit and appreciation. Though if you are thinking about acting on this, remember: I don't check super often these days, so be vigilant.

Of course, there's always W4W....

Do you mind if I...?

Since I don't drink, I always think its really funny when people ask me if I mind if they have a drink whilst in my company... because what I really want is for people to ask if I mind if they fuck someone else.
I'm not sure in either case if I said if I minded that they'd refrain, but I'd definitely rather spend time with a tipsy person than someone who has a hard time respecting emotional and sexual boundaries.

While we all stumble sometimes, I like people who can mostly walk their talk. Ask me, don't tell me. Be willing to hear, respect, and even act on my answers. I like to talk, and I like people (including me!) to be happy; we can work it out.

I don't care if you have a drink. If you get wasted, I may leave. But I appreciate the conscientiousness expressed when you ask me. It's a good sign.

Something's Brewing...

That's what I generally say when a whole bunch of strange, surprising, intense and generally weird things happen in a short period of time. This was one of those weekends, I had a strong feeling about it from the get go, actually starting early in the week, and it did deliver, though as usual, not quite how I expected. I had another one of those "my worst fear" feelings about this weekend, which I have learned to really listen to, because in the last 5 months or so they have almost always been true. I did a lot to prepare myself, much of which worked wonders. Turns out my worst fear came true, or almost true, but I only had to deal with it remotely. Both damned and spared in the midst of a lot of unrelated astonishment and delight.

I was truly happy pretty much all Saturday, which was great and I had one of those days with which the summer was lousy, where multiple costume changes and destinations and purposes all kind of ran in a flurry together, always a little late, but with excellent results none the less. I don't really give a shit about Saturdays anymore, but this was a real, old-fashioned, early (for me) morning to late night party Saturday, full of fun, wherein I yelled at pro-Lifers while dressed in tampons, performed a stage-warming ritual in fancy lingerie and a transparent dress, celebrated Dolly Parton's birthday with a bunch of queers, and then went to a house party to give an ex a late solstice present. I had great, beautiful company all day, got exercise, looked consistently but variably weird and generally had a ball.

Today was a lovely affectionate late rise, long volunteer training, and the Sex Workers Art Show. Someone I once pegged as my possible wife was one of the performers.

Amongst all this a slew of unexpected communiques and correspondences from hazy distances, both physical and especially emotional, made their way to me. As well as a solid handful of strange coincidences. And more than one conversation initiated by another about this blog. I am left kind of reeling, over-stimulated and confused and feeling 50 flavors at once. I have an image of an off-kilter, beautiful but exaggerated carousel in my head. These times always feel significant but in a trapped-in-the-honeycomb sort of way, I can never really tell what shape the hive is or will be taking seen from the outside or from above.

Maybe my new theory about these things are that the compression points, those days that are so full of events and symbols and strangeness and joy and hurt and action that they leak into a brain flood and leave me scrambling for a dinghy of comprehension, and oar of direction, these times are the bits where the material bunches because the seam is about to change its course.
Like bones which have outgrown their muscles, maybe the life path pushes against its new growth, new turns, old territories sometimes, and the feeling of it is intense and confusing.
That was just so many very different metaphors right plop on top of each other. Obviously another sign. No, but seriously, this shit is BIZARRO all up over the place, every which way but loose, including loose, tasty, and gut-churning.

Maybe I just need to get out of the Mission.
Maybe things haven't been quite lively enough lately, so its all coming at once.
Maybe I just really need to go to sleep.

Little Songs

I am a little song maker-upper and without a doubt a little song singer. I remember little songs composed as far back as high school. My deepest, most influential loves have been little song singers too, as love is the true medium of the little song; it generally requiring a light, open, fool-happy heart and an appreciative audience to fall to the ground in hysterics. I do make up little songs out-of-love, or outside the direct presence of love, but generally those songs are to and about myself; darker and less shareable. Rev. Dr. Splashy Pants and I have been singing some of the same little songs for years. Other little songs invented, altered or customized, will forever bring on a fond reminiscence of a once or always beloved. Little songs are always from the best of times, even amidst the worst of times, even the bad relationships can breed little songs full of joy. If I can't remember why I ever put up with that jerk; if I *can* remember them singing a little song, my heart immediately tenderizes with a blushing "awww", and *then* I can remember why I put up with that jerk.

So most likely my wifey in potentia will be a little song creatrix and warbler when found firm in the flesh. A little song about a phone, or a friend, or our favorite shared beverage. A little song about yoga, a little song about peeing. A little song about a trip, or a street, or the time one of us (probably me) was late. A little song to greet the moon, or wake you up, or mock your boss. A little song to bring unstoppable tears of laughter to Rev. Dr. Splashy-Pant's eyes, and encourage him to encourage me to dance the naked hoochie-coo. (And tell you the story about how unhelpful I was at helping him attain employment when we first moved here.) A little song about our bed, our cat (can we have a cat!?) and the kitchen while we cook. I look so forward to finding our little songs together, to teaching you the songs from my past, to telling you all the stories that dangle from the little songs' noses, to kissing you after you humor my storytelling, to one day introducing you to people you already know through their songs and stories.

A little song for you, dear one, made up on the spot:

Wifey Wifey, put down that knifey,
its time for love!
Oh that's what you meant!
I see you're bent!
and that must be
why_I _call_ you_
Wifey! Wifey!
You make my lifey
so very happy
when I feel crappy
you dance and kiss me and say you missed me!
Wifey Wifey, whee whee whee!

Where *ARE* All the CAT HATS!?!?!?!?

RIGHT!?!?!?

The Lobster Phone

Could You Love This Cell Phone?


To love me is to love the Lobster Phone, formerly known as the Dancing Phone (we made up a little song about it to go with it's lively ringtone.) Yes, not even ten years ago I almost didn't date one of my loves because they had a cellphone, and now I have two phones; but the Lobster Phone is currently the showiest, and the Ho Phone recently betrayed me by erasing all of my old saved sentimental text messages when I took the old one in for an upgrade. I hated and refused to engage in texts until this summer. Things and ideas and boundaries and values change, yes they do.

Extra points if you know the piece to which the Lobster Phone is a reference/ homage. This point of this post is just to showcase the beautiful photo Josh took of Rev. Dr. Splashy-Pants's anarchist restaurant art with my addition of the Lobster Phone.

On the Verge

Phase 1 of pseduo-adulthood: done! ( or almost done.) I can't wait to see the loopings and whorls and strangeness and surprises and re-connections and new learnings that life will present in phases 2, 3, and 4. Really. I am so excited! What crazy plot-twists will the next ten years bring? How will it shake out for me and those I know peripherally and intimately? What new height of bizarro will be reached!? I think and wonder and get little-kid hopped up with joyful anticipation fairly frequently these days. At least as often as I freak out about my age and achievement level. Who knew I would ever be this passionately enthusiastic about life? Even in the painful times its so intriguing to guess what might happen next and then wait and compare with what does. I very much hope I don't die before I get to see how the rest of the story goes. I really just can't wait.

My horoscopes this week:

Why does human anatomy include the organ known as the appendix? For centuries, doctors have been unable to determine its purpose. Most have decided it's unnecessary, a vestigial structure left over from an earlier stage of evolution. But recent research suggests the conventional wisdom has to be revised. In fact, the appendix seems to protect and regenerate the good bacteria that live in the intestines. I predict that you're on the verge of a metaphorically comparable discovery, Scorpio. Something you have always considered to be useless or irrelevant will reveal its value.
-Rob Brezsny, Free Will Astrology

SCORPIO

Oct. 23-Nov. 21

Scorpio, you are on the verge of a massive shift, and it's deeply emotional. It would be easy for you not to grasp this and to simply skate the surface of your emotional pond, but we urge you to love not just yourself but also the people around you enough to take it to a deeper level.

-Jessica Lanyadoo and Michelle Tea, Double Team Psychic Dream

Testimonials From the Past

A bizarre series of events caused me to log into Friendster fro the the first time in 3 years. What I found was like an archaeological dig into the distant history of my own life. I feel that I used to be a very different person, you see. Not too long ago, even; these past three years have been a strange and prickly artichoke for me. As for Friendster, I didn't spend too long there; it was too intense. Archaeologist, cum grave-robber, cum colonialist, I took the easiest and most useful plunder and ran. I came away with some old long red hair pirate pictures and a slew of testimonials from old friends and former lovers.

Warning: I am terribly nostalgic. I love to love, and continue to hold people and things in my hands and my heart. While I am not ruled by my past and my memories I am undeniably shaped and often very grateful for them. I can take a break from loving; actively, daily, someone present and before me, but I have no intention of ever stopping. My heart is a very large home with a special little room for each most cherished person and even many of my favorite belongings, whether they are still tangible in my life or not, and there seems to be no limit to the space for new additions. It may be both my blessing and my curse. A wife should know these things before hand, I would think.

If you can't understand or relate to that, if you find yourself telling people to "get over it" you probably shouldn't continue to read, and we probably will not get along.
What can I say; I like it deep.

So here are some things that people I've loved and who presumably once loved me have said about me in the past. Remember, these are more often than not some of the better things said, and said about a me who is not quite the me who is today. But if not for direct reference or referral, I thought these statements might give some small insight into the me that others see, or at very least the writing skills of my beloveds. There might not be any very recent quotations, perhaps because of the relative dearth of recent partners, perhaps because some wounds are too fresh, perhaps because my more recent slightly more moderate behavior has not been quite as inspiring for writing or memorable comment, perhaps because I quit online social-networking sites about 2 years ago. So here is a slight glimpse into the not-so-distant past. I see that my life used to be much more full of men and boys, nancy- , though they may be. I see that I don't have many memories of sound-bites from the loves of the last few years. Maybe I will remember, or maybe it doesn't matter...


"Sex artist extraordinaire"
-SF Weekly, 2007*
*To the best of my knowledge I neither love nor am particularly beloved by anyone at the SF Weekly, I am just inordinately proud of this quotelet they printed about me this Fall.


"Sadie is a sane woman trapped inside an insane woman's mind."
-Tim Kreider around 2004



"Elegant and Floppy."
-Kyrstyn, 2002




"Best girlfriend ever!"
-anonymous (no doubt opinion has been revised since) 2004





"I have no doubt she will be a revolutionary"
-Angel, 2002



" the third time i saw her, she peed on
my boot. what more needs to be said?"
* Pale Eddie
* Posted 09/9/2003 12:10 am



" * Forces of nature come big and small.
Some might say that Sadie is like a
hurricane, but there's a smaller force
of nature that I find to be a more apt
metaphor. Sadie is a catalyst. Not
that she doesn't do her own thing, but
her doing of her own thing brings big
big change into the world. She's
magnetic, hilarious, loving, and
brave. My life was absolutely changed
for the better by this altogether
beautiful wunderkind."
-Jason 2003



"* Turbocharged electrocutie who walks
carefully around powerful magnets and
gets naked at the slightest
provocation. Can drink you (though not
me) under the table. Will turn boys to
men (and sometimes women) just by
walking through the room. Cooks
delicious meals with love and cheese.
Generous about sharing her life of
adventure and ridiculousness with
anyone who has the wisdom to ask.
Laughs at my jokes, thereby
demonstrating good taste. A quality
fleshie."
- Rev. Dr. Splashy-Pants, 2003







"Ladies and gentlemen, grrls and bois, allow me
to introduce the lovely Pirate Redbits, a
fabulous, demanding spectacle of a woman.
"Elegantly floppy!" cry the Baltimorons.
"Excessively froppy!" shouts the Dobbs-head.
"Frequently toppy!" exclaim a chorus of
simpering subs.

To which I say "all this and more." Much, much
more: Pirate Redbits contains multitudes,
attitudes, natty snoods, shady 'ludes and
eight-hundred-and-eighty moods. The
proverbial "tall drink of water" except that
someone's switched the water with grog, and
she's drunk it all. Flamboiant, debauched
socialite, her milkshake brings all the boys
_and_ girls to the yard and they're like...

Well, you _know_ what they're like.

Pirate Redbits, how do I love thee? Let me
count the ways.

- Polish (Polish!)
- Beautiful
- Inspiring
- Smart
- Brave
- Absinthe Connisseur
- Burner
- Pansexual, Polyamorous Sex Worker
- Patient
- Giddy
- Stupid
- Creative
- Sexy
- A merciless right hook
- Adventurous
- The Original DRS #1
- Still Polish
- Piratical
- Organizer
- Responsible
- Dizzy
- Sensual
- Loonaps!
- One-time co-habitant (see above: brave
and/or stupid)
- The best-dressed woman in any room
- The best-undressed woman in any room
- A good friend of Devon (that dashing rake)
- Splendiferous
- Vociferous
- Bold
- Tasty
- Redbits (w00t!)
- Pierced and inked
- "On Our Backs" centerfold girl (Dec/Jan '04)
- Pleasure Activist
- Haight Street Dreidel Club
- Petite Louis
- Goat-beard braider
- SF's official Naughtiest Schoolgirl
- Giselle
- Travels in France
- Storytime
- Fancy
- Loving
- Queer
- Crafty
- Cook
- Kinky
- Intercontinental Ballistic Sex Bomb
- Geek (or at least geek-friendly)
- Costume queen
- Curvy
- Supportive
- Incindiary
- Unstoppable

And oh-so-much more. Impossible to imagine
what my life would be like now without you, so
greatly have you perturbed the dimensions and
limits of my already strange universe. And I'm
far from the only one who can say this. You're
the Erisian force made manifest, a "fountain of
blood in the shape of a girl". A sexual
singularity, embodying both Lolita, Mrs.
Robinson and all points and forms in-between
simultaneously. And beyond: obliterating the
bi-polar gender axis, your identity and desire
exceeds the poor boundaries of language. In
both essence and action you are a true
revolutionary and an inspiration, loonaps and
all.

Xoxoxxx"

-Aaron, probably 2003

Comic Art Zeal and my Slowly Slipping Face

Could You Love This Person?
This weekend I have turned into the crazy reclusive artist fiend I hopefully prophesied in the wake of my breakup a few months ago. It kind of always happens at crunch time, the deadline (which generally means second or third deadline) for my comic which is published in the quarterly $pread magazine.

This time was especially fun though, and it felt really good to get into the place I had seen as the best-case scenario in the depths of my heartbreak: I would retreat from society, and finally spend tons of time locked away in my house doing art. I have a hard time focusing on any one thing, and I'm sure I've mentioned that finishings and endings are not my strong point. Additionally I have a hell of a lot of guilt and blockages around art. I won't even start with my feelings about my relationship to the word "artist", that is rain-soaked paperback of its own. So it feels like a real accomplishment to get into that zone, and really enjoy being there (starting every comic takes at least a month of procrastination and then a couple of days of making the template and the initial pencil drawings which always feels like I'm trying to gnaw off one of my own feet and pass it off as my prom dress.) This time, once I started it was easier to get in the happy place, I think because the comic came mentally to me organically almost fully formed a couple of weeks ago, and I had new style ideas I was excited about. I think slacking around, reading a bunch of other people's comics, aka "research", is finally paying off.

Generally, if there is any chance I can wile away the hours talking or engaging with other humies, I have a really hard time helping myself from doing that. This is possibly one of the reasons my therapist thinks I might make a good therapist. I hope that "switch" of being able to focus on and practice art is finally getting flipped.

The circumstances that really helped this time were: a big storm made leaving the house even less appealing than usual, as well as completely unnecessary (I actually did make sure to leave the house with a friend for greens or chocolate, but after nightfall, once every day), all of my current dates, hook-ups, and mojo subscribers are either out of town or sick, many of my close friends are out of town or very busy, and one of my copious new years resolutions is to try to get better at making deadlines. Also the previously mentioned excitement about this particular idea, part of which was that it seemed like it would be easier to draw than usual. Every time I draw a comic I think "I need to develop a simpler style, something recognizable, but really easy to draw" (which always comes in the voice of one of my comic mentors and companions, Dr. Hal), but every time I am totally stressed out and kind of just spit out whatever comes because that's all I got and every time it seems more complicated and time-consuming and difficult and crazier than the last. Except this time. Let this be the first movement of a trend for me.

Anyway, I wasn't really trying to write about me and art and comics. I was trying to just set the scene for this horrible picture: me, up at 4:30 a.m., eyes twisted and strained, alone and half-crazy and covered in ink stains, talking about Marcel Duchamp's idea, infrathin, my intense love/hate of David Byrne, and the genius of Rev. Dr. Splashy-Pants over g-chat with Aundi in England. Aundi left to get some coffee, and in my desperation for stimulation I took these super-unflattering photos of myself with my personal archival mirror; photobooth. They confirmed the recent realization that I am starting to look my age. As I described it to her:

me: i am starting to "look my age" especially when tired, which is most of the time

me: my face gets simultaneously puffy and saggy, like its been out in the rain and is sodden and is slipping from its moorings


I will talk all about my revised position on vanity in the future. And no need to tell me I'm good-looking, I mostly know that, but I'm also noticing the changes with interest. Recent ex used to tease me with prognostications of my eventual Bea Arthur-dom; I'm still hoping for a chance at a mix between Blanche and Dorothy.

So for Aundi, I post the above picture. He described me as "an angry old Russian woman who shopped at Trader Joe's in West Hollywood."
May I never turn into that woman.
Worry not-spousettes, I look much, much better today. Much better. I'm going to go take some vitamins and drink a big glass of water.


Much, much, much, much better.

W4W and Me: You Defy Description

This past year, after each of two tough, but very different break-ups, I found myself turning to Craigs List as daily habit in my life. The first time, last March-June, I scanned the local Missed Connections forum daily, enjoying the distraction and entertainment, hoping to see myself reflected through another's desire (it's been a fantasy since I was 17 or so), finding solace in the hordes of other people lonely and hurting and strange and spewing. I don't own a TV, don't really consume any media except books and the two free weeklies (I am a bit embarrassed by being so poorly informed about current events and the like, but have yet to find a regular relevant source of clear, unspun news), wasn't watching movies, and no longer drink or smoke pot, so Missed Connections became my little escapism fix.

I almost never look at Missed Connections anymore. This time, it's the W4W section, which I've mentioned before. My roommate got me started on it and now I check it, generally several times daily, as a fascinating microcosm of the local gay/queer/lesbian/bi/trans communities. I examine the writing styles, and have learned general trends about what kinds of people write what kinds of ads, who is most likely a man trolling for sex pictures (a hot though amateur pic of a young, very femme girl in lingerie looking to hook up and exchange pics....NO MEN!-generally a dude), how more than any other category W4W is used as an online community/info center beyond just personals, and marvel at how much queers love passing judgement, policing each other and giving each other shit. Irene calls DVDs of HBO shows her "stories" like a grandma at home with Days of Our Lives, and W4W has become my stories. Oh right, and as of 2007, I occasionally get dates from there, though often when I'm not really trying.

When I was actually actively dating the last ex, I rarely perused W4W, and if I did I was usually looking for ladies who fit one or another of our fantasies, in the hopes we could find someone to fill out a particular role or gang up on. But despite, or perhaps because of all the trivial petty shit, name-calling and sizism and trans- and bi-phobic attitudes, beyond all of the ways it's so much like everywhere else in all the most mundane and embarrassing ways, it perfectly feeds my brain's craving for bite-sized pieces of fluffy, arousing, informative and occasionally soulful information.

And, I realize while writing this, although I often mourn the lessening of quality connections with empathy, compassion and sensory satisfaction between people that this world of cell phones and instant messenger and MySpace and blogs is weaning us from, I guess that the W4W forum also gives me the sense of belonging to an ersatz community, without facing the scorn of the Lex or running into my ex's or feeling invisible because of my generally femmey, weirdo presentation and male-oriented history and expansive desires. Being actually invisible can give you the freedom to be exactly who you are with confidence. It can also dehumanize people, inspire new heights of deception, and without accountability, bring out the worst.
Funny, that.

So this evening during my casual scroll, I came across a thread about a well-written ad. I love following the threads especially, they are a bit like anonymous exquisite corpses. So I went back and found the "OP" which is original posting in CL speak, and discovered it to be not only well written, but really resonant with many of my own feelings. So I emailed the poster and asked if I could re-print the ad here. She gave me her blessing so here it is for your reading pleasure. She is quite a bit older than me, and felt the age gap too significant to date, which was fine by me. But I feel the ad to be very apropos to what I am looking for.

My notes would be these:
1. I may put more importance on looks and interests than the author, though I have a very wide spectrum of what I find appealing in both those arenas.

2. I consider work to be anything on which you spend time, energy and hopefully some passion. In my (very privileged and also creative) world, work and finances are not necessarily corollary, though hopefully there is some of each.

3.Although I have practiced polyamory (much more difficult than the piano, which I gave up years ago) for about eight years, I am imagining my wife to be probably single. While I envision a poly marriage, with perhaps some periods of monogamy to help through rough patches, I want to get involved with someone who has the room not only in their hearts, but also in their bits and schedules to really fall deeply in love and intimacy, sometimes quickly sometimes slowly. To me this indicates someone who has had good practice with poly life, but happens to not have any super significant (in terms of romance and time commitment) partners at the moment. Perhaps some very casual, or occasional out-of-town lovers, but no relationships that would make her feel not single.

And here it is:

You Defy Description

Your looks and interests don't preoccupy me. What matters to me are your experiences, perceptions, and states of mind.

You know idiocy. What it is for you to completely screw up. Lose a chance. Miss a deadline. Blow a fuse. Lose your mind. Slip on a peel for real. Wound a lover. Lose your star. Sign a contract you know you’ll pay in blood.

You know many kinds of love. Romantic and silly. Unyielding and loyal. Coarse and exquisite, jealous and forgiving. Stirring-the-oatmeal love. Ancient, deep, recognition-love. Unrequited and tearing.

You know loss. Lover, family, goddamn body part stopped working, whatever it was. Crying in the shower. Getting through the days. Wincing away from the photographs, years later.

You know bliss. Music finding the heart of your ears. Touch. Image, sculpture, and narrative in visual motion. A glance, a smile, the simple phrases that wing the heart and make it sing. The body pushing against gravity to a great pleasure, to a finish line, beyond pain to submission, through silence to a timeless space of luminous ground.

You know surrender. To accept, in the big ways, that you’re not who you thought you were, or wanted to be, or thought you would become.

You know work. A steady hum. Combat and loyalties, crisis and crap, and even so, getting things done.

You know nature. Not just the elemental joy in rivers and mountains, kinship with that doe in the woods. Now, Being unconceals itself everywhere, you feel rapture in the concrete at Bush and Van Ness, a lost button, the rusty car hood.

You know connection. So you find it odd and hard to feel so much a-part-of-things -- not important, not unimportant, just a infinitesimal part of a whole -- in a culture peopled with many (not all) peripatetic, disconnected individuals, subjects who feel like objects, many of them scared and unhappy with who they are and what they’ve (not) got. You know you can’t hug total strangers, but sometimes you want to.

You have a job, a life, a family you talk to, friends. You have problems, you’re not perfect. You’re single. You’re thinking about “dating” and maybe in some moods you’re reluctant, in other moods optimistic. You’re more cautious than you used to be. You think if you meet the right person, something will click, there will be an opening of a sort. This frightens you a little but you’re willing to be open to it.

Me too.

If this post describes you, I have lots to learn from you. And maybe I have something to offer you. Though who knows? We'll never know unless we meet. -A.J Waterborne

Happy New Year!

Oh, and once again, Happy New Year. I was in Slab City, being happy to get out of town again, reminded of the magic of shooting stars and hitchhikers, confused about intense love of the dessert, proud about owning and disassembling my own tent all by myself; as well as: wallowing in bubbling muddy hot springs, marveling at the trash in such desolation, and getting a lot to think about regarding class, lifestyle choices, and the path of my own life.

To paraphrase Sherilyn's New Year's Eve journal (a fiction); the new year seemed to take forever to come. Time moves strangely in the dessert. Thanks to my sister's respect of my birthday, I had a bottle of Navarro Vineyards grape juice with which to celebrate in my own sweet way. I made a few new friends, felt strong about driving most of the way there, and despite a moment or two (like the one as midnight approached when I realized how long it had been since I had someone I was in love with to kiss at the temporally kissable moment), I had a great time.