They Live

I've been up all night. Last Saturday I attended a Masque. I wore feathers and flowers and leather. I slept between two beautiful people. I haven't slept.

The wall broke. The first slap-dash words of the musical have slipped the surly bounds of my cowardice. They have form. They live.

There are fairies in the work lights. They cast little shadows, onoffonoffonoff, and they make my eyes hurt.

I'm not sure this vacation has been entirely good for me.

Vacation!

It is August, and while I am not on vacation, this blog is. We'll be back in a couple of weeks, slightly tanned and wearing a pair of Latin men. Ciao!

Fire! Or, Where Do I Cash In Near Death Experience Points?

Gas leaks are bad.

I've been helping my (newlywed) friends Lynzie and Mike move into their new apartment. This involves putting together lots of IKEA furniture, and playing with their tiny dog, Romeo and slightly less tiny cat, Orion. A bit more fun than moving has any right to be- which was dramatically corrected this past Tuesday.

There are two plot lines here- the fire, and the domestic disturbance next door.

Lynzie and I are waiting for the brownies to come finish baking (you must eat to build, you see) when we hear somebody BANGING on their front door and yelling "Get out here, you asshole!" Lynzie raises an eyebrow and opens the door to see a woman banging on the next door over.

"Oh, sorry sweetie, it's not you," Crazy Yelling Lady said at a normal volume. We closed the door and heard, "Be a man! I know that bitch is in there!"

We went back to the kitchen, where the brownie timer was summoning us. I took the pan out of the oven and put it the stove top to cool; Lynzie turned off the oven. We both noticed a funny hissing noise, but the dishwasher was running so we chalked it up to that. Until Lynzie saw the smoke.

Lynzie grabbed the dog and started looking for a fire extinguisher (probably still packed- we never did find one). I yelled for her to cut the electricity- I got gas fires and electrical fires confused. Once the lights were out we could see the fire crawling up the wall behind the stove and I called 911.

We used a couple of minutes grabbing essentials, including the cat, who was scared and decided to take it out of my hide. Lynzie passed me the dog and put the cat in his carrier and grabbed her purse and we hear somebody banging on her door and a cop voice saying, "Open up, please!"

We were 0 for 2- the cop was banging on the door next to us, but as soon as we said fire, he completely shifted gears. He had us prop the door open so the smoke could ventilate and called a unit with a fire extinguisher up.

I went to check if the fire escapes had extinguishers, which they didn't. Luckily the cops who did have one showed up, so I turned around to go back to Lynzie and saw Crazy Yelling Lady grab her by the arm and try to get her to tell the person she was yelling at that there was a fire.

At this point, I snapped a little. Lynzie was already upset- her freaking apartment was on fire- and this lady was physically pushing her around. I was going to punch her fucking lights out.

As I'm power-walking down the hallway towards my imminent arrest, the cops come flying out of Lynzie's apartment yelling, "RUN!"

They push me and Lynzie and Crazy Lady- and when a guy poked his head out of his apartment they grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him along too.

I don't know if they said it or I just finally made the connection- gas + fire = explosions. Either way, I could see that fucking explosion in my head and I sure as hell wanted to outrun it.

We came busting out of the building right as the fire department showed up; everything after that was just calming down and sorting out what the hell happened.

The apartment never exploded; the gas caught fire quickly enough that it didn't pool, so no big explosion. There was a crack in the line leading to the stove. The guy who had poked his head out of his apartment was the guy who'd reported the domestic disturbance; he remembered saying, "Fight?" to the cop, who said, "No, FIRE!" before getting dragging out with us. The Crazy Yelling Lady was the fiancee of Lynzie's neighbor, who apparently was cheating on CYL. The building manager had been onsite for unrelated reasons, but made it clear that they were going to pay for the damage and put them up in another apartment in the building while their old one was getting fixed.

Best of all? Very little was damaged. Some of their kitchen stuff isn't usable, but they do have, renters insurance, so it should all be covered.

Well, no- Best of all, nobody was hurt. But second to that, stuff being safe is good too.

Fire, and Lightning. Which death is next?

I'm Hungry.

Today, I joined the Critters Writer's Workshop.

Okay, I signed up a couple days ago; but today, I sent in my first critique, which means I'm eligable to submit my own work now. It's the first purely positive step I've taken for my writing in a while. Besides, you know, writing.

I'm trying to get out of Archaeology. It's a cool job to have, when I have it- which isn't very often. I'm looking at a nice little gray-box job in a nice little lab full of people with piercings and big open laughs, so while I may have to dress and play nice for clients, its reassuring that it's such a cheerful place.

This transition has me nervous. If I get the job, I will have a decent wage and benefits. Benefits out the wazoo, to be precise; healthcare and dental and paid vacation days galore. And that kind of scares me.

I'm afraid that I won't work as hard on my writing if I have it that easy at work. I'm afraid that having all of that will make the cost of leaving that much more expensive. Because my goal in life is not to have a nice job with benefits and a decent writing career.

It's a stupid fear; I was well provided for in high school and college and I sure as hell got a lot of writing done then. Being hungry, that hurts your writing. Having constant headaches because your wisdom teeth are impacted, that hurts your writing. Living in hotel rooms and the tiny hothouse world of Archaeology with nobody to talk to because they're all stoned out of their minds, that hurts your writing.

This starving artist stuff is crap.

I always thought that hunger was a last resort kind of problem. But the only person who's upset when you skip a meal is you, and compared to the accusing small print on bills, it doesn't seem like a big deal. I have money, it's just not mine. I could eat more. I should, really; I fucking do physical labor for a living. But I never realized just how stressful it is to judge every meal in light of how many calories you're getting per dollar, how much fiber, and have I actually eaten fresh meat today, no, so I better have a pb&j, but I'm so goddamn tired of ramen pasta and peanut butter sandwiches and god I would kill for a steak or hell, one fresh fucking salad.

I don't make enough money to really feed myself.

That's a hell of a thing to swallow.

Suddenly, I'm not so nervous about this job. Huh. Imagine that.

Dead Lines

The worst part of this gig is the waiting.

Let me be clear; I am talking about the wannabe writer gig. The worst part about archaeology is the sketchy income and the poison ivy. But in writing, my personal demon is time.

I have no deadlines, except the ones I give myself. Some might consider this a luxury, and that's just dandy for them. I hate it. It means that instead of some nice, reasonable editor person setting my expectations, I get the voices in my head.

"You'll spend your whole life like this, you know. Tapping and tapping and tapping away, with nothing to show for it. Nobody cares about the never-weres."

"You could die tomorrow. Do you really want to die without this story finished?"

"How long has it been since you've done something that impressed anyone? Honestly. We really should find another gig."

"You could die tomorrow."

"You could die tomorrow."

"You could die tomorrow."

I am afraid that I will die without having added a single breath to the universe.

I'll take your deadlines over mine any day.

The Top Five Fairies You've Never Heard Of

The Ganconer - A fairy that makes love to maidens, and then abandons them; the maidens then die of longing within a week. Ganconers haunt lonely valleys, and tend to smoke a small grey pipe called a dundeen.

Other names: Gean-cannah, The Love-Talker

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs; "The Love-Talker" by Ethna Carbery

Gyl Burnt-tayl - A slutty kind of Will-o'-the-Wisp. Leads travellers astray, in more ways than one!

Other names: Jenny Burnt-tayl

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs

Fetch - A death omen. A Fetch is identical to the person fated to die; sometimes it appears to that person, sometimes to their friends.

Other names: Co-walker

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs;

Buttery Spirit - A fairy that can only eat ill-gotten or cheaply made food designed to fool the public- think Mrs. Lovitt's Meat Pies. Will eat a tavern out of business unless the tavern-keeper mends their ways.

Other names: None, though it is a close relative to the Abbey Lubber

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs

Tarans - The souls of babies who die unchristened. They cry a lot, rather like alive babies.

Other names: Spunkies

References: An Encyclopedia of Fairies by Katharine Briggs; A Tour in Scotland By Thomas Pennant

Wheeeeeee Butch!

For immediate release – June 22, 2009

Sinclair Sexsmith, the “kinky queer butch top” behind Sugarbutch Chronicles and the editor of Queer Eye Candy, has launched TopHotButches.com, a top 100 list in the spirit of AfterEllen.com’s Hot 100 and GO Magazine’s Women We Love, focusing on transmasculine queer people of all kinds – butch, tomboy, androgynous, masculine, AG, stud, dykes, queers, and transmen.

“There is a serious lack of transmasculine representation in mainstream lesbian culture,” Sexsmith said. “Even in queer-focused top 100 lists, masculine women and transguys are rarely included. This does damage in two ways: 1. it implies that the attractiveness and desirability of lesbians is based on the heteronormative gender role assumptions of femininity, and 2. it excludes two large groups – dykes who are attracted to transmasculine women and trans men, and the transmasculine women and transmen ourselves. Where are our desires on these lists? Once again we are rendered other, strange, deviant, not attractive. This list attempts to fill in that hole.”

The project features photographs and links for all the 100 people on the list, and profiles for the top 10. There is even an “honorable mention” category, with more than a dozen more names.

“I thought it would be hard to get 100,” Sexsmith said, “I thought, maybe we can get 50. But I had so many suggestions, and I had more names than I could fit on the list. There are more of us out there in culture than one might think.”

The list includes predominantly musicians, comics, actors, and writers, but there is a wide variety of professions represented, from athletes and tattoo artists to political activists, radio show hosts, and porn stars.

“Diversity was important in picking the final list, and in the order of the list. Not just profession, but also ethnicity, age, geography, and body size. I wanted a wide range of masculinities in this project, to show how many various ways female masculinity and trans masculinity manifest,” said Sexsmith. “It was also important to me to include trans men, as much as it might seem to be in conflict with the title of the project, because trans men are a significant part of this community, and have been a serious force behind the re-visioning the gender and masculinity in gender activism in recent years.”

The Top Hot Butches project may continue annually. Visit TopHotButches.com to see the full list, photographs, profiles, links, and further information about the project. Sinclair Sexsmith can be reached at aspiringstud[at]gmail.com for interviews and further comment.