Myriam’s One-I’d Arts and Literature Column: spEnt!

Wow! I write this column with the same regularity as the cycle of a gal with polycystic ovarian syndrome!


Anyways, this episode of One-I’d brings you my reviews of two books, both of which came to me not psychically but electronically, through the compooter. The first book, Antonia Crane’s SPENT (Rare Bird Books), spins the truthiest reality, one where a hooker is a hooker is a hooker who does not wind up headless and in a dumpster behind a Sbarro’s by the second to the last pagina (that’s page in Spanish and the word gives foreign language students PLEASURE). Instead, she winds up…spoiler alert…alive! And still a hooker! The other (t)werk, Kate Durbin’s E! (Wonder) spins multi-tales that oppose reality: they are her transcriptions of reality TV! Yum. Reality tv is my favORITE junk food, and you know what, womyn can subsist on junk alone.

I paired these two suckers up for review because I love to infect people with a good case of duality. Juxtaposition and polarity can be fun! Vikings can eat mangos! Cholas can have bright blonde hair! The real can make love to the phantitsmagoric! Life is a black and white cookie! Oh, the yin and yang of baked goods!

So first, SPENT.


Some losers will argue that SPENT ought to come with myriad trigger warnings but to them I say, look, sluts, life doesn’t come with trigger warnings. Also, trigger warnings kill my buzz. Plus, Crane didn’t get any trigger warnings so why should you, dear potential reader of her memoir? Take a risk, audience member. Allow works of art to surprise and discomfit you. That’s their job. Don’t leave art jobless. Don’t leave art funemployed.

SPENT details Crane’s Norcal girlhood, adolescence, carear as a sex werker, and relationship with her mom. Crane writes with beautyslashradiance. Crane’s writing IS a dirty peacock fanning its tail at you whilst winking, giving you the gift of realization that her pretty bird is made more splendid by his STD. STDliness.

Despite, or maybe because of its darkish subject matter, SPENT is infused with a certain sense of wide-eyedness and dare I say fun. The writing itself expresses this energy, there’s an impetuousness in sentences that do to your brain what Rice Krispies do to your tongue. These sentences are totally my type. Let me set you up with four of these hotties:

“The women in my family were not bisexual strippers with a tendency to cut and an appetite for speed.”

“The orchid breeder must’ve painted my pussy seventy times.”

“I fucked Shawn until I felt something and the thing I felt was fucked.”

In that last sentence of Crane’s, revel in the dark joy elicited by its redundancy. Exquisite.

And this next one is such an understated oxymoron:

“In a moment of clarity, I enrolled at Mills College to do a B.A. in Women’s Studies.”

Crane swings back and forth between executing very constructive and very destructive life choices and one such constructive moment comes when she morphs into a labor whorganizer at her place of biz, the infamous peep show The Lusty Lady. She becomes Sally Fieldsesque, a Whorma Rae. Then, a few pages later, Crane lets us catch her stealing from customers. She shows herself being so human. A lover of humanity and a thief. Jesus and Dismas. Crane swings from job to job like she swings from pole to pole to pole to pole to a harm reduction program housed at the Polk Inn. There, she’s able to keep her clothes on for a while while working as a residential assistant serving mentally addled, drug-addicted HIV pozers.

For those who plodded through San Francisco in the 90s and early 2000s, Crane’s descriptions will scratch at a nostalgic scab. Underneath it will be the geographic memory of a place where a bisexual could rent a little home for cheap and make enough $ giving hand jobs and/or babysitting AIDS patients to have ample adventures in sex, drugs, and -isms. This San Francisco now lacks a pulse AND some asshole in a pair of GOOGLE glasses is dancing upon its lifelessness.

SPENT smolders till its last words, it never extinguishes, and this is espesh because Crane unflinchingly exposes her shit, all of it, all her issues, and she lets you live them with her. She gives you a taste of her disordered eating and lists what she, as a hooker, thinks about when doing her job:

“Cancer markers, T-cell counts, DNR, DNI, chemo, radiation, infection, five abdominal surgeries, PEG-tube, remission, metastasis, septicemia, organ failure, hospice care, and morphine drip…”

Sometimes, when hookers are working, their mothers are dying.

A sense of smell overwhelms SPENT and smell’s a sense that writers don’t use enough. They get stuck trying to appeal to the eyeballs but what about the nostrils? Time travel often happens through smell since smells are woven into every moment: the smell of childbirth, the smell of your first period, the smell of the old folks home, the smell of cremation. Open SPENT and smell Crane’s mother’s dying body. Smell Crane’s bulimia. Smell what is happening to the enamel of her teeth. It’s unavoidable.

Smell is the most intimate sense. You can reach out and touch someone without knowing what they smell like but once you’re close enough for a whiff, that’s it. You might as well be one. This sentence of Crane’s proves this:

“New Orleans is a sweaty pussy that sticks to your face, soaks into your skin and stays the night.”

I’ve been to New Orleans and it did take a while to wash that bitch off.

SPENT’S introspective narrative reminds me of this chunk from Carson McCullers’ THE BALLAD OF THE SAD CAFE: “…and a face will look down on the town. It is a face like the terrible dim faces known in dreams-sexless and white, with two gray crossed eyes turned inward so sharply that they seem to be exchanging with each other one long and secret gaze of grief.” Crane’s third eyeballs gaze deep inside her Craneness and as you’re reading the story of her life, your eyeballs begin turning inward, too. They beg of your soul: what do I smell like? What did my report cards look like? When was the last time I smelled barf? When was the last time I watched somebody die?

As the body count increases and Crane taps forty, her narrative becomes less and less redemptive. I like that. I NEED that. We all need that and it’s a gift to receive a narrative about a hooker that doesn’t have a happy ending or an unhappy ending but just an ending that is open-ending.


In the WHATareTHEYupTOnow episode capping off the virgin season of THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF ORANGE COUNTY, cast member Jo De La Rosa discusses her race during her exit interview. De La Rosa does not describe herself as Peruvian, mestiza, Latina, or even American. She states that she belongs to the race of housewives.

Kate Durbin would probably agree with her. Housewives are a race, magically and domestically so, and Durbin explores the goddesses and demigoddesses of this race in her pinkly-paginated gift, E!


I’m actually a whore for wives, wives shows that is, and I initially became addicted to reality TV when the genre as oui know it premiered while tenth grade was torturing the shit out of me. MTV gave me THE REAL WORLD: NEW YORK and once THE REAL WORLD: SAN FRANCISCO came on the seen, and it let me watch a gorgeous young Cuban die beatifically of AIDS, I figured the least I could do was live a vibrantly neurotic life as my school’s official undercover teen lez mascot.

These days, I’m really invested in reality shows because I use them to recreate, as in experience deep recreation, recreation as in recreational activity, reality TV is my RV, but through reality, especially its wives shows, Durbin recreates, as in re-creates for the sake of her art form, which is, as yet, UNNAMED AND WHAT IS MORE TERRIFYING THAN THE _____________ (those parentheses and space serve as a filler for the _____________ (nameless))?

So, E!


Durbin dedicates E! to Marilyn Monroe, a hologram, and tosses out this truthful disclaimer: “This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or televised, is entirely coincidental.” Instead of chapters, Dubin titles E!s segments “channels.”

The presence of channels implies the presence of a remote control, and this is cool, since while I’m a whore for wives and Lindsays and Annas, I’m not a whore for Speidis. And a Speidi creeps through E! Which I can squash it with my remote.

Transcriptions of select “shows” –certain wives shows, Lindsay Lohan’s stolen necklace trial, Amanda Knox’s murder trial, MTV’s THE HILLS, Kim Kardashian’s wedding to a very large man, some chunks of Anna Nicole’s demise, E!s THE GIRLS NEXT DOOR, and a dash of Dynasty– make up each of E!s channels. You might be like all a transcription of a TV show? What’s the point if you’ve seen these shows before? Well, if that’s what you’re asking then why not light books on fire after you’ve read them? Why bother putting Gilligan’s Island into syndication? WHY SUCH PLEASURE FROM RERUNS? AMERICA LOVES RERUNS BECAUSE THE EXPERIENCE OF REEXPERIENCING A STORY OR STORYLIKE SUBSTANCE ALWAYS DIFFERS FROM THE MAIDEN VOYAGE. Often, rediscovery enhances flavor. Sharpens it.

The wives channel takes the wives genre from campy to creepily surreal, and Durbin does this by using the word Wife as title. Instead of writing about THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILL’s Kyle Richards as Kyle or about Lisa Vanderpump as Mrs. V, she dubs them Wife Kyle and Wife Lisa. This Stepfordifies the narrative. These are not women. They’re Wives. And all aspire to Wifedom. Wifedom displaces all other the ideals.

Eyeing the Wives’ channel, I find myself wanting to see pictures of the women from shows I’m unfamiliar with and I google them so that I can have their faces. I want their faces because I know they’re so close. They’re famous. They want everyone to see their faces and remember them. Durbin helps them in this mission. Helps with their deification (a word so close to defecation).

I notice how as the Wives shows become textual objects, their details become sticky. While watching the shows on TV, my brain filters out what the Wives are eating or wearing, whether or not they have cilantro stuck between their teeth or which way their lap dogs are looking, but Durbin grabs these details and makes them stars. Makes these details, even ugly ones, Wives in their own right. Durbin’s texuality thickens reality. Puts every shard into focus.

The Wives’ channel writing yields scenes that are lush paintings that could hang in a gallery. They feel like baroque somethings, they have the drama and color and the high-resolution artfulness of Rococaine still lives. The stillness derives from the frenzied staging. The shows are staged and scripted. Just like still lives of halved citruses, hunters’ quarries, and bouquets of fresh cut European flowers.

As I read, I’m almost expecting something new, something that didn’t really happen, to happen, but it never does. The rerun never deviates from the original and Durbin’s textuality creates an anticipation even though she’s merely giving bibliophied servings of stuff I’ve already watched.

Oh, and back to that remote control. Its like I realize I’m not holding the remote. Durbin is. Her transcriptions press pause or fast forward or slow stuff down. Moments get reborn. I get reminded of how the literary arts can have an alchemical effect on time. However, when Durbin uses her alchemy to transform something that is already unreal, reality TV, the result is unnamable.

You can’t slow down time where time doesn’t exist. Yet Durbin does. She’s a witch.

I flip to THE GIRLS NEXT DOOR channel and find no girls. Instead, I find sentences about the presence of girls. Their suggested lives are enough. The girls who live in Hef’s mansion are and are not objects furnishing his home:

“In the pool filters are tangled balls of hair in stages of blonde.”

“The aristocratic hand carved oak door opens onto a two story great hall flanked by ornate dining rooms on one side and a large living room with a fireplace that has hand carved nude female figures, and a library filled with classic novels and replica books, on the other side.”

“There is 
a Murano glass chandelier above the bed, which has thirty-two pairs of women’s underwear hanging from it.
 In the corner of the room is a large fish tank with a Little Mermaid figurine and pink rocks.”

Gross. Funny.

It’s in the Playboy mansion that Durbin really lets herself get seriously silly describing things and settings and it’s a good time. EVERYBODY wants to know about the doing it part of the mansion but what about the mansion? She gives the mansion a life. She gives the mansion a Wife. Instead of tits and ass, its doorknobs and dust bunnies. LOL.

In KIM’S FAIRYTALE WEEDING, Durbin refers to Kris Humphries, Kardashian’s groom, as the Not-Husband. Sometimes, people are best defined by what they are not.

Rob becomes Brother Rob and Kim’s sisters become Sisters and this implies a Kimcentric universe. Heavenly bodies revolve around K.

The build up to the fairytale wedding reads like an act of apartheid against the Not-Husband who is Not Kardashian. In fact, people inhabiting this channel receive uber-peripheral identities given their proximity to Kim: Jungle Print Woman, Stuttering Man, Blonde Mullet Woman’s Assistant, A Guy. Kim and Mom assume Persephone and Aphrodite-y proporitions. Mary of Nazareth and Jesusita. A she-Abraham and a she-Isaac.

The ghost of Kim’s father, Robert Kardashian, enters during a tuxedo fitting. He weakly haunts through pained references. The Sisters whispering about what their father wore and liked.

Rewind. The nastiest part of this channel isn’t its sex tape with Ray J. It’s its dedication: for Kanye West. What a bitchy thing to do and bitch, well, that’s my race.

Skip ahead to Amanda Knox’s channel. Her channel is a bunch of odd haikus haikukus haikouture:

“Amanda Knox is in the courtroom. Her hair is in a greasy ponytail. Her forehead is furrowed. She is not wearing makeup. Her skin is blotchy. She is smiling. Her mouth is closed. She has on a blue shirt. There is a yellow sun tattooed on her upper back.”

Given these descriptions, the Knox trial is about what she looks like. It has nada to do with, allegedly, holding down her roommate so that she could be stabbed after something sexy went awry.

Anna Nicole’s channel is super sad and disturbing, and it’s hard to follow, just like her drugged speech.

Let’s skip it.

Durbin tosses in a chunklet of Dynasty to remind us that we are reading Greek mythology.

The last channel is something I really don’t like: THE HILLS. Its one of the few MTV reality shows I could never get into. Give me a teen mom from Kentucky or an asshole sweet sixteener any day over Speidi.

For me, the best thing to come out of THE HILLS has been Montag’s plastic surgery disasters (monitoring celebrity plastic surgery disasters is one of my hobbies) and Lauren Conrad’s couture line at Kohl’s. Kohlture. THE HILLS has fighting, confrontation, but I prefer physically aggressive, mature women with too much plastic surgery fighting. Perhaps if THE HILLS’ cast were to reunite now, equipped with an excess of alcohol, I could get much more on board. There is too much processing, not enough slapping, but that’s only problematic for me because I’m an animal descended from people who consider cockfights acceptable entertainment for toddlers. Who needs a babysitter? Just drop the baby Mexicans off at the bullring.

Please don’t feel like I’m spoiling anything with E!s final words: “Shot switches to wide, still panning, Hollywood sign viewable on distant hills.”

(And PS…if Andy Warhol were to meet E!, he’d cast it in a movie and then Valerie Solanos would shoot the bitch)














QU33R Comics Anthology- ON SALE NOW!!!

Hi, my name is Rob Kirby. Through the grace of the Radar Goddesses I’m here to trumpet the publication of my nice big new all-color comics anthology QU33R, from Zan Christensen’s Northwest Press, successfully funded on Kickstarter in late fall 2013.

QU33R had its genesis in a little queer comics zine I did from 2010 to 2012 called THREE, each issue of which was comprised of three stories by three creators or groups of creators. Seeking to expand the scope of the project, sometime in 2011 I approached Northwest Press about publishing a book-with-a-spine collection of contemporary LGBTQ alt-comics, and a deal was struck, baby. Meanwhile, in 2012 Justin Hall had produced No Straight Lines: Four Decades of Queer Comics to awards and general acclaim. I loved how Justin’s book had shone a light on how queer-themed comics have evolved over the years and felt that QU33R could take the next logical step and make a statement as to the breadth and scope of queer comics in the present day. In particular, it’s interesting to see that many of the stories in QU33R are concerned less with basic issues of coming out and queer community and more about looking at issues of gender fluidity and questioning queer identity itself. 

Sasha Steinberg

QU33R is comprised of 34 stories ranging from a 21-page coming of age mini-epic by Eric Orner to other stories looking at a wide variety of subject matter: familial and primary relationships, gender bending, hooking up and dating, depression and recovery, celebrity crushes, and so forth. I didn’t ask the contributing artists for specific story content, preferring to work within a looser structure in an effort to create little serendipitous thematic cycles. I feel this really paid off.

Amanda Verwey

The cross-generational contributors range from longtime dyke inspirations like Jennifer Camper, Diane DiMassa, Kris Dresen and Carrie McNinch to hot gay boy talents like Justin Hall, Ed Luce, Jon Macy, and Sasha Steinberg, to non-cis gendered folk like Dylan Edwards, Edie Fake, and Christine Smith; not to mention the presence of several awesome grrrl cartoonists well known to Radar supporters and Sister Spit fans: Nicole Georges, MariNaomi, and Amanda Verwey. And so many more.  It’s an exciting line up.


In the end QU33R is a testament to the fine work queer creators are contributing to comics, to the broader queer culture, and perhaps even beyond those realms. I hope that people who enjoy the anthology will continue to explore the work of the artists within and that of other creators -– there are many other artists I would have liked to have included in QU33R but space was already at a premium. I’ve said many times I could have doubled the number of artists and called the book QU66R.


Rob Kirby’s is the first post in our series Sister Spit Super Fans!  Buy your copy of QU33R HERE!!!

Myriam’s One-i’d Arts and Literature Column: GRRRBA and the GRRRL

I got turned out as a feminist pretty early.

I’m the one on the right. 

My parents never told me I was pretty and bought me books about science and women in leadership positions. On news programs that we watched as a family, I noticed that Benazir Bhutto led a country while looking like my mom.


Bedtime stories.

So, when I went to Mexico one December, and sat at the dining room table beside my abuelito, Guadalajara’s most charming womanizer, and heard him ask, “What kind of man are you going to marry?” my twelve-year-old mouth gave him a prompt response.


“I shall never marry,” I informed him. I paused, in order to give weight to my proclamation: “I am a feminist.”


In a condescendingly musical tone, Abuelito giggled. Then, as if I was a Chihuahua, he patted my bob.


“Don’t think so hard,” he advised me.

I wanted…to (Bikini) kill my abuelito.

Given my tween misandry, you’d think I’d have been 1000% on board once riot grrrl created its feminiche. I, however, was not. I climbed 50% on board.


I liked riot grrrl’s aesthetic.

I liked riot grrrl’s message.

I liked the using of yourself as a Post-it note.

I adored the tarantulas in the armpits.

I didn’t like the music. In my teens, I liked music that was faggier than what riot grrrl offered. I liked Wilde music, as in Oscar Wildean.


Now that I work in the classroom, attempting to dismantle the master’s house with his tools, I encounter riot grrrl descendants. These riot grandchildren tend to come out to me by scrawling Le Tigre or Bratmobile lyrics on my whiteboard, and as I foist my body in front of these words as the principal wanders into my room for a surprise visit, I wonder, “Was I this melodramatic as a teen queerdo?”


The Benazir Bhutto lookalike (my mom) would probably answer, “Mas.” In English, that’s more.


My teenaged bunnysitter, Salina, is one of these neo-riot crrreatures. She recently cared for my buns while my similarly-sexed lover and I went to Turkey (that’s what I call Thanksgiving: Let’s just semiotically cut to the chase) at my parents’. As part of her bunnysitting payment, I took LB’s local Tavi Gevinson to see the documentary THE PUNK SINGER, a film directed by Sini Anderson. THE PUNK SINGER tracks the career of Kathleen Hanna, her big ass contributions to riot grrrl, and her tribulations with Lyme disease. What follows is an electronic consciousness raising session (online interview) that Salina and I had about THE PUNK SINGER, feminism, and stuff.

GRRRBA: You identify as a feminist. I know this. Tell me what giving yourself that label does for you. Like what does it mean to you, how do you embody being a feminist, and what kinda shit do people give you for using the F word?


NEO-RIOT GRRRL SALINA: I’ve had people try to come burn my home down, pop the tires on my bike, and steal my skateboard. It definitely hasn’t made life easy. But on a lighter note, when, somehow, someone finds out I’m a feminist, or I tell them, it usually puts people off, and then they think I’m some crazy man-hating bitch. And that’s probably for the better anyways. To me, being a feminist, or identifying as one, pretty much means empowering womyn as they should be, but aren’t. Doing shit that isn’t looked upon as the norm, because it isn’t “lady like” or “pretty” and that’s okay. There isn’t any way for a womyn, girl, or female, to act necessarily. Too many females are looked down upon for things that men are praised for, and that really sux.


GRRRBA: I love the ironic story of how you got involved in riot grrrl. Tell me again.


NRGS: Like the little group I do stuff with or whatever? Well, I was with my dad one day in the car and he was dropping me off some where, and then later that evening he texted me to look up LBriotgrrrl (which you can also check out if you’re into that), and HE said they were mentioned on the radio, and they’re a group of feminists in the LB (obvi), and it’d be good for me to get into, because I have no friends. Oh, and my dad disapproves of my feminist behavior btw.


GRRRBA: Riot grrrl has been accused of being a racist movement. Something for white bitches. Tell me about Long Beach riot grrrls since white people are outnumbered in this town. How does this affect riot grrrl?


NRGS: Typical GRRRBA question. Well it’s a pretty multicultural kind of thing I guess (I hope I used that word right………………………….), there isn’t really a large amount of any race in the group, from what I know of. There for sure aren’t very many black grrrls, well, none that I’ve seen.


GRRRBA: What do you do at riot grrrl meetings?


NRGS: Pretty much talk about the general public’s view of women, feminism, and things like that. Also discuss shit like the fact that one lady from [CHARLIE COUNTRYMAN] was retaliated against [by the MPAA for] having a scene where she receives oral sex…and like it doesn’t make sense that in movies there are always those types of scenes where a men is receiving oral but when a lady has it done, it’s like gross. Also, we do bike rides, tons of workshops where you can learn new stuff. That sort of thing! Basically do things that a feminist might do.


GRRRBA: What feminists, and womyn in general, do you look up to? Why?


NRGS: None really. Not because I don’t think there are any worthy or whatever, but because I’d like [a role model] to be someone I know and hands on learned from. But I like a lot of like DIY feminist ladies, like who make feminist art and stuff. I like Frida Kahlo a lot, too, especially because she was the first lady I knew of at age like 6 or something, that was into ladies and shit. And also the way she viewed and carried herself is like constantly being redone now among the feminist society, and that’s kinda cool.

I really like Debra Harry, she was someone I grew up loving and was really into. I liked how she hated the whole r&b trio thing that’s really cool, and how she didn’t wanna be some whiny brokenhearted bitch. And she wasn’t. Joy De Vivre, Eve Libertine, Vi Subversa, Jane Fonda, Joan Jett, Liz Phair, and some other people I can’t think of. I’d say you, but that’d be too cheesy.


GRRRBA: Okay, so we watched the movie the PUNK SINGER the other night. Did you enter into the movie theatre with expectations? What did you learn about riot grrrl, Bikini Kill, or Kathleen Hanna that made you think: “Whoa?”


NRGS: I thought the movie would actually go more into Hanna instead of glorifying her, not to take away from the credit she deserves I guess. But it was supposed to be a documentary, and usually documentaries have the good and the bad. And they talk about the person in a way we feel we can relate, or at least believe they’re a real person. And in the movie that never really happened. They just kept saying how great Kathleen was. I didn’t really learn anything besides the fact she had that lyme disease, which they didn’t even explain at all. [It]…disappointed me and lead me to believe that Hanna wasn’t all she is cracked up to be…


GRRRBA: Do you feel a personal connection to Kathleen Hanna. Do you feel like she is somehow connected to you through her art and activism?


NRGS: No. Sorry.


GRRRBA: Let’s discuss Hanna’s bossiness. I don’t like bossiness because I’M THE BOSS. I enjoy bossing people around. Do you think Hanna’s bossiness was critical to her success? Do you like bossy women?


NRGS: That’s a very honest thing for you to admit! Hm, well, no and yes, I think Bikini Kill ended because of her bossiness. But I think it did play a huge part because that’s what made people so aroused by her, she was some little half naked youngster screaming and dancing around and telling boys that these bitches can’t hold her back, and that’s like huge. I don’t like when someone is rude, so if you’re bossy in a good way I guess I probably wouldn’t really notice or care. But I do like people with stern attitude and backbone. I like a lady who knows what she wants and isn’t worried about getting it or afraid to.


GRRRBA: If there was to be a rematch between Courtney Love and Kathleen Hanna, who would you put your money on?


NRGS: REALLY… Courtney!


GRRRBA: How did you celebrate no-shave November?


NRGS: I don’t shave, so I should’ve shaved, but I just stayed fury as usual.


GRRRBA: What do you think the future of feminism in America is?


NRGS: I think right now it’s a thing to be into, so if it stays this way, a lot of angry teens and ladies embracing and talking about being on their periods and shit like that. A lot of men hating women, I don’t think feminism should be about hating men, I’d like to say that! There are some cool guys, and there are some really fucking terrible ladies, it goes both ways. And I wish that was acknowledged.


GRRRBA: What do you think is the future of riot grrrl?


NRGS: A not as cool reenactment of what is being done and has already been done.


GRRRBA: If you could say anything to Kathleen Hanna, what would it be?


NRGS: Be honest.


GRRRBA: Any final thoughts, you furry little weirdo?



To help fund Salina’s war on men, please go to her ETSY shop. It’s full of great stocking stuffers for the man-hater in all of us:

Amanda Verwey’s ART MONDAY (on a THURSDAY- GASP!!!!!!!)- Drop Everything and See Laurie Lipton!!!

Today’s very special ART MONDAY is an URGENT MESSAGE that you absolutely MUST rearrange your schedule to see Laurie Lipton while she’s in town!  Her new book The Drawings of Laurie Lipton, published by local heroes Last Gasp, provides the most comprehensive survey of Lipton’s work to-date with beautifully reproduced images of her incredible, large-scale graphite drawings.  

Released on the tail of Lipton’s recent move back to the states after many years living in Europe, her new drawings represent a new perspective on the American cultural condition by depicting Los Angeles’ beauty, youth and car culture in a manner that is equal parts outsider/insider and rendered with dark satire in her signature BEYOND meticulous style.

She has THREE Bay Area signings this week- Don’t miss out!  Click HERE for more information!

Thursday, December 12th
Paxton Gate
824 Valencia St
San Francisco, CA
6pm – 8pm

Friday, December 13th
Artist discussion & signing
Pegasus Books
2349 Shattuck Ave
Berkeley, CA
7:30pm – 9:30pm

Saturday, December 14th
Exclusive Varnish print release
Varnish Fine Arts
16 Jessie St #C120
San Francisco, CA.
5 – 7pm

Sister Spit 1997 Tour Diary Flashback #2!

In honor of the SISTER SPIT 2014 FUNDRAISING CAMPAIGN, I present another offering from the 1997 Sister Spit Tour Diary!  This entry was written from a CYBER CAFE by one of the Valencia directors Samuael Topiary!!!

DAY 4 or 5, from topiary

Hello and hope you are well. We are now on day 4 or is it 5? Driving all night through major heat and find ourselves in Tuscon.

After nice opening shows in Santa Cruz and LA, we really hit our stride in Las Vegas, out-performing ourselves to a rowdy and diverse Vegas crowd of locals, a mix of heckling straight men and appreciative dykes and many others in between. Our most excellent and talented host Dave had hooked us up w/ free rooms at the illustrious Stardust Casino and even got us a grant from the Nevada State Council on the Arts. The free “ass juice” the bar kept doling out definitely heightened the energy. Heckling was raised to a new level. And believe it or not, we even did a second set!
I think it’s safe to report that we all had a blast in Vegas especially after Ali treated some of us to her expert slot machine techniques.

It’s fucking hot as hell here in Tucson and we’re all a bit punchy now after driving all night from Vegas to Tucson. Am writing you from the cyber cafe next to the Hotel Congress.

Hit a traffic jam in the middle of the desert on the road from Vegas to here at about 3 am. We wondered about the alien abduction possibilities, but it turns out there was a murder…. probably by human hands, though. The landscape is surreal here.

I lost $3 to the nickel slots. It’s very hot in the van. We have to drive at night and sleep by day. Wish we had more time in Tucson, it seem so interesting, picturesque.

The tour is really starting to get rolling now. I can feel us as a show gelling, getting the hang of it, getting funnier and easier and less precious with each other. The traveling is harsh, though.

PLEASE HELP SUPPORT THE SISTER SPIT TRADITION!  We are asking for help from the community to keep this tour going.  Consider contributing to our FUNDRAISING CAMPAIGN and please SHARE! 


In honor of the SISTER SPIT 2014 FUNDRAISING CAMPAIGN we’ve dug deep into the Sister Spit archives for some must-see-gems from the vault.  So today, for your #FBF viewing pleasure, I present DAY 33 of the Sister Spit Tour Diary 1997, written by Michelle Tea.

Below is it exactly as it appeared on the ’97 website:

DAY 33, michelle

Greetings from the illegal insides of the Budget Cargo Van!

I’m bouncing & rocking all over the place as the van zooms out of Cleveland and on towards Detroit. This whole part of the country – particularly the east coast (is this still the east coast?) – has been such a crazy whirlwind.

Philadelphia was a great all-ages show at the new gay center, we each got to do one piece written by someone else on the tour, something we’d been talking about doing for a while. It was pretty hysterical, the big highlights were Ali doing Sini, complete with the trademark yellow glasses; Sini doing Eileen’s ‘Merk’ in pure Sini fashion – very loud, with a couple “Fucking”s thrown in. And Eileen doing Tara aka ‘Pantena’ was completely insane, performed in some kind of weird snooty british accent, wearing a feather boa, doing Pantena’s strange yoga-ish moves on the floor. I was a little afraid our gigantic in-joke performance would bore & alienate the audience, but they really liked it.

After Phili was New York, where all the girls were split apart, staying at different houses and it felt more like a weird vacation than the tour. I saw Rod Stewert eating breakfast, he looked really bad but I still got excited seeing him. I went to see the Cindy Sherman show at MoMA, it was sponsored by Madonna, who Eileen believes should sponsor next year’s Roadshow. So if anyone knows how to get in touch with Maddy, please let me know. And did anyone read her goodbye to Versace in Time? What a fucking idiot! I’m so sorry she won’t get to stay in his villa & be pampered anymore, this must be a really hard time for her. But I still would like her to kick down some cash to our traveling all-girl literary revolution.

ANYWAY, NYC was rad, a little show at Rising Cafe in Brooklyn, and a sold-out house at P.S.122, a show Topiary & Eileen put together from the road, a very tricky thing. It was a great night. Next was Boston, another sold-out, people turned away at the door, standing-room-only show – can you deal with all these people coming out for poetry!!! It’s pretty fucking incredible.

Boston was wall-to-wall excellent girls, and there were a bunch of moms & assorted family members in attendance, including my own. It was the first time she ever heard me read, actually it was the first spoken word event, lesbian event, weirdo event, whatever event for my mom, and I think she held up pretty well & even enjoyed herself, though she was also slightly disturbed.  It’s good to periodically disturb your mother, don’t you think? Ali’s mom stole the show, joining her daughter on stage to read her lines from Ali’s piece “The Story of Slutty.” She made all kinds of great exasperated mom faces while Ali read about being 15 years old smoking pot in a changing stall with a 27-year-old floosie.

Next was fantastic Provincetown, by far the hardest place for us to leave. Well, it was hard getting out of New York, but that was because Cherie took the wrong train and got lost in Queens for 2 hours. But Provincetown was fabulous! Another packed show, where we were joined by local poet Kathe Izzo, the lady responsible for the terrific event. Kim Silver & Annie Sprinkle opened their homes to us vagabonds, and Annie taught Ali a new boob trick – how to light matches off her nipples. She nearly got arrested on Commercial Street one night lighting up her tits for our entertainment. You’d think the cops in P-Town would have more of a sense of humor. A bunch of girls went whale-watching and had very spiritual experiences watching the humungous mammals flip around and wave their fins. Cherie, who used to live in P-Town, took us across the breakwater to her secret swimming hole, and we swam with the crabs & minnows, and I held a couple starfish and as you could guess that was pretty cool. We got some good illegal tattoos from Cherie’s friend Chris – tattoos are still illegal in Massachusets, and you still can’t buy booze on Sundays either. Coming into town right as we were leaving was Club Casanova – a very swanky & hilarious drag king show from New York City. We got to catch their act the night we left, Mo B. Dick, Dred, Will Doher and Labio, Fabio younger brother. Cherie & Sash hopped onstage and sang a country song as a pair of incestuous brothers recently kicked off the Garth Brooks tour for their forbidden love. Finally we tore ourselves away from Provincetown. It was very hard.

Back in the van for an overnight 15-hour drive to Buffalo, we haven’t had to haul ass like that since Texas! We were like a bunch of 7-11 hot dogs on one of those rotating hotdog warmers, all of us lined up & sleeping in the back of the Budget. In Buffalo we were welcomed into the House of Kate, who not only put most of us up in her huge & excellent house, but also kept us thoroughly entertained. Our show at Hallwalls was great and very, very bittersweet because it was the final show of the original Sister Spit line-up. Marci & Ali have since returned to their lives in San Francisco & New York, and Eileen is off writing in the woods at a writer’s colony in upstate New York. I don’t have to tell you that we miss them a lot. Marci was a really good, solid, sensitive & stable girl to have on the tour. Ali is not exactly stable, but her constant humor & sweetness even in the tensest of situations, is sorely missed. Plus, Sash has lost her drink…

(……oops!!!!…here’s where michelle ran out of batteries … we’ll get the rest of the story soon!)


Myriam’s One-i’d Arts and Literature Column: Spooky Little Nacos

While being raised on the shrinking teat of Catholicism, I did get to experience transubstantiation in my mouth, but I never really got into how groovy this miracle can be till the other night.

The utter night, in the doorway of Florentino’s, an El Monte restaurant where you can order a pepperoni pizza with a side of Meso-american mini-pizzas (sopes), I communed with a British God by reaching for his proxy Latino. Through our touch, I learned that when Mexican Morrissey hugs you, real Morrissey is draping his ancestrally-Irish limbs around you, too.

This is Pedro Infante, the Mexican Frank Sinatra.

This is Frank Sinatra, the American Pedro Infante

My 75% Mexican/Mexican/ancestrally-Irish three-way was facilitated by the South El Monte Art Posse and Art Movement, two Moz Angeles area grassroots organizations that invited weirdoes to come experience why E, M, and O are critical to spelling El Monte: SEMAP and Art Posse put on a show to venerate Los Esmiths and Morrissí through music, art, and poetry flavored by emo bouillon.

Did you know that Morrissey ends in a backwards yes and a phonetically Hispanic affirmative! Guau!

I got to Florentino’s like fifteen minutes before the homage was supposed to start and admired how a candle vendor was forcing Candy Darling to mingle with Mexican ghosts.

To set a British mood, I set up camp in a corner booth, ordered a cup of tea, and willed my melanin to cool it.

A very tattooed Latina and her less tattooed friend took the pleather bench across from mine. I asked them, “Are you guys from El Monte?”

The very tattooed one nodded and answered, “I grew up here.”

“What’s El Monte like?” I asked. I explained, “I only know two things about El Monte: there’s a grip of Mexicans here and James Ellroy’s mom got strangled here.”

The very tattooed Latina agreed that there are grip of Mexicans in El Monte but hadn’t heard of James Ellroy or his strangled mother. She explained, “I live in West Covina now. A lot of athletes come out of there.”

I expressed my interest in her statement by blinking.

At the front of the dining area, near the john and a claw machine bedazzled by white Christmas lights, a dude of color spoke into the mic, welcoming us to an evening of stuff inspired by you already know what. The very tattooed girl whispered, “I thought it was Lakers night.”

Unfortunately, the emcee handed the mic over to a man who rambled in an affected Jamaican accent against American incursions into Syria. When he said terror, it came out Tehran.

Jah works in mysterious ways, I suppose.

After the Rastafarian event hijacker went away, a she-poet bearing the Aztec name for flower and then some, Xochitl-Julisa Bermejo, smiled at us. She gave a shout out to the 626 and confessed that while she’s not that into Morrissey, she’s brown, and therefore, somebody in her family loves him. She shared a piece inspired by this cousin: ” When I was thirteen, my bangs never fanned right…” Miller’s Outpost, wannabe Docs, and how to scrunch socks peppered her brief performance with flashbacks to the late 80s/early 90s and then claps and Caribbean Fragoza approached the claw machine.

I know Caribbean cause we’re in a literary salon, Las Guayabas, together and her stuff always guaus me with its lush repugnance. It’s lushly repugnant the way silken larvae hatching in your eye socket might be.

She shared a piece inspired by the song The More You Ignore Me the Closer I Get. That song reminds me of an orange and white cat that likes to sit on my fence and watch me go to the bathroom. Softly stalkerish.

The second piece Caribbean read mentioned nothing about The Smiths or Morrissey, but it totally extracted their bouillion; it possessed their mojo. The spooky little

“Crows have imaginations.

Crows hold grudges.”

The spooky little naca story held us all together in a singular dark but ticklish vibe, the way Morrissey’s songs do.

Kenji Lu followed and gave a taste of Morrisssey a la Snookie.

Lu explained that he encountered Morrissey after cliquing up with the only Mexican in his New Jersey high school, and sharing a piece inspired by Everyday Is Like Sunday, Lu’s poetry made it even easier to visualize apocalypse godzillaing the garden state. Lu went on to share a poem inspired by Depeche Mode, the DJ played a snippet of Personal Jesus, and I wondered, “Are these poets using the posters from adolescent bedroom walls as their muses? Is Siouxsie next?”

She was not.

Modern English was.

Mike the Poet followed Lu and the Poet said his initial exposure to Los Esmiths happened in 1989, during his freshman year at Artesia High, and he spoken-worded a mashup of lyrics, an emo sound collage.


It was time to cede the stage to Mexican Morrissey.

The Mexican Morrissey’s real name is José Maldonado. By day he’s a LIFEGUARD, and I’ve seen him perform with his cover band, the Sweet and Tender Hooligans. The Hooligans’ performances combine agony with mextasy, especially when confused cholos weep and/or mosh.

Maldonado sat, perched his guitar on his knees, sang a couple of unplugged, bilingual covers, and thusly, made us acknowledge his gift: that his imitation of Morrissey is so uncanny it’s Catholic. Through the son (Maldonado), we experience the father (Morrissey), and through the father, we experience the holy ghost (Oscar Wildean/Aleister Crowleyian magic).

Anyways, Maldonado left us wanting more of what he clearly had plenty left to give and Vicky Vertíz jogged up to stand where he’d channeled our leader. She shouted, “Happy birthday to Gloria Anzaldúa!” and declared that Nepantla, the Nahuatl concept of kooky, spiritual betweeness, is thee gothest thing ever. Being in a partially Italian restaurant, Vertíz urged us to buy calzones. This evoked ja ja jas.

Italian calzones.

Mexican calzónes. The space between their calzonic worlds is Nopantsla.

Vertíz preached that Chicanos relate to The Smiths and Morrissey as alienated nerds of color and dove into a piece about camping at the Salton Sea. Like Caribbean, that piece, and her next one, which held the phrase “a 50s guitar in the key of sorrow,” extracted that emo bouillon we’d come to savor. Her work reminded us that it can be good to create a subculture that lusts after death by bus.

(Hell, if it was good enough for Frida…)

The hungry Mexican audience wanted more Maldonado and shouted, “Otra! Otra! Otra!…” and Maldonado obliged, scurrying back to the mic, perching the guitar back on his knees.

Before giving us more song, he treated us to a retelling of the time he met Morrissey sucking on a Corona in the corner of Pasadena bar. He asked him for his autograph, requesting that he, “make it out to José,” and Morrissey put him on the ethnic spot, asking Maldonado why so many Carloses, Marias, Josés, and JosBs want his autograph.

If Gloria Anzaldua had been there, she would’ve whispered: “Nepantla…”

If Gustavo Arellano had been there, he would’ve cracked open his book ASK A MEXICAN and begun reading the entry on page 126…

Maldonado mumbled something about how many of us there are and then told us, as he choked up for a sec, that he confessed to Morrissey, “Everyday of my life is that much better because of your songs.”

Morrissey responded to his flattery with equal cheese.

A few hip hoppers and false prophets hijacked the mic post-Mexican Morrissey, the plug got pulled around ten, and I noticed Mexican Morrissey was leaving. Since he’s probably the closest I’ll get to communing with Morrissey, I abandoned my tea, speed-walked to him, and directed my compliments at his pompadour: “I’ve seen you perform before, and I really admire what you do.

He smiled, said, “Give me a hug,” and the güero became my cleverly fay Englishman for a seven seconds.

Myriam’s One-i’d Arts and Literature Column: The Hoppening

I’ve had a lifelong thing for rabbits and an end-of-summer visit to Pasadena’s Bunny Museum showed me how, with enough eccentric grit, such a thing could be monetized.

Year three of the Great Depression and the address of the Bunny Museum!

Polyglot plaques hanging along the BM’s stuccoed porch announced to me and my person that we’d arrived at the appropriately deranged spot. I knocked, summoning the keeper of the madness to her front door. Dressed in violent reds, this blonde emerged and greeted, “Did you bring the bunny money?”

“I brought cash,” I said with uncertainty.

“That’s bunny money,” she lectured. “It’s for the bunnies. We have several live bunnies on the premises and they have to eat between three and five fresh fruits and vegetables a day. It adds up. Six dollars.”

She stuck out her pawlm.

Being a rabbit caretaker myself, I subscribe to guidelines that privilege timothy hay as a dietary anchor, but I wasn’t there to proselytize my gospel of fiber. I was there to be awed. Reaching into my tote, I groped for…bunny money.

“Do you have any rabbits on your person?” the lady asked as I handed over six dollars which I really wanted to garnish with sixty six cents.

“I had a figurine I was going to give you but-”

“No!” interrupted the melaninly-deprived bunny mistress. “On your person.” She gestured to show that she meant bunnies in my skin.

“Oh, yes,” I said. “I have this.” I rolled up my left sleeve and showed her.

“What is that?” she asked.

“It’s a rabbit pirate. Her cutlass crisscrosses this delicious carrot because vegetables are the booty she seeks.”

“I’m gonna have to get a picture of that. Place your hats and bags in the chest.” She pointed at a wooden chest stenciled with rabbitry. “And then hop on in.”

Dumping hats and my tote in the piratic thing, we ferried our wallets and phones into the BM’s foyer. There, the bunny mistress stuck a doctored sign in our hands. She styled us and became our Annie Leibovitz.

After taking shots of us with her camera and mine, she faced us down, treating us to an oral history of the BM. During our baby carrot of a lesson, we learned that the BM accidentally began when the bunny mistress and her husband exchanged rabbit-related gifts for their wedding anniversary. They continued exchanging rabbit-related gifts for the next three hundred and sixty-five days. As friends learned of this daily hoppening, they heaped rabbit-related gifts on the couple, and eventually, the two amassed an excess of thirty thousand rabbit-related collectibles, many of which are housed not there. The bunny mistress rabidly stressed that the BM is a living museum where she, her the TV Guide, and, of course, experiencing the occasional BM. The bunny mistress explained that she and her husband have dreams of relocating the BM to a larger site with a bunny-shaped parking lot. She described the lot’s layout while I zoned out, imagining traffic flowing according to the rabbit’s digestive journey.

Fun Lagomorphic Facts: The rabbit’s digestive tract more closely resembles a pony’s than a rat’s but rabbit connoisseur Amy Sedaris stresses that whenever the rabbit asks the horse to borrow money, its phone calls are never returned. Rabbits also munch on a special blend of their own poo pooetically known as night feces.

There was no humble bragging at the BM. The bunny mistress pointed at the tribute wall behind her so that we could not overlook her awards from Guinness World Records, TV Guide, and LA Weekly, and then, she hopped away, allowing us to bask in the kind of extravagant hoarding that makes me proud to be an American.

Somebunny’s watching you.

Doesn’t the middlemost impostor look like it’s silently screaming for help?

Oh, the dust bunnies.

And so on

and on

and on

and oncology.

Our paths, or bunny trails, crossed with the bunny mistress’, again, in her dining room, where three of her freeze-dried former pets added morbid flair to her collection.

Craving a rabbite to eat, we roved into the kitchen.

In the cucina,

we spied this marshmallow enjoying the spoils of bunny money.

 Even the fridge was a bunanza.

The mania extended from the ceilings

to the f(l)ur.

Stepping out of the kitchen and into the backyard spared us from nothing. In fact, the objet de rabbit Alice in Wonderlandishly swelled in size…

Rabbits attempting AWOL smashed against the glass.

I worried. My person was blending in with the cute coprophagists.

S/he and I strolled back inside, to check out the room with plushies flattened against its panes.

We wheeled through a doorway

and discovered the TV room, a place to watch porn while sneezing.

Reemerging into the dining area/gift shop/bookstore, I glanced at the scrim featuring local celebrity visitors. Meanwhile, the bunny mistress bragged about Elijah Wood’s Funny or Die commercial for the BM.

A hobbit in a BM commercial?


“Its so nice that you get to perform your obsession,” I told the bunny mistress as my person looked through her books for sale.

I asked to take the bunny mistress’ picture and before shooting it, she disappeared to an off-limits part of the BM to preen. Returning, she posed at a table with a Bunniculaish creature on it and my anemic flash did its best to illuminate her. I thought not quite aloud about how this was a very queer place and a very queer thing was hoppening, this straight couple selling access to their rabbitcentric lifestyle, but I refrained from vocalizing my assessment: the bunny mistress also happens to be thee self-proclaimed Christian Ann Landers and organizer behind Los Angeles’ annual Angel Festival and if there’s anything I’m not, it’s an angel.

Myriam’s One I’d Arts and Literature Column: Chelsea Martin is a Denimius



Chelsea Martin’s newest notvel (that’s the genre I’m going to categorize it in) barfs a series of philoselfiecal chunklets that are as deep as they are forgettable, and that’s not bad. In fact, Martin’s notvel flatteringly imitates sentient female life.

Being in the driver’s seat of life, and life is a Kia, exposes us to a series of forgettably deep moments. Fur example, when many women are alive, we get these moments when our brain makes us feel a wild oneness with all things, we feel connected to every stupid shrub, every pinecone, every deer, every grain of Morton’s salt, every spider, every crab, every cloud, every sunset, and then, when this sense of connectedness loosens up, we never return to that precise moment of oneness again. Something related to autopilot or the color taupe replaces this sense of mysticism, which is waiting to be re-experienced by us further down the lane. This sense of flawless oneness is waiting to be triggered by something as banal as a sunset or a sunup or the sun. Meanwhile, we text while driving.


Yodaishly, I’d like to say that picaresque are Martin’s philoselfiecal chunklets. White curtains separate them.

Is EVEN THOUGH I DON’T MISS YOU linear? Probably not.

Its structure and vibe are kind of like Amy Fusselman’s 8’s but with so much more mental intimacy that at times, EVEN THOUGHT I DON’T MISS YOU feels distant.

Here’s an example of a poemish paragraphical blob that occupies its own page. OCCUPY CHELSEA:

Yesterday I saw a girl walking down the street, tears streaming down her entirely unexpressive face, mouth open, while emitting no noise and neglecting to wipe the tears from her face and neck, so now I know for sure I’m not the only person who does that.

A mirror motif pops up narcicystically and here’s one particularly moving mirror chunklet that will never allow you to look at the dirty chones you catapulted from your big toe and onto the carpet in the same way again:

There is a piece of clothing thrown on the floor in the shape of what I look like to myself.

This statement is wildly stupid, wildly deep, wildly feminine, and yet unladylike, and also, it makes me consider places where my own reflection has ambushed me, mostly zoos.

This chunklet:

Yesterday I cried over a 30-second trailer for a Robin Williams movie I saw fifteen years ago.

spoke to me. Cold Play’s Viva La Vida can only affect my my soul when I’m menstruating and sometimes, I think Gwyneth Paltrow’s husband wrote that song with the knowledge of my menstrual cycle, which he must’ve heard gossiped about in mythological proportions.

Also, Martin writes about love like a modern, savvily banal Carson McCullers:

It’s upsetting to feel so close to someone yet not have the ability to control their thoughts or effectively manipulate their feelings.



Throughout her notvel, Martin’s narrator, which I suspect is a version of Martin reflected by that garment tossed on the floor, describes many small interactions with a lover. Sometimes, she and the lover are fighting, sometimes, she’s suspicious that the lover is using her for her antacids, sometimes, she’s proclaiming to the lover her readiness to crap with the bathroom door open, and startlingly, at least for me, Martin’s narrator breaks down the third wall to ask, “…do you have any personal philosophies having to do with pants?”


Last spring I heard a radio evangelist with Scottish accent preaching about how women need to develop a theology of clothes, especially pants, in order to live righteously. He beseeched women to consider Christ looking at them, judging their jeggings, and I imagined the redeemer dangling from the cross, wearing his designer crown of thorns, peering at a lady without a theology of pants, and, in spite of Jesus’ pain, a thought bubble appears above his crown. In that bubble appears the Aramaic word for slut.

My mother, pardner, college roommate from frosh year, and I were sitting around the night after I’d had some very minor gynecological surgery, and I was sharing with everybody this radio televangelist’s urging, and in the course of trying to come up with a collective theology of pants, somebody, I can’t remember which one of us, spoke this Spanish malapropism: putalones. Pantalones means pants in Spanish. Puta means whore in Spanish, which makes the Spanish word for computer a brothel.


Part way through EVEN THOUGH I DON’T MISS YOU, the narrator reveals that EVEN THOUGH I DON’T MISS YOU is a novel, although not really, and that perhaps she is a strong female lead in this novel, thought not really, and that her relationship with this guy or girl or dog or whatever (that’s one of the things that makes EVEN THOUGH I DON’T MISS YOU so interesting, the beloved’s gender is never explicitly given and neither is their species which allows you, as a reader, to project your own issues onto that blank space, kind of like how America did that all over Trayvon Martin’s dead body), which has seemingly inspired this novel, yields a low emotional payoff but not really. In fact, if EVEN THOUGH I DON’T MISS YOU is a notvel, its style is but not really.

Everything the narrator metaphorically touches becomes but not really.

Martin writes like Tao Lin could if he could more readily access his heart through his vagina.

Like the narrator agonizes for months about what to post to the lover’s facebook wall for their birthday.

The narrator writes, “I think I’m at a point in my life.”

So true. We are all always at a point in our lives.

The narrator makes excellent use of an often over-looked natural resource: self-depprecating humor. Self-depprecating humor shoots through the notvel, giving it the texture and flavor of cotton candy Spam. Despite this humor being mixed with deep shit, it is never too much. In order to manage pain, which the narrator frequently does, one needs humor in excess.


The narrator alludes to something shitty she did to her lover, which it seems has driven the lover away, and given her psychology, I got the feeling that it could’ve been something really itty bitty not to really worry about or maybe something that should make the reader hate her. That this sin goes left unsaid, kinda like the beloved’s gender, lets the reader project what this slight may have been and forces you to try to get the narrator and through getting her, maybe find a clue as to what she did, but not really,

It would be cool to read EVEN THOUGH I DON’T MISS YOU backwards.

The notvel closes with a but not really love song and more musings on love and more musings on love and more musings on love and the identity of the lover eclipses the beloved’s. Her narcicystic narration effaces the beloved in the same way that Cecilia Gimenez’ over attentiveness and BELIEF IN HER ABILITIES erased Jesus from the sanctuary wall in Borja, Spain’s.

EVEN THOUGH I DON’T MISS YOU is about a relationship but not really. It’s about the misfortune of being oneself. Says the narrator, “The main thing wrong with the world is that each person has to continue to be herself long long long long long long long long (I’m not sure if I got the right number of Justin Longs in there. Long Island) after it’s become completely unbearable.”

Any book that deploys the universal she is guaranteed at least 3 out of 5 stars from me and one of those stars is the sun, which the narrator describes as “haunting.” Ooh.

The mirror motif is extended by meta(mucily) phrases like “if we were both aware that we were both aware that we were both aware…”, reminding us of Aristotle’s theory that art goes deeper than mimesis. It’s metaphor and simile and shit like that (see, a simile).

Which leads me to the most sophisticated chunklet in the notvel. It combines the highest of the high and the lowest of the low in one, juicy scenario, bringing art into the crowning, or should I say enthroning, achievement of Western civ: the crapper:

Some of my friends have a hard time reconciling the fact that I read poetry on the toilet with the bathroom door open, but they don’t read the kind of poetry I read.”

Here is our most modern reflection, the reflection of ourselves through the H20 filling the pooper, a pool for any NarcissUS who wants to see what we are made of clearly. Chelsea Martin is just such a narcissus.

Shawna Elizabeth Interviews Carmella Suzanne Fleming

Carmella Fleming is a poet currently living in Berkeley California. She will be appearing this month at The RADAR Reading Series on August 27th at the San Francisco Public Library. I asked her a few questions about her work and she provided me with some real talk about bouffants, sestinas, and Gertrude Stein.

photo credit Elisa Shea

What is your name?
Carmella Suzanne Fleming

Where are you from?
I was born in Washington DC and I grew up mostly in rural Iowa.

Name three ways you self-identify:
Goth, gay, and cuckoo bananas.

How would you describe your writing style?
I describe my style as ironic, terse, dissonant, and at times sassy. This is true of my creative nonfiction. With my poetry I try to embrace language for the sake of language as well. My writing is often high-pitched and childlike, but deals with adult themes.

What is your literary background and what have been some turning points in your development as a writer?
I basically have no literary background. I wasn’t raised reading much. I was a slow learner in school and my reading skills were not so great until I was older. My high school also had little requirements for English and so I am not “well-read.” I didn’t start writing creatively until about 4 years ago. As of late I’ve been cultivating a background in women’s and queer literature, and postmodern poetry of the U.S. mostly.

One turning point for me in my writing was taking a poetry workshop a couple of years ago with Ali Liebegott. That was my first poetry class, and it got the sparks flying for poetry. I wrote my first Sestina with Ali!

The biggest turning point for me as writer occurred last spring when I attended a queer writer’s retreat called MADCAP. I was camping in the middle of four-day rainstorm in rural Tennessee, reading and writing in an old barn with forty queer writers, none of whom I had met before. It was powerful. The experience was too big to represent here.

What is the writing community like where you live now?
It’s just so great. I have been well supported. I feel like I have three writing communities. First, I have all those queer and/or weird writers hanging out in the Bay Area, like the organizers of the Oakland reading series, Manifest, and the RADAR folks. I’m always forming new writing groups with strange people in the area.

Then I have my graduate community at San Francisco State University. They are an excellent group of people. Graduate writing programs have a bad reputation, for being too cutthroat, unsupportive, and homogenizing, but I’ve found the opposite. Workshop is a blast! My voice and individuality are cultivated there.

Finally, Sharon Coleman, a local poet, professor at Berkeley City College, and curator of the reading series Lyrics and Dirges, was crucial in my development as a poet and provided community for me. Her students have been of great support and inspiration at readings and in critique groups.

Who is your favorite literary hero or heroine?
Gertrude Stein. Her writing has been a huge influence on my style. I have a deep appreciation for my forequeers. In a literature class I recently wrote a paper on Gertrude Stein, Alice B. Toklas, and Butch/Femme Eroticism in Tender Buttons. It was great fun. I like to think about Gertrude Stein, a lot. Asking what would Gertrude do can really get me out of a rut or bout of insecurity. She was bold. I like that.

Who are some contemporary writers or artists that inspire you?
My biggest inspiration has been Jamaica Kincaid. I read Annie John in high school and it blew my mind. Now I read At the Bottom of the River on a semi-regular basis. Kincaid gave me permission to be brief, direct, and terse. I admire the ways in which she explores experiences of childhood. She has a keen ability to expose power dynamics in her writing through very subtle methods. These are things I try to accomplish in my writing.

I am interested in writers that use history, archive, and found materials in their writing, like Frank Bidart. His use of letters and medical documents inspires me. The poem “Ellen West” is one of my favorites. I enjoy a good historical document, real or imagined.

My friend Caitlin Rose Sweet is a visual artist who inspires me. Caitlin does craft and textile work and she deals with some of the same themes that I do. We both like to question what is high and low art, and Caitlin fiercely identifies as a queer artist. A lot of queer artists and writers are hesitant to be labeled as a “queer artist,” but I, like Caitlin, am very proud to claim that title.

Then there’s Woody Allen…I could go on and on, but I’ll stop.

What are the biggest influences on your poetry and why?
I think my not being “well-read” or raised with a lot of literature gives me a fresh and nuanced perspective.

Comedies such as Anchorman and Zoolander influence me, however strange that might sound. Humor is important to me in my writing, and the ways in which those folks use language are so new and creative. In Anchorman, for example, when Ron Burgundy says that he will “get married on a mountain top with garlands of fresh herbs,” he takes a cliché and kind of explodes it.

What are some recurring themes that haunt your work?
Queerness, lesbianism, childhood, depression, time (I am obsessed with time), sex, disappointment and irony, and love.

Where does your work appear?
My work appears in, Milvia Street, Faggot Dinosaur, and the forthcoming Vincent Van Go-Gogh. I also have three self-published chapbooks, one of which is a collaboration with the photographer Elisa Shea. The chapbook, “We Just Got Here” features her photography alongside my poetry.

Tell me about “Let’s Be Loose and Relaxed”…

Let’s be Loose and Relaxed is a reading series that I started with my friends Lucien Sagastume and Elan Dia. We wanted to showcase queer writers. I personally wanted to focus heavily on poetry. It’s a laid back environment, hence the title. It also at times has turned into a dance party. The next reading will be in September.

What is the secret to big hair (Like the bouffant you are wearing here? )

A bottle of hairspray, a comb, and some positive self-talk.

What are some upcoming plans, projects, ideas, or events that you are excited about?

I am excited to read at the RADAR reading series with Dodie Bellamy, Alejandro Murguia, and Stephen Boyer. I am a student of Dodie’s, and I met Stephen at MADCAP. I couldn’t have picked a more exciting group of people to read with.

I’m looking forward to Dodie Bellamy’s new book, Cunt Norton to come out. It’s a follow up to Cunt Ups, but in this case she cuts up the Norton Anthology of Poetry with pornographic material. That’s quite a radical project. I love it.

I am working on a manuscript right now. It examines mental illness from what I hope is an odd perspective. It’s humorous. It features a lot of archival materials that I am so into right now. I’m having fun playing with psychiatric medical documents, getting my kicks where I can.


Shawna Elizabeth is a PhD Candidate specializing in Queer Theory. Some of her writing can be found online at and she has also been a Guest Blogger for Ironing Board Collective-
She is originally from Canada.

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