Monthly Archives: May 2011

Strange Dayz

Deaths:  Last night. One in the Morning. J was congregating; Fail was sleeping; I was writing. (–) was dreaming about tittays. All is silence when I hear some noise outside that sounds like teenagers in heat caterwauling–I figured, just another drunken carouse. Then Fail runs down in his nighties looking a little pale.
-Someone just jumped out of the window.
-Didn’t you hear the thud?, he asks.
-I heard…something. I thought it was drunk assholes.
-No, it’s a guy. I looked out the window and he’s lying on the pavement, disfigured and moaning. The police are here.
Yeah so, it looks like some Italian mofo living in the unit next to us wanted to end it all, so he tossed himself out the window (or off their balcony, not sure) in his underwear of all things. Tighty Whities, if my spies are correct. And failed to die. Talk about ending things with the utmost dignity.

Art: Stroke happened this weekend and it was awesome–other than the shitty weather of Friday, Sat and Sun were really nice and Paintblotch and I spent the whole days painting our hearts out. There were a lot of really great artists  painting and spraying some really cool stuff; the event was definitely humbling–oh, and did I mention acrylic is NOT the medium for painting in heat? hahaha. But it was still a blast! Just painting in the sun; taking a break to walk around and look at other people’s stuff; taking a break to chat with an artist or have someone chat with you.

Bull: Breakfast with my ma-in-law on Sunday. So, she only has like ten million opportunities to be alone with her son and give it to him then, but she waits for the one and only time I’m alone with her for like ten seconds and sidles up to me with an envelope pulsing with cash. She presses it into my hand, imploring that we ‘buy some nice clothes [for her upcoming birthday party].’ I am to buy a white dress that will make people ‘think I am a good/nice/pretty wife.’ Underlying plea: Please, please, please don’t come to my party with my stuck-up friends in my stuck up house, looking like a whorebucket. I’ve got a baby in one hand and an envelope of cash in another. What am I supposed to do? So I thanked her blandly and pointedly put the envelope down on the table. When we leave the house about 15 min later, she runs out into the hall, waving the envelope.
-Don’t forget the money!
I’m thinking, fuck, aren’t you Japanese? Aren’t you supposed to get subtle?
So I give her a blank, cold stare, take the envelope and pass it directly to J. It’s like–lady, I’m not your son. Can you not give me random money? If you want to give us money, give it to HIM. But of course, then she doesn’t have the satisfaction of making him uncomfortable. and whining later that I did not grovel in thanks the appropriate amount of times. And since when do people have a dress code for a party at their own house? It’s like.. sure. It’s fine to say, please wear something formal; it will be a formal event. But giving me money to buy the dress in the color she wants? This isn’t a WEDDING!  Goddamn it. I swear the next time, I’m going to have a dress code for when she comes over to OUR house. ‘Please wear a t-shirt with a band on it and a pair of jeans with at least one hole. I don’t like spiesses in my house.’

Hate levels rising. Then again, it’s too sunny to hate.
Enjoy the beginning of summer, all!



Oh My Fucking God.

Oh my god.
I just did it.
The ink is drying.
I just signed it, right now.
I can’t believe it.
My contract.
I’m scanning it back in.
Quick, before they change their mind.

I’m going to be published.

The Gays Are White as Snow.

The gays are hard as rock.
The gays are always good.
Give me the gays!!!

At the 2009 MTV Video Music Awards, when making her thank you speech for her two gazillion awards, Lady Gaga thanked ‘God and the gays.’

Woman knew what she was talking about.
The gays are awesome.

So, a while back, I had finished this graphic novel (I HATE calling it a graphic novel; that sounds so… pretentious! Whatever. A looooong comic book; a SKETCH novel (is actually what I call it privately) and I began to have fantasies about publishing it.

Let me go back first to what a jihad drawing this damn thing was. I drew it TWICE, if I dare admit that in a public forum, because the first time I drew it, it was too… STIFF, and I was trying too much to get the drawing to support the writing, when… I just can’t draw as well as I can write. So I looked at it and I looked at it, trying to figure out what was wrong and I realized… I had to make the pics a lot more loose. I had forced the thing too much and you could tell.

Back to the drawing board, haha. One year later, I had redrawn the whole shebang, made myself the laughingstock of everyone I knew (are you STILL working on the graphic novel, moof?) as well as the laughingstock of ME, but then it was finally done, right before (–) was born, and while my OCD screams out to me at virtually every page, it’s an end result that I can live with. In fact, in it’s own sucky little way, I think it’s kind of cool. I began to imagine some people might even ENJOY reading it. So I started to hunt around for a publisher and ten rejections later I thought…

Wait a sec. Moof, what are you doing?
You can’t wait for a normal agent to pick this up.
Your comic is way too gay.
It’s gayer than the Colonel on a Christmas morning.

The funniest thing is, it’s probably too gay for mainstream and too
main for gaystream, but it definitely reflects my aesthetic–a plea for a perfectly
homo-flexible world. So I went to a list of GLBT (gay/les/bi/trans) publishers and tried my luck there. I wrote about that yesterday. A wonderful and no-doubt sexy man responded to me!!!! He wanted to a see a sample!

A flash of extreme happiness, but Oh, now the agonies started.  Specifically, he asked that I send him sample ‘panels’. Panels?! I gnashed my teeth! I didn’t have ‘panels’… who did he think I was, Frank fucking Miller?! This isn’t a ‘graphic novel’… I KNOW what a graphic novel is; I’d seen them on the internet in a fit of masochism; they are beautifully drawn creations of art with words twittering here and there—the people who draw them create things like ‘concept art’ with their carefully crafted characters making every face in the kaleidoscope of human expressions… Does he want ‘panels’? ‘Concept art’? Oh god, I thought, I’m fucked! Should I send him what I considered the very coolest pictures (all like three of them >:P) from the entire 215 pages and hope I could fool him into reading more? No, I settled on sending the first five pages. Best be honest and get the rejection over with.

‘Your email has been sent. Undo?’
I hovered my mouse over ‘undo’ for one moment, then let it be….

Thrashed around in a night of agony thinking… I SHOULD have just sent the best pictures. Now I blew even my tiniest chance. I blew it. I blew it. I blew….

And then… This afternoon. Right as I was about to go to Willi’s for another session with chewed up nipples: I get an email. Saying he LIKED the first few pages. And the magic words that all us little writers tremble to hear, but that this little worm of a writer, until now, had never heard before!

‘Please send me the entire book.’

Oh joys! Oh ecstacies! Oh happinesses!
Oh god, thank you! And gay presses–thank you too! <3

Busy People

Some Nudes to Calm the Soul

Agents are busy.
Really fucking busy.
So busy, they don’t have time to reject you. No news means ‘no, you bastard!’

Publishers are busy.
Really fucking busy.
So busy, they don’t have time to talk to you, unless you have an agent.

See the vicious circle?

It’s not their fault. It’s just that they get so much crap they have to wade through,
they cannot reject the crap you’ve added to their insurmountable pile of poopoo in any personal fashion.

But one publisher has responded. Bless his heart!
He has asked me to send him…. stuff!
If I get rejected, it will be personal! And I wanted to record
this happiness, before I get the letter back saying ‘no, this is not what we were expecting, this is not what we were looking for.’

Stroke in two days. WTF am I going to draw on a two meter by two meter space?? With people looking over my shoulder?  AGHGHGHG!

Anyway, good night my moofies. Wish me luck with the publisher.
Wish me luck, so I don’t have to die unpublished, like Oscar Wao, in an unnamed
Dominican cane field.

This ball of neuroses is going to bed.

Jar of Hearts

Do you identify with the hero of the books you read? Do you feel a tug in your breast when the parallels slide into your own life, like a greased sack of strawberry ice cream sliding into your bedroom?  I know i do!

I am a hopeless identifier. You know, this ego of mine, it’s gotta find me everywhere. I read books and I think: You’re my long-lost friend/brother/lover/sister/dinner. You’re me. I was reading “The Brief, Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” this last month. Great book. Great book?? Fucking sick book. Prose so sick it makes you sick. That man can WRITE. Junot Diaz may not be able to fry an egg to save his life, he probably is not the guy you want to have around when you get attacked by a rabid ibex, but he can write some motherfucking good prose, so good you see, I have to cinch it with an image of maternal fornication to make sense of it all.

Not only is the writing delicious, the main character I could really identify with. Okay sure, he is a fat Dominican over-nerd and I am a skinny Hungarian technophobe–he wants to become the Dominican Tolkien, and I want to become the Hungarian Bruce Benderson. We’re not the same person–but fat, nerdy-ass Oscar has inspired me to try to sell my writing again. Or at least to get published.

He never got published. He never gave up though. Not until the (spoiler!) day they beat him to death in a Dominican cane field for macking on a police honcho’s bird.

…you know how many things in my life I’ve done because I’ve read it in a book and it seemed like a shit-yeah idea? A LOT. So now I think: Oscar didn’t give up. I’m not going to give up.

Even though trying to publish your writing is super masochistic.
I’m remembering the time i hooked a car-battery up to my nipples. Why do I remember that? Because the pain is equatable?  But writing a query letter is worse than that. Car batteries bruise your nipples, but query letters tear a hole right in your shivering, pussy-ass little writer’s HEART. It feels like this:

What Writing a Query Letter to an Agent Feels Like

You are the whore of whores. The attention whore of attention whores. Look at me, look at me, look at me! Your letter has to beg. Buy me, buy me, buy me! ‘Begging for that dirty, fat-ass dollar.’ To quote Tool. Gaaahghghgh. It’s awful.

No more whining though. Be strong, dammit!
And go to bed, it’s so late!

(But ‘Oscar Wao’ really was an exquisite book. The hype was real. You think you know where it’s going too, and then Diaz is like, fuck you dead, you’ve got no CLUE where this is going. And he’s right. BTW, if you don’t know Bruce Benderson yet… he is so good. The man is a god. I want to be a beautiful, intelligent little gay-boy just so I can lurk outside his apartment in New York while he comes down to get his daily…whatever it is that he eats, and bat eyes at him until he notices me… invites me upstairs and I make him coffee and… sigh.
I’ll have to write a post dedicated solely to him.)

Anyway, goodnight, moofies!! ^-^b zzzzz time

The World Needs…

…beautiful men more than anything else!!

And Elizabeth Peyton gets that, which is why I like her work. Check it out!

In the meantime, yesterday…. to commemorate crossing over to the dark side, I was gifted with a box of acrylics by J. Wee! Paintblotch and I will be participating in the Munich Stroke Art Fair at the end of the month, and it occurred to me a few days ago that I may have to PAINT something there.

And since I don’t really…. DO paint….

I thought I’d practice in my sketchbook. Ja~~~n!

the boys are in the bathroom, kissing in the d-a-r-k, d-a-r-k, d-a-r-k, dark dark dark!!!!

It’s kind of amazing, how many colors you can make with just two colors and white… That’s what the internet told me to do, anyway. It said ‘don’t use too many colors at once, or you’ll fuck it up’. But damn, acrylics dry fast. I guess there are all these special magic sprinkles you can mix in them to make them dry slower or make them do groovy things like fetch you hot toast, but that’s for another day.

Now I need my bed. Left tonsil swollen like a mofo. Hope your tonsils are doing better!


Happy Mother’s Day, peoples! =)

A power nap with Thomas Mann.

So. It was (–)’s fifth week birthday yesterday.
Five weeks with him! Gone already.
I am just now getting to the point where I feel… somewhat confident about
what I’m doing with him. I won’t regal you with diaper changing stories or feeding fiascos…

But man. Like I was telling J in the u-bahn yesterday as we were barreling towards a beer-garden with pram, in the hope of catching a glimpse of  some friends:

You know… I thought taking care of a little baby would be more like taking care of a really involved… dog. But it’s not like that at all.

He stared at me. “Uh…. you should write a blog entry about that. ‘I thought taking care of a baby would be like taking care of a dog…and I was wrong.’ “

So here I am. I suppose you can never quite prepare yourself for how much WORK it is. And it’s not HARD work, don’t get me wrong. Taking care of a little baby is not hard… it’s just much more boring than I would have imagined. You do a rotation of three activities constantly: feed, change and hold the little meatloaf. Maybe my body is not producing enough of the ‘I have a baby euphoria’ hormone that makes women not jump out the window from sheer boredom in the first few months??

I think… do I have to be the MOTHER? I want to be the FATHER. Being a father sounds kind of cool. You get to take care of the kid, but it’s not… your entire life for the first few months of existence. It’s just a part of your life. Oh, penis envy strikes at the oddest times!

But alas. I’m a girl. By default, the mom. And as the mom, sometimes you (and by you, I mean me) do feel like running away. Far. Far. Away. Like everything, it’s a mixed bag. I see (–) already outgrowing some of his clothes and it makes me sad. I wail: Look J, he doesn’t look like a little baby anymore! He looks like a little boy! He’s growing up! He’s leaving us!!!  J’s like… dude, he’s FIVE WEEKS OLD. Chill out!

Other times, I’m thinking: …what the hell was I thinking?!?

I’m used to being alone. Now, there is always someone there. Utterly dependent on me. It’s amazing to consider: This person knows nothing. Virtually nothing. No wonder he screams all the time: His body doesn’t even know how to digest yet. He can’t SEE shit, captain! He is learning everything right now!!!!

And I’m learning everything right now, too.

Lesson one: Uncertainty is not the same as resentment. Novelty fading is not the same as love fading. If you’re a new mom and not feeling fucking happy all the time–there is nothing wrong with that. You can love someone and not love the vomit they left on your pillow. It’s your RIGHT. But (and this is advice to myself…) do try to enjoy it. Ok, not the vomit, but the closeness, your kid’s need for you, these first helpless stages. Because for better or for worse, it’s going to be over fast.

Lesson Two: Taking care of a baby is not like taking care of a dog at all.

Starry, Starry Night

or Just Van Gogh for It

Starry, starry night.
Flaming flowers that brightly blaze,
Swirling clouds in violet haze,
Reflect in Vincent’s eyes of china blue.
Colors changing hue, morning field of amber grain,
Weathered faces lined in pain,
Are soothed beneath the artist’s loving hand.
-from don mcLean’s starry starry night…

Happy May, people =)  One month gone.

Where did it go? Where did your month go?

A whorl on the side of (--)'s head reminded me of my art hero's iconic painting.

Mine went to figuring out the subtle tricks to keep (–) alive. I think me and J are getting pretty good…. =) (My nipples disagree, but we’ll ignore their bloody cries for now.) All I can say is: I used to mock the idea of a lactation consultant. I mean, a breast-feeding consultant? Are you f-ing kidding me? What’s easier than putting your kid to your boob and having it eat?


I guess a lot of things, to be honest.

Lactation consultants and people who have seeked them out: My apologies, because it is NOT easy! (Or my kid’s dysfunctional >:P Or my nipples are dysfunctional >:P) Either way… breastfeeding… es ist keine Ponyhof. (German for: Shit hurts like a mofo!)

Counter-bonus: I think I’m secretly a baby-factory… I had a breezy pregnancy and now wake up in a puddle of my own breast milk regularly. I’m starting to consider selling this stuff. Online, some women call it the ‘white gold’… Complicated dances and intricate deals must be made with the devil for their milk to emerge. It’s got little to do with breast size, but the position of the stars in the sky.  And luck. ‘Oh yes,’ my mom’s best friend in Hungary says. ‘Look at these huge leather sacks! -here she tugs at her breasts dismissively- ‘You think any decent amount of milk ever came out of them? Bah! And then you see these skinny little bitches and milk’s running down all the way to their ____s!’

I’ve been one of those lucky bitches. No lambs sacrificed to the princess of Darkness, yet my tatas are twin ICBMs poised to feed a Vietnamese child army. Should I try to sell this? Should I do my good deed for the year and donate?

I’ll have to look into this…