Much Thai i.

I wonder if people who work in airport security hunger for dangerous objects. Not just the too-big bottle of lotion (!) or the nail clippers but something really… substantial. Something that makes them say fuck yea! I told you all this hassle is WORTH IT.

The knife that I speak of.

“Can you please step over here?” I’m pulled to the side as we get through the security at Munich airport on our way to Bangkok. The security woman looks at me with concern, but I’m not concerned.  I packed carefully. There are no illicit bottles of shampoo, forgotten half-drunk bottles of water, or even bottles of ink, in my bag. Not this time. Nothing dangerous, or embarrassing (I recall briefly about six years ago when I had no choice but to unload volume after volume of dirty comics. “What is this?” The security officer presiding cracked one open and I smiled nervously. “Tentacle pornography. It’s for research purposes.” He thumbed through one book with equal titillation and disgust (strictly for security purposes, you understand), then helped me pack the 20+ volumes back into my bag. Sure, there was that, but that was the old me. The foolish me. This is the new and improved recipe.)

“Dude,” J puts his hand on my shoulder, sighs deeply. “Don’t tell me you forgot your sushi knife in your bag.”

Another security guard joins his colleague, they pull that beaut out of my backpack’s secret laptop compartment, like triumphant fishermen lifting a fighting sturgeon from the sea. A blade a good foot long, about 1.5 inches deep–wooden scabbard and everything. The man-guard takes the scabbard “Japanese, right?” He asks with a little hush. He’s pulled the blade out about two inches and is examining the etchings on the bottom. J looks pretty meefed–I think it’s kinda funny–Nazgul is using this opportunity to have the security woman run the beepy wand over him for the 17th time. The security guard finally abandons all decorum and lets the inner 14 year old boy out to run free. He pulls the blade out fully, brandishes it with glee at one of his other colleagues, : “I hit the mother-load man! It’s like, an echt katana, man!”

In the small security office to the side I contemplate that its good this didn’t happen on American soil. It would have probably cost us all a strip and cavity search, little baby and everything. The Germans just ask a few questions.

“Why do you have such a large knife in your carry-on backpack?”
“Uhm… I used to be a sushi chef and I was making sushi for a friend at their house a month ago and I put the knife in the secret compartment back then and later totally forgot about it?”

The story is so ridiculous, it has to be true. We’re allowed to stow the knife in our checked bags and proceed to boarding…

J fuming:  “How could you forget you had that huge KNIFE in your bag?
Me: Oh come on. It was funny. We made those people’s mornings. Probably their day. Did you see how happy that guy was to finally find something that was actually dangerous? You could tell he could barely keep himself from waving the knife at the other guards.
J: He DID wave it at the other guards…
Me: See? He loved it.

Do I imagine it, or does the Australian captain pronounce the city’s second syllable with a little more aplomb than necessary on the next leg?

“I’ll be your captain today and our flight to Bang-KOK will be approximately four and a half hours. Yes, we have very favorable tailwinds, meaning we’ll be arriving at Bang-KOK about thirty minutes earlier than anticipated… We do apologize for the delay here in Abu Dhabi and hope that…”


It’s pretty much accepted that it’s a bad idea to try to rekindle a relationship with an ex, but what about an ex friend? A friend you broke up with? Can you get back together with them?

This last month or two I’ve been trying to get back together with one of my closest friends and not making the best go of it. I just wish I could not be so intense ;__;

Now we got into a fight the other day, J + Nazgul + I are leaving for two weeks tomorrow, so I am sad that the fight has not been resolved. It is one of those where you avoid the person, because you really don’t know what to say. You avoid, and draw sores, eyes and slabs of meat instead….

On the back of an art block: The more nervous I am, the more meat and eyes I draw….

The operation was a success. (oil pastel on the back of a sketch block)

Tomorrow we’re packing the last of it and day after tomorrow, I’m getting on a one million hour flight with a toddler. Man, am I going to enjoy getting on that plane, with everyone staring at me eyes glassy with fear, and the whole aircraft pulsing with a soft monotone chant of please not by me please not by me please not by me person with baby please not by me >____>

If you never hear from me again, they probably flung us out of the escape hatch somewhere over Abu Dhabi. In that case, it was nice to know you guys!!


It’s Not about the Cookies

Allies are kind of a hot-button topic these days.

A lot of people chomping at the bit about Macklemore… there was that Brit douche-canoe Pietr Cantreacallhisnamenow who was ranting about cisphobia…. People are angry. J and I were talking about it today. What is the value of awareness and spreading awareness? Why, J was basically asking, are people in special groups so angry at allies when they are trying to spread awareness and do good?

I told J, I think spreading awareness is always positive. The problem is 1. when information regards a group is accepted more from someone who actually has no idea what it is like to be in that group of people (ie, will never be in a position of loss because of who they are) 2. when people spread awareness or ally with a group for the wrong reasons.

Too many people are in it for the cookies, and its not about the emotional yumyums.

That’s what it boils down to, right? At the end of the day, the white person will never be confronted with systematic racism; the straight person will never have a carton of milk thrown at them from a car while boys scream ‘fag!!!!’; the man will not have to worry about a woman raping him; the able-bodied person will be able to get around with ease.

In that sense, it’s easy to be an ally–we get to feel good for doing good and never actually suffer. It’s about that warm, fuzzy feeling–that feeling of ‘I am spreading this message even though it doesn’t personally affect me because I am NICE.”

As one person very eloquently put it (I am so sorry I can’t find the link to this quote, but I am quoting/paraphrasing someone): “Social justice is not an attitude. Social justice is not about being ‘nice’. After all, you can be nice to your slave. Social justice is about recognizing an imbalance in power and trying to rectify that.”

Either one believes inequality and discrimination is wrong, or one doesn’t. Either one wishes to examine how one benefits from their own social position and how this position is potentially harming others, or one doesn’t. Raising awareness is dandy, unfortunately, many people are inherently selfish and being aware of a problem is not enough. They WILL have to feel bad and GUILTY before they will actually relinquish some of their resources or allow a group an action they believe is their own exclusive right.

And yeah, people are angry, because they are tired of having to SMILE while they ask to be treated like fucking human beings.

“I totally believe we’re all created equal and that we’re all just humans bro, but you better make ME feel good while you deliver your message, because the moment you make me feel bad, I’m going to retreat to my socially superior position and denounce your cause. Because even though we’re talking about your special group, in the end, its still about me. Me, me, me. My feelings….”

Unfortunately, allies often are focused on how social justice movements make US feel, turning what can be literally life and death matters into feelings and emotional, social cookies, and it is not about the cookies nor you nor me, but the issue at hand.

Happy Lucky V-Day

When I was in high school, I had a teacher who used to come in, click his heels in the air and grip the teacher-podium thingie while he grinned out at us with a big goofy grin. He’d say: I am so lucky to be standing here in front of you, doing a job I love. I am a lucky man.

Back then, I used to think, what the fuuu is he smoking and where can I get some?

Now I know… he was just high off life, because that’s exactly how I feel these days!

Nobody really knows what shit St. Valentine went through to become martyred... for all we know, he was covered in boils.

Lucky boy, because the better I feel, the nastier my pictures get. Nobody really knows what shit St. Valentine went through to become martyred… for all we know, he was covered in boils.St. Valentine + Boils

I miss those candy hearts that said things like 'fax me.'

I miss those candy hearts that said things like ‘fax me’ and ‘u sux.’

J says I’m obsessed with ‘Die Antwoord.’ And I am, because their chaotic songs are exactly how I feel right now:

I’m an upper!
(Dwankies get popped like a sucker.)
Baka, Baka! Yippe-kai-ayy motherfucker,
I’m a big deal, yo crazy money get thrown at me,
Now I’m having so much fun dat I can’t even go 2 sleep….
(Fatty boom boom)

Ok, so neither insane (nor mad nor wrathful) sums are getting thrown at me, but I’m having so much fun, I literally can’t go to sleep, like, I lie in bed thinking until five every morning yippe-kai-ayy motherfucker! I feel like I’m filled head to toe with magical guts and sparkles and if you make the slightest nick all of that sparklegut is going to fall right out…

Because my publisher is reading my book (right now even maybe? Even as I write these words?!? Making the decision if he wants to publish it or not, but whether or not, that takes me one step closer to getting it out there and that makes me feel like—)

My bf got out of jail today!!

If J ever goes to jail and he comes out, I greet him like thisssss...

If J ever goes to jail and he comes out, we say hello like thissssss…

But anyway, I am so pumped and psyched I cannot sleep, because my publisher is reading my book, because my boils are looking grosser than anyone else’s and because J and I and Nazgul are flying to Thailand next week and… and… and…

Ok, I need to calm down. ~___~ Just wanted to wish y’all a happy V-day, whatever that means for you personally, be it Happy Valentine’s–or if you’re someone who’s like fuck Valentine’s Day, long and fuck it hard, I wish you… a Happy Vagina, Happy Vas Deferens–Happy Victory Day!

Yay cuddling, yay!!

Happy Vector Day. I hope you spend it with someone nice.

<3 <3 <3

In Praise of Light and Shadows

‘Sandman’ author Neil Gaiman once said something to the effect of: You know you’re writing something good when it’s cutting too close. When you feel like you’re bleeding something too personal.

“I want you to explain this to me so that I will understand it.”

I’m sorry, but I cannot do that. Because I am not you and you are not me. I can’t make you understand it.

“If you can’t tell me why, then your motivations must not be stable. You need to see a psychologist and have them explain it to you.”

No, it just means that I can’t tell YOU in a way that it makes sense to YOU. It makes sense to me, without explanation. It’s natural to me.

Like some humans gravitate towards love, religion, or death….

But unlike love, or death, or religion, or an experience I’ve read about, saw on TV or movies, or seen through the prisms of my friends and family many many times, I’ve seen trans-ness through the prism of only a few people. I do not have this long narrative to go back on. When I try to describe it to you, I find myself becoming lazy. Using words that I’ve been TAUGHT to understand how I feel.

“You’re trapped in the wrong body.”

“You’re becoming someone else.”

“You’re escaping.”

“This is another you.”

No. No. No.

I am not doing these things.

I’m standing in a room. There’s a spotlight in it and in the spotlight, I live my life. I think this spotlight and what it illuminates is what and who I am. Then one day, a limb moves outside of the circle of light. I bump into something that is just beyond the umbra. There is something in the dark. There is a lot of shit in the dark, actually. This room is a lot bigger than I thought. The spotlight starts to fade and give way to more general, consistent light, I am starting to see the room like it really is and all the things in it. Were those things always there? Did they get put there at some time in my life? …does it matter? They are there now. I see them now and I have to deal with them. I can’t live in the little circle anymore, now that I’m aware that I have this big room.

I’m sorry if that makes you uncomfortable or if you don’t understand that?

“I don’t remember you feeling like this before. You didn’t have this issue before.”

Yes. You are right.

I didn’t always. I didn’t always know there was more. I thought the spotlight and what I could see under it was all that I had. But there IS more. And if I think about it, I’d been bumping into that shit all the time…. I had bruises and cuts that I didn’t know where they came from.

“You hate your body. You hate yourself.”

“I hate my body. I hate myself.”

I parrot you, because maybe if I say I hate myself, if I put it into this accepted context and framework, you will feel pity for me and accept that I must do this. You will say ‘well, if it’s THAT BAD, then please do what you like!’

What I want to say though is that I do not hate myself or my body. What I see though and what I am is not what you see. I want to change that. I want you to know who I am. I want you to talk to not 40 or 50 or 70 % of me, knowing all the time that you are only addressing a part. I want you to know that there is more.

Not someone ‘different’, not someone ‘else.’

Just someone MORE.

“You weren’t always like this.”

Yes. Like me, you saw only what was under the light.
Now I’m letting the whole room get light.

I don’t do this to upset you.
I don’t do this to get attention (You know I never did have a problem getting attention :*)

I do this because I think(?) you want to know not who you think I am, but who I am.

Am I wrong?

[Important edit: Should a trans person ever come across this and read it and think 'but I DO feel trapped in the wrong body/hate my body!' I just want to say I believe that is obviously a completely valid feeling. I just want to move away from the idea that self-hatred is NECESSARY for people to accept your decisions to live openly trans... (though of course discomfort ranging to hatred is a common problem.) I do hate myself at times, but I know how to love myself too, you know? And I hope people can get to the loving themselves stage and finding acceptance not only because people pity them, but because they see this is good for them.]

Ironic Shibboleth

Or The Irony Misuse Lexicon

“Shibboleth” is one of those words that keep popping up in my life. Each time I see it, I think, oh damn. Not you again. What did you mean?? I don’t like these words that make me feel stupid. Lately, J and I have been having these long creamy conversations and we were talking about shibboleth and that segued into other words and word usage in general, finally coming to a stop on….

Everyone sing along now… “It’s like ra—a–in on your wedDIN’ daaaay!”

More than a good decade has passed since the Alanis Morisette song that should’ve really been called ‘Song About Random Things that Are Rather Unfortuante’,  but have you moofs noticed too? Or am I just being paranoid?

Does anyone agree that the word ‘ironic’ has been completely hijacked of late?

I’ll agree that the word even in its original usage, is rather nuanced. Broadly, I would say that something ‘ironic’ is something that happens counter to expectation in a rather dramatic way.

So, Bob turning left when you thought he would turn right is NOT ironic–but Bob dying in a plane crash after he finally overcomes his fear of flying and gets on a plane for the first time in his life in his 50s–yeah, that, out of many of Alanis’  lyrics, was actually pretty ironic.

In that way, sarcasm can be ironic–

Girl: So how big was Pierre?
Girl2 *eye roll* Oh, he was hung like a baguette!
(Pierre was actually hung like a gerbil’s cornichon…)

Though much sarcasm is actually not.
And some purists would argue that Bob would have to die from a PLANE CRASH for it to be truly ironic, and not just say, en route to the airport.

So while we can quibble if getting trampled to death by an elephant on the tarmac instead of the plane he feared his whole life is ironic or not (actually, I think it would be pretty ironic that an elephant killed him at the airport after all that fear of planes, oh whatever), it seems that some fairly large counter-to-expectation element is necessary for irony to ensue. A dash of drama.

So what the floating dead manatee is all this other usage I’ve come across lately??


‘Hey, ‘moar’ is the IRONIC spelling of ‘more’ on the Internet, you idiot.’ (The WHAT spelling?)

‘I started using stupid slang to be ironic and now I legit can’t stop saying craycray.’

Person utters an offensive slur.
Person is called out and then claims he was being ‘ironic’. (?__?)

The strange link that has cropped up between the words ‘hipster’ and ‘ironic’ in general.

Since we’ve entered the 2010s, irony has been diluted thin enough to cover any number of concepts:

-being facetious.
doing/saying something stupid/silly with the full knowledge that it is stupid and silly.  Incidentally, 99% of times when someone is describing some hipster activity/action/saying with the term ‘ironic’, I believe they are really talking about the term ‘facetious’…. I take that back, I feel like 95% of the time people use ‘ironic’ in ANY context today, they are actually really talking about being facetious.

-being smug
Walking/dressing with an air of superiority and sense of knowing more than the peasants who surround you. Again, I think this stems from this mysterious link between the words ‘hipster’ and ‘ironic’.

-being obnoxious/offensive
People who say things they know to be blatantly offensive, only to pull the ‘can’t catch me, I was being ironic’ meatblanket over themselves when called out. No, actually. Ditto on people who think they are too enlightened to be politically correct. Using slurs, making rape jokes etc. with the full knowledge of how harmful they are is not being ‘ironic’, it is being an entitled ocean of come.]

[Side 1: Is 'cum' the official or ahaha 'ironic' spelling of the word 'come'??? Because like...I just cannot bring myself to write c-u-m. It looks so gross! So ocean of come these offensive people remain.]

[Sidebar 2: Irony-ception. We go one layer deeper. People who confuse being offensive with being satirical with being ironic. Satire being that intelligent humor that pokes fun at an institution or established system--making fun of those ALREADY disenfranchised or being unabashedly offensive is NOT satire!! Being politically incorrect is not satire!!]

-being sarcastic (though, as outlined above sometimes it can fall under irony, a lot of sarcasm is not).

-being fluffy (Hey, have you felt this puppy’s fur, omg, her fur is so ironic!) noooo, please stop. Puppies are not ironic, and neither are hats, shirts with snarky sayings on them–clothes are not ironic!!

-shibboleth (is a word people in a group use to identify secret members, kind of like a verbal secret handshake and has nothing to do with irony at all.)

-Tacos are tasty.

No, I’m not being ironic, but this post kind of fell apart, maybe because I drifted away on an ocean of come, but if you’ve got any examples with which to enrich my irony misuse lexicon, feel free to leave it in a comment!

Happy weekend, people ^^

Stendhal Syndrome II

So I go to art class tonight, get there two minutes late, which means the bitch seat is the only seat left open–this is the seat directly in front of the model.

Am I thinking, oh fuck yeh, I getta sit two meters away from a nekkid lady awesommmmm?



Me when I see I have to sit directly in front of the model. Because that means a lot of crappy boring head-on poses and/or poop foreshortening. And naked people are whatever. Naked people.

I get my shit out, grumbling and harumphing… then the model walks in.

I’m a positive person. It doesn’t matter WHAT the model looks like, I will find the beautiful feature in them and I will focus on it and draw it out, pun kind of intended. So what’s a person like me to do when EVERY DETAIL of the model is beautiful? Beauty overload.
Stendhal Syndrome II.

Ponytail like a platinum waterfall, black eyes dark eyebrows  (dark eyed blond people KILL me) balletic neck, fragile shoulders, big thighs, skin the color of the snowfall we never got this year, EXACTLY the nose I like, tiny hands, big feet and enormous…. tracts of land.

art model 2

Tonight’s model five min sketch — no, this is really exactly what she looked like. O__O


Me when I see the model.

Me: I have to draw you. I have to draw YOU? B-b-b-b-b-but, you’re someone I would want to draw anyway–if I saw you on the train, I would have all these fantasies about drawing you, or sketching you, and now you’re here, right in front of me and you’re n-n-n-nakedd-d-d-d-d-d-d-ddddd…. is this okay? Like… is this really happening? Ok, I should probably actually DO IT and not just talk to myself while you sit here….

I drop my pencil for the sixth time and start–lucky, I draw fast and the first pose is done. I think, good, I’ve got the jimmies out, now I can focus. The teacher asks the model to switch for the next pose, which will be longer.  I’m one and a half meter in front of this woman and she sits down in front of me on a raised dais exactly like this:


As you can see, they’ve turned the heat up considerably.

I’m sad because I made her look not as nice as she did in real life. In real life, her lower body was larger than I managed to draw it–but if you’ll forgive me, I was sitting 1.5 meters in front of an insanely gorgeous naked sweating person, so my concentration might have been somewhat impared.
‘This pose will be half an hour!” art teacher announces.


Me when I hear art teacher announce pose will be half an hour.

All kinds of questions arise, ahem.

Do I go into detail?

Do I draw the nipples? (I hate nipples.)

Do I draw… the sweat?
Do I draw…

do I

Hell yeah I’m gonna draw the sweat and labia!

Because I’ve been going to figure drawing class for years and who knows if the girl from the tentacle comics will ever come pose for us again?!

Three nose bleeds and 20 pencil drops later, my art teacher comes around, and I hide my drawing so he doesn’t think I’m a stupendous pervert. Why would he think that, when I am drawing EXACTLY who is there, with no embellishments? Because (my teacher included) everyone in my class draws in that … hmm… for lack of a better term, I’ll call it the ‘Durer style’, a style which manages to make even the hottest people look kinda ugly. Case in point, guy next to me, who has drawn the same exact hot girl, in the same exact hot pose, has managed to make her look like this:

durer baby

So the art teacher will not think upon seeing the drawing that he is lusting after her, though he probably is, that wanker.

And W will read this blog entry and he’ll laugh at me tomorrow, like he laughs every time I tell him about some girl I’m crushing bad on in my art class, except no girl has ever been as perfect as this one. <3 He’ll say ‘why didn’t you get her phone number?’

Oh YEAH, because THAT’S going to work?!?

‘Hey, heya, so you probably DO remember me, ’cause I was sighing, bleeding and dropping pencils directly in front of you all night and yeah, so even though I bet you could reduce any man, woman, child, plant, mineral, vegetable, syllable, killable on our glorious planet Earth to tears of bitter lust, do you want to give me your number anyway?

For reasons?’


Call me!