Melissa Carter's Blog

Penn Fucking State

2011-11-14T06:32:00.000-08:00

I listen to the news each morning, not to be informed, not to learn, but to get insight into the collective self-deception we as a society perpetrate. So we have this college, this state college, we have this coach, this pedophile, and we have these ten year old boys and the deafening silence….OK, we have all that and we know the story.

Today I hear that the folks at Penn State are “coming to grips with this nightmare” and that the “healing has begun.” Before I laugh, I give the reporter a chance to explain exactly what ‘healing’ now occurs. They say it was the candlelight vigil that begins the healing. Wait, let me understand this; so a bunch of ten-year old boys were Sandusky’d in the bunghole, yes that’s right I hereby coin the new phrase for deep anal plugging, heretofore it will be known as Sandusky’d, like “then he shoved his big fat cock in my ass and Sandusky’d the shit outta me.” So, we have these children, deeply buggered in the a-hole, confused, uncertain, completely unaware of the trauma bestowed upon them, the shame, the anal bruising, the tearing of the tissue, the silence, the denial, and suddenly a Goddamn candlelight vigil begins the healing process? Well, fuck me in the ass, that’s an all-time low in my book.

See, this is what we do. We light a candle and say healing has begun, and then this so-called healing process is in full swing. They fire coaches, they detain and question…and later the Governor proclaims that while civil duties were fulfilled a so-called moral duty was missed? Please, the whole thing is immoral, and this effort on the part of public officials to make sense of it all, to gain some perspective and to shed light on our moral failings, is perhaps the most despicable and immoral act, even surpassing the sexual abuse itself. Look, this is the real world, boys get Sandusky’d all the time by grown men, it’s the way the world has been, the way it is and always will be. We are so pathetic as a culture we feel that by talking about it ad nausea, by holding CNN specials to highlight the details of the scandal, that this fucking media circus somehow constitutes healing?

I speak from experience, having been sexually abused repeatedly as a child. I didn’t ask what dick smells or tastes like at age nine. I didn’t ask to learn the ins and outs of fellatio at age ten and know the nuances that can make a grown man cum. No, I didn’t ask but I did it. And I learned well. And my innocence was stripped from me, too. But I carried on. Because that’s fucking life. I learned that lesson real fucking early. And then we speak of compassion. No one had compassion for me. And I didn’t ask for compassion. I swept that shit under the rug of my subconscious and I muthafuckin’ carried on. Baseball games and homework. Puberty and confusion. And still, there were these memories. No CNN special, no pink fucking ribbon is gonna fix that. It’s in me, deeply embedded in the grain of my cantankerous and angry soul. Because I’m a survivor. That’s what people do. We survive or we die. And I ain’t dying.

They speak of innocence. They say things like “these boys who were stripped of their innocence.” Wait, so are you saying that innocence is a tight sphincter? Is that what innocence is, Wolf Blitzer? Hold on, maybe we need to have a three –week monologue from that fat pig Nancy Grace, to highlight this stripping of the innocence? Maybe Dr. Sanjay Gupta needs to do a half-hour special on what exactly happens as the anal tissue is torn and scarred from a huge erect penis. Yes, because the healing process has begun, right? Shit, it must be happening, because we’re all lighting candles, right? Yeah, light your fucking candles assholes, all of you are assholes, we are all assholes, even me. I’m an asshole for writing this diatribe, and you’re all assholes for reading it. Yeah, innocence, yeah right. Like anyone knows what innocence is. Show me a ten year old boy on his knees sucking cock and I’ll show you innocence lost. Because I know that boy. That boy is me. And I don’t want any fucking sympathy. But I’ll take your money.

And now we hear that Ms. Lauder, who started the pink ribbon cause for breast cancer awareness, has died. And we laud the Lauder. As a hero. Jesus fucking Christ, there’s so many heroes these days, seems like the only regular people left alive are me and Jerry Sandusky. It’s like Vonnegut once said, “everyone wants to build, no one wants to do maintenance.” See, it’s all a big joke and the joke’s on us. And now here the truth: there are no heroes and pink ribbons won’t do a thing. Neither will the “Support Our Troops” ribbon decals we see on the backs of SUV’s. All this stuff, it’s all fluff. It’s filler. To mask the horrible reality we are completely uncivilized and indecent. And we can’t accept our inhumanity.

Consumerica

2011-11-06T10:06:00.000-08:00

It occurred to me, it wouldn't matter who occupied the White House, or who controlled the House or if my Governor is a Dem or Repub. Either way, my life is the same. I'm still broke, I'm still "persona non-grata" in most circles, I'm still only one step from calamity. What does that say about our country? That leadership is ineffectual?

Like, I see stories about people closing their big-bank accounts and moving their money to credit unions. As a political statement. That is a way to effect change, but still, the number of folks is small and inconsequential. An example how we are fragmented and disjointed as a people; unable to unite as one voice, or even three, it’s just a faint hum in the background. The “Occupiers” interest me, only I’m unsure exactly what they’re saying other than, “life is hard and getting harder.” But that’s okay, the mere fact they are out in the cold interests and encourages. If they proved anything, it’s that even when we semi-organizationally unite, we are still a fragmented population, driven by self-interest or in many cases pure survival. Any notion of a 60’s-style protest is unreachable. Not that the 60’s was a template to emulate, but as we look back surely we can all agree the anti-war protest, the civil rights movement, women’s rights, gay rights, all these causes were furthered by united action. Hell, they ended LBJ’s presidency. See, stuff like that, it’s outta hand.

Black Americans achieved their greatest stride in equality only after violent rioting. It wasn’t the Civil Rights Act, or even Martin Luther King’s call for non-violent disobedience. It was violence. It was whole neighborhoods lit up in flame. Only then did the government enact legislation, only then did the culture reach a level of sensitivity that made a real difference to the average black American. It took Watts to get to Roots. History is a good teacher. It tells us we need to fuck shit up to really change anything. It tells us that all people become drunk with power, money and influence attached to leadership. It tells us as soon as we fix “this” problem, there’s “that” problem. Which often is a result of having fixed “this” problem.”

Today it’s so hard to undo that which has been done. We rape and pillage the landscape for retail profit. No matter where we go, it’s all the same: there’s your Home Depot next to the Applebee’s next to Wal-Mart. Mitt Romney says corporations are people. Well, it’s not feeling very people-ly when I walk into Home Depot. We are on the precipice of a new battle, it’s consumer warfare. We are all just consumers in the eye of the monolith. Decisions are made in the carpeted beige meeting rooms of corporate America; on a Monday Bank of America decides to withdraw its debt card fees then on Wednesday the worker-bee consumers get the news. And inside our sub-divided vinyl-clad homes we have the nerve to complain we almost hit a deer.

I have this idea for a screenplay. A man pitches a tent in the parking lot of a major shopping center. He can live here indefinitely; buy food at the Target, Hefty bags at the Depot, he can even tap into the Wi-Fi on his laptop. We see him early morning, stroll into the Wal-Mart in bathrobe and slippers, a toothbrush and shampoo bottle in his hands. Hey look, 2-for-1 on Cheerios, he grabs that and proceeds to the washroom. Later a woman pulls up in her car and almost runs over his tent. Drunk from the night before, he stumbles out of the half-collapsed tent and the two engage in a shouting match. Of course with any love affair, this is often how it starts. Local law enforcement harass the man, many times requiring him to move his tent, so that eventually he’s moved near the dumpsters in an effort to get him to leave. Old Navy’s having a sale today. Our man takes advantage, he needs new flip-flops. Local residents protest the man’s presence, which often happens in society. Those that are different, those that play outside the rules, we want them gone. We can’t even recognize that in these people lay the only hope for change.

Photo: "Bait" 2006 by Melissa Carter

Bobby Fischer Against the World

2011-06-01T14:55:00.001-07:00

HBO has produced a one-hour documentary on a subject I know quite well, one Bobby Fischer. "Bobby Fischer Against the World" airs this Monday night at 9 pm on HBO. To somehow believe that the life, the mind, the world of Bobby Fischer could be packaged, condensed and disseminated for global consumption in one hour is laughable, but hey that’s HBO. No wait, that’s the world today; we are info junkies, in constant need of some reappraisal of the past. Just like “The King’s Speech” there is no minutia too small, no melodrama too flaccid for the media to resurrect and consume like the schlock from a fast food drive-thru. We will trivilaize everything and find a way to lessen its meaning.

Let me first say I am a deeply devoted Fischer fan, owning no less than a dozen books by and about Fischer. The man was absolutely brilliant, that is an understatement, and he was equally irrational if not maniacal. As a chess player he redefined the notion of the game, its popularity, its importance and relevance politically and to some extent socially. He was already a genius at 13 years old, regularly beating masters and grandmasters of the day. By the time he made headlines in 1972 by beating Boris Spassky for the World Championship title, he was 29 years old. But most believe he could have won the title much earlier, certainly in 1969 if he had chosen to play in the qualifying candidate’s matches. He withdrew from competition time and again throughout the 1960’s in protest of what he felt was unacceptable playing conditions. For this I only love him more. He was in fact, paving the road for future chess players and the rights and rewards they deserve. He also was fighting a monolithic giant called the Soviet Union that went to great lengths to thwart his rise to champion.

In the last thirty years of his life, Bobby Fischer was a well-acknowledged lunatic, not to mention an avowed anti-Semite, unhinged in the complete sense. He actually cheered, on public Philippine radio, the day of the Sept 11th attacks, the actions of Al-Qaeda terrorists and rubbed salt in the wound by stating that "America deserved it."

He was an absolute genius and well-deserved of the praise bestowed upon him as a young man. He single-handedly toppled Soviet Chess domination that existed for six decades. But it all changed by 1975. That is when we first saw a glimpse of his coming madness. He was also arrested in Pasadena, CA in the early eighties on suspicion of bank robbery. And later exonerated. He was a recluse, who finally emerged from the darkness in 1992, shouting hateful anti-Semitic and anti-Israeli remarks at press conference. He went on to only sour more deeply and in a more disturbed manner so that by September 111th, after his horrible public remarks, no one would defend him.

Fischer was in fact half Jewish, his mother was a Jew. His father abandoned the family early in his childhood. He grew up in Brooklyn, NY surrounded by Jewish people and that in my opinion is where his anti-Semitism began. Even as a young brilliant player, he was quoted making derogatory remarks about Jewish chess players. But those remarks were overlooked in light of his brilliant and unique play.

Fischer, I think, still owns the title, “greatest chess player of all time” in view of his individual style, his unrelenting drive for wins instead of draws, and his single-handed victory over a Soviet chess machine that time and again tried to trounce him. Many of the greatest Soviet players acknowledged in later years that during adjourned games they would get together and devise lines of play against Fischer so that Bobby was never really playing ONE grandmaster, he was playing them all for each and every qualifying event.

Fischer was a fugitive from the law up to the time of his death. Wanted by the U.S. Government for taking part in the 1992 Fischer-Spassky rematch in Yugoslavia, he defied a U.S. ban against Yogoslavia instituted by the first Bush administration. The ban was part of diplomatic and military action against "ethnic cleansing" in Bosnia and Herzegovina. His choice to take his chances as a wanted criminal facing ten years in prison paled in comparison to the 3.3 million dollars he was to receive by the promoter of the event. But the whole plan backfired when the promoter fled and never paid Fischer the full amount. Fischer did go on to win the match, and in typical Fischer style declared himself World Champion again, although by that time he was far from either a champion or even in his prime. He was left stranded from his home country, and forced to live as a vagabond. It was a typically Fischeresque predicament.

Fischer, by 2001, was a complete lunatic seething with hatred and rancor. It would have been sad to see, if it were not for the fact that he hated the two groups I am a part of, Jewish and American. So for that, he can go fuck himself.

Proof of his complete un-hingement can be seen in the quotes from the Filipino broadcast on September 12, 2001 regarding the WTC and Pentagon attacks:

"I applaud the act. Look nobody gets.. no one.. that the US and Israel have been slaughtering the Palestinians for years."He also said "All the crimes the US is committing all over the world ... This just shows, what goes around, that comes around even to the United States."After calling for U.S. President George W. Bush's death, Fischer then repeats this phrase, saying "I say death to President Bush! I say death to the United States! Fuck the United States! Fuck the Jews! [...] They are the worst liars and bastards. Now what goes around comes around. They're getting it back, finally. Praise God [...] This is a wonderful day. Fuck the United States. Cry, you crybabies! Whine, you bastards! Now your time is coming."Fischer also recalls the movie Seven Days in May and said he hopes for a military coup d'état in the US, "hoping [...] the country will be taken over by the military, they'll close down all the synagogues, arrest all the Jews, execute hundreds of thousands of Jewish ringleaders, and you know, apologize to the Arabs, kill off all the Jews over there in the bandit state, you know, of Israel. I'm hoping for a totally new world."

To further illustrate how rabidly anti-American he was, Fischer drafted a letter to Osama bin Laden, which began:

Dear Mr. Osama bin Laden allow me to introduce myself. I am Bobby Fischer, the World Chess Champion. First of all you should know that I share your hatred of the murderous bandit state of "Israel" and its chief backer the Jew-controlled U.S.A. also know [sic] as the "Jewnited States" or "Israel West." We also have something else in common: We are both fugitives from the U.S. "justice" system.

Look, no one is denying how great Fischer was as a chess player. Absolutely remarkable. The very conditions and terms Fischer demanded for his 1975 match with Karpov would eventually be implemented in future championship matches. Ironically, he never reaped the fruits of world class chess like future champions Karpov, Kasparov and the current milieu of great chess players. And even in 1972, when he had the chance to endorse numerous products and make millions in promotions, he never did. Once again, another Fischer mystery.

But it's hard to feel empathy for a man that, if he could have his way, would kill me. Hence, my mixed feelings for the man. He died in 2008 a worthless and unloved human being and erased by his own doing the very greatness he created.

ReagaNASA

2011-02-16T13:31:00.000-08:00

Failure is not an option. That overused, nauseating, invariably misapplied phrase originates with NASA. It's their pride and testament referencing numerous near-disasters that occurred with almost every manned space flight. That accounts for the near-disasters. Let's talk about the disasters. Do you think Christa McAuliffe's family feels failure is not an option? They correctly do not. Failure wasn't an option, it was a result. A result of carelessness and political pressure. There's a lot of politics behind NASA. It's really, if you think about it, a fucked up archaic agency. Think. They kill astronauts high in the air. More than anything else, that's what they do most. But first, talk them into being killed. That's probably their greatest achievement; they actually talk these folks into allowing themselves to be killed. The only other organizations who kill employees are governments, the military and organized crime. And for the most part they kill them on the ground.

Not surprising, NASA's original purpose was political and military, it was never scientific. It was about beating the Soviet Union. It stemmed from the Manhattan Project. The US Government asked, what to do with these out-of-work scientists with strange European accents? Well, hell, they're mostly Jewish, they're gonna end up in Florida anyway, so we might as well put `em to work building rockets. And so Cape Canaveral was born. Let me re-emphasize, this was about humiliation of a super-power. It was NASA's sole edict to show the puny piddly-shit nations, we were the better of the two. It was a "who has the bigger dick" game. That is, until Russia's dick fell off in the late 80's.

For some reason, we decided space exploration was the domain to determine whose society was better. Seems a bit crazy. Let's see, my country is superior on Earth because we have more metal floating in the cosmos. And also, we kill more astronauts than the Russians. They should add the slogan: NASA- we kill astronauts. I mean, that's why so many people watch liftoffs. They want to see it blow up. When the Challenger blew up in 1986, the moment the craft scattered into a thousand streaming plumes of smoke, that's what the porn industry calls "the money shot." It was NASA's cumshot. It's like the footage of Reagan getting shot. I can watch it again and again and again. If I could get small framed moving pictures that replay the Reagan shooting and the Challenger explosion, I would mount them over my couch.

It's kind of funny, they worked for decades under White House pressure to humiliate the Soviet Union. It was a constant one-upmanship game, which to me could be a justifiable definition of insanity. I mean, can you imagine working to build spacecraft, to probe the universe, to take pictures and videos of planets and constellations, and to do all of that under pressure from your government? Not because we should do this in the name of science, we do this to show how god dam superior we are. And of course, there was the military aspect of putting weaponry in space. This is considered the zenith of modern society. The apex of our endeavors. At some point, NASA's goals changed. It must have been almost a letdown when the Soviet Union collapsed. Because so too, did their space program. It was almost like two old guys playing checkers and then one suddenly drops dead. Now NASA is alone, and must reorient its goals. Now, suddenly, they are a bona-fide scientific organization.

It's not coincidental this happened under Reagan, particularly the Challenger disaster, which Reagan is personally responsible for. I believe Reagan should have been charged with manslaughter for the unnecessary killing of seven astronauts. And this was because of his pressure to put a teacher in space first. See, that's the thing, it was all about first. Yeah, he put a teacher in space, all right. Now consider Reagan was due to give his State of the Union address the evening of January 28, 1986. Reagan always used the State of the Union to advance his agenda. You can bet he pressured NASA to get that shuttle up in space so he could exercise bragging rights. That was a hallmark Reagan gesture, to invite certain audience members who on cue would stand up as Ronnie rattled off his American hero tribute. I am certain he would have mentioned the teacher in space program, and am curious if Christa’s husband or parents were scheduled to attend.

1986 was the height of the cold war. Reagan made sure of that. More than the early 60's, more than the Cuban missile crisis, more than Kennedy or Eisenhower, Reagan brought the tension of the cold war to its height. He was adversarial and confrontational. He was like that as a Governor, too. You should watch some of the old footage denouncing student protest. Scary stuff. I mean, he was a true bombast, far more dangerous than any Soviet leader. Even Khrushchev. You can feel the seething aggression behind his words. You get the feeling, if he could have mowed down those hippie students with gunfire, he would have. This is the nature of his method. He must have an enemy. Or else there's no reason to get out of bed. And then your brain turns to oatmeal, which his did.

The true insult was not rushing Challenger liftoff, it was the ceremony Reagan held afterwards, you know the one where he said these victims "touched the face of God." I can't imagine Ron McNair's family, or the McAuliffe family felt their loved ones were kissing the face of anything. It was a sham, a farce, and designed to dupe the American public, which it did successfully. It was poignant and tragic, and Reagan did what he does best, act, complete with crying Nancy and his Hollywood signature. And we, the American people, swallowed it hook, line and sinker. We will believe anything they tell us. Even if we know it's a lie.

As it was revealed later, there was a system of errors, both human and technical, that led to the Challenger explosion. The "O" rings had a seal problem, the liftoff took place in cold weather, but more than anything this project was rushed. The rush was politically motivated. Personally, I don't see the value of putting a teacher, or anyone in space. Maybe I'm just stupid. What I see is useless and costly effort. It's a perfect illustration of how we, a modern and advanced society, have collectively lost sight of everything.

Maybe this critique is coming twenty five years too late. Maybe no one cares anymore. Still, it has relevance to our world today. It still applies, this complete misuse of technology and loss of vision. This is what we do. We have this wonderful technology; the internet, wireless communications, digital reproduction… and what do we do with it? We do what people have always done. We misuse it to further divisiveness, to press our agendas, to further the rhetoric of politics, religion and intolerance.

It's comical how Reagan is presented on his 100th birthday. It's proof that history is just another editorial page. It's not about facts or truth, it's all opinion. He's the legend he always hoped to be. This sickening reminiscence seen on countless documentaries makes me think we can turn anyone into a statue. A big bronze statue made of copper and lies. Convenient lies. It's almost unfathomable that people are slapping the "good `ol days" label on the Reagan 80's. Are you serious? Are you really going to try and jam that nostalgic lie down our throats? Here's what I remember about the 80's: an out of control epidemic called AIDS. An administration that pretended it didn't exist. The invention and proliferation of crack cocaine and its ensuing street gang expansion. A presidential cabinet filled with criminals and crooks. A nation consumed with its own rhetoric, ignoring future consequences for the quick buck. Hence, we created an artificially inflated housing market, set up for inevitable collapse, and the first in a string of collapses over a twenty year period. Combined with a depressed economy, Reagan conveniently staved off the fall, only to hand it over to George Bush, who was supposed to be Reagan the Sequel.

We choose not to remember Edwin Meese, Caspar Weinberger and Ollie North, and instead selectively recall the "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall" speech. The scripted Reagan. The rehearsed actor. Yet even with screenwriter and producer, also known as big business, the hoodlums in Reagan's cabinet could not resist abusing power at their finger tips. We are talking about a presidency so mired in corruption and controversy it could not have continued another year. And so what is our reaction? We elect George Bush in 1988, who was one of the most unpopular presidents of our time. It was our attempt to continue the Reagan lie, even though we knew that was not possible. We tried anyway. It's like Gil Scott Heron says in his song "B Movie", "we want to go back in time, even if it's only last week."

I will not fully agree that Reagan single-handedly took down the Soviet Union. I believe that fall was inevitable, and if it hadn't happened under Reagan it would have under Bush or Clinton. The curtain was doomed to fall via economic insolvency. The only way Baltic and Eastern European nations would survive was by their own governorship. The Soviet Union could simply no longer afford to pay for its empire. I also believe Reagan's Central American policies led to countless unnecessary deaths, and as a matter of fact the United States was found guilty by the International Court of Justice in 1986 of war crimes against Nicaragua.

Beyond Meese, Weinberger and North, his cabinet was riddled with scandal. Donald T. Regan bounced from Treasury Secretary to Chief of Staff, and was personally dismissed by none other than Nancy Reagan. He epitomized elitism and was perhaps more disliked than Nancy Pelosi. Alexander Haig was, well, need I mention more than his name? Does anyone remember National Security Advisor, Robert McFarlane, tried to kill himself after being implicated in Iran-Contra? Or that America experienced historically high rates of unemployment (over 11%) during his first term? Reagan’s in-office popularity was not at all good, experiencing low approval of 40% for much of his first and second terms. He only garnered a majority approval rating on two occasions: one was when he was shot by John Hinckley and the other was a brief one-month period when he bombed Libya in 1986.

Let's also consider social change; the AIDS epidemic and its complete non-acknowledgement. It was only after Rock Hudson, Reagan Hollywood buddy, appeared emaciated and near death, that Reagan would even address AIDS. If AIDS only claimed the Freddie Mercury’s and Keith Haring’s of our time, AIDS would not have been acknowledged until Clinton. The invention and proliferation of crack and its ensuing street gang expansion was also unacknowledged until it was on every ghetto corner. Nancy's "Just Say No" campaign was comical as an anti-drug message. Most of these people were so beyond hope it was no longer a matter of just say no. If they had a television to hear her message they would sell it for a 20 bag. To think Nancy's message to young people would do anything was a silly dream, but of course that's the Reagan Doctrine: let's pretend it’s the 1950's, and then maybe in the 2000's we can pretend it's 1985. And who knows maybe in 2025 we can look back on those good 'ol days of 2011, you know when times were simple.

Filler

2011-02-09T09:01:00.000-08:00

There are hundreds of pages in a book. Yards of canvas at an exhibition. They must be filled with something. We call that filler. That’s what we do. We fill. We talk about this and that. We have so much to say. We quote renowned experts. We are experts ourselves. We know so much.

Everything is so technologically beautiful. So much. At our fingertips. We can do anything. Yet we do nothing. We have nothing to say. We are a castrated society. Our balls cut off to feed our stomachs. Plump, satisfied, and breathing our own waste, we sit back pleased by our ingenuity.

And the clock keeps ticking. The business of survival is big. That’s our legacy. We have come full circle, exploring our deepest questions, and now find ourselves returning as survivalists. Like cavemen with I-phones. There was a time, I was not there, but I read about it. There was this time, when men asked questions. When men expressed doubt. When a man dared probe his weakness. It went on for centuries. I’m not sure exactly when that ended. I’m guessing sometime in the 1980’s. I remember thinking at the time, it doesn’t get any better. I saw the art, read the books, felt the music; we were onto the next great thing. And then suddenly… it was over.

Yet we survive. We are still here, hearts beating, legs walking, minds whirling…we have nothing left to say. It’s tragic if you think about it. Will you think about it? Can you do that? I’m not sure you can. Most likely you will find this entire discussion annoying and distant. You don’t relate. It makes no sense. What the fuck is she talking about? That’s understandable. Why would you relate? You are surviving. You have that job to go to. You have that opinion to feed. You have that belief to buy. There is no room for such silliness. That’s what it is. Silly. I’m just a silly lost motherfucker. And I’m wasting your time.

Still, you read on. Hell, you’ve got a few minutes, right? I ask myself really stupid questions. Who made the last great painting? What makes a movie important? How does somebody find peace and harmony in an out-of-control world? Why does our ability to communicate instantly lead to mass hysteria instead of collective reason? When did we give panic and threat such high priority? Will we ever regain our sanity? Such stupid questions, I must apologize. It’s not right. I know you have important things to do. I need to get to the point, right? The point. Hmmm, well you’ve got me there. I wish I had one.

The point. Okay, let’s start over. I’m bothered. Terribly bothered. Agitated. I just can’t get comfortable. The Karate Kid is on TV. I have it on mute. The Carpenters are playing. Rainy Days and Mondays. There are these pills I’m supposed to take. I can’t pronounce the name but they’re supposed to make me feel better. A doctor prescribed them to me because I guess I’m clinically depressed. She’s the expert so I dare not question her diagnosis. Yes I’m depressed. Horribly depressed. Funny, though, I don’t feel depressed. I sat in a room with this person and told her there is no meaning or purpose. That was my big mistake. I should have never opened my mouth. I have no business saying such things. It only gets me in trouble. What I said was, “at best there is maybe a fleeting glimpse of meaning.” She asked, “Are you feeling suicidal? So you feel you have no meaning or purpose?” I said, “No, not me, all of us.” “Oh, I see.” She jotted something quickly onto her writing pad. I thought for a moment, “Maybe I need to write something down, too.” Next time I see her I’m gonna bring a pad of my own. It’s only fair. Why should she be the only one taking notes?

Now I hear Carly Simon. My media player is set alphabetically. I think the Clash comes next. And then, I think, Devo. The Karate Kid is still on. It’s 8 a.m. and my senses are already blown. So much stuff, I just can’t process. It all seems to hit the windshield of my mind and stick to the surface. Nothing penetrates. It’s this problem I’ve had my whole life. I see commercials, I see billboards, movies and pictures and buildings and it’s all flat. It’s all just stuff. Filler. These are the empty shapes and colors of my life. I have this problem. Meaning behind the shapes is just not there. I go to the movies. There’s that scene where everyone cries. And I know I’m supposed to cry. But I don’t. The shapes are so nice, the scene so pleasing to the eye. Maybe I’m just not human. Maybe it’s a trick. I’m this thing, made to look and act and feel like a human being. But missing that one thing. I believe they call it a soul. Strange term, I could never really get my hands around that concept. So, you’re saying we are these vessels of flesh and bone, made for the sole purpose of holding one’s spirit? Is that the idea? Now wait, you’re saying that we are the custodians of this vessel, and as we age, we move towards the moment when this soul or spirit releases itself upon expiration? Is that it? Do I have the concept right? That’s really nice. I like that story. They should write a book about it.

Now they’re playing “The Magnificent Seven” by The Clash. I love that song. I love Joe Strummer’s voice. There is a raspy dissatisfaction, an agitated incantation in his words. I miss him. See, that’s what I meant when I said there was this time…this time when people were doing something. Saying something. Or at least trying to say something. It’s pathetic that we even go through the motions today. I mean, why would someone sing a song or paint a painting or write a book if they had nothing on their mind? I was watching the Super Bowl last weekend and saw Christina Aguilera sing the National Anthem. And thought to myself, “wow she’s such a star. So beautiful. Her lipstick so red.” All I could think while she was screwing up the words to the song was, “I wonder how many guys right now are imaging her sucking their dicks?” I guess I missed the meaning behind the moment. I apologize.

The Fighter

2011-02-02T07:30:00.000-08:00

The Fighter

I rarely go to the movies these days. I usually wait a few years till a good movie is in the bargain bin for $7.99. And then watch it 28 times over a two-week period. So I find myself driving to a nearby theater yesterday to catch the $7 matinee show. Turns out I was the only person occupying this large box rectangle. I kinda enjoyed that, feeling like some kind of social misfit, having the time in the afternoon to blow two hours on a film. "Why isn't she working?" I can almost hear the girls behind the refreshment counter whisper to one another. "She must be a whore", says the other, or so I swear I think I almost thought I heard her say. “Theater Six”, says a kid standing at the velvet rope as he tears my ticket in half.

David O. Russell's The Fighter opens like a true boxing match. In seconds we are immersed into the nitty-gritty of Lowell, Massachusetts circa late 1990's. And there he is, Dicky Eklund, so viscerally and convincingly played by Christian Bale. In fact, I didn't immediately recognize Bale, and completely forgot he was in the film, thinking I was going to see a Mark Wahlberg movie. And it really is Christian Bale who steals the show, and the reason for this review.

I have pre-viewing perspective on The Fighter, which most viewers do not. Not only had I seen "High on Crack Street: Lost Lives in Lowell", the HBO documentary The Fighter is based upon, but I am a recovering crack cocaine addict and know only too well the sordid world of crack houses and the crack life. I say based upon but it would be more accurate to say The Fighter stems from "High on Crack Street." Because The Fighter is a true film, a story about the redemption of a man, or lack thereof, and the comeuppance of a fighter, whereas the HBO documentary is a drawing without composition. We can say David O. Russell paints a painting while the documentary is a photograph frozen in time. There is no moral, no beginning, middle or end. It is simply a splice of real crack-induced life and like a good documentary the moral is at best implied but not gift-wrapped and presented to the viewer.

Christian Bale as Dicky Eklund, the older brother of up and coming welterweight boxer Mickey Ward, is truly remarkable. Much has already been written about his preparation and weight loss for the part so I won't bore you with details. Bale is the De Niro of our times, enveloped completely in method acting we see so rarely today. And yet he is his own person, not simply emulating the De Niro technique or attempting to be a millennium Travis Bickle. What we see is the dilemma of Dicky, we feel his fall from grace. A one-time championship fighter, his glory is a shot at the title against the legendary Sugar Ray Leonard, broadcast live on HBO years earlier. It is the reason he is known about town as "The pride of Lowell." He is a shadow of his former self, and is painfully aware. He makes no excuses, he does not pretend to have come to terms with his downfall or addiction, and yet he has this spirit that no drug, no prison cell can take from him. I was especially moved by the scene in which his younger brother visits him in jail. Even after Mickey swears him off, tells him he's worthless and walks away from the visitor's table, Dicky still calls out his strategy to Mickey for the upcoming fight. It's as if he is impervious to insult, as if his loyalty and dedication to seeing his brother do what he could not, win the title, is the most important thing. And in fact, Mickey takes his advice. We see a connection between the brothers that goes beyond any title, beyond money or success. That is heart; undisputed, unclouded, unadulterated heart.

Alice, the mother of both Dicky and Mickey is well played by Melissa Leo. She's not the bad guy, but she's not the good guy, either. She's a mother. Meddling, interfering, living her life vicariously through her boys, she is the quintessential blue collar, chain-smoking, tough-as-nails, ready to cry in a minute yet one step from telling you to go fuck yourself- mom. Having seen the real life Alice in the HBO documentary, I felt Leo played her well bringing pathos and condemnation simultaneously. And to Russell's credit, she becomes a much bigger character in the movie than she is in the documentary. Because let's remember The Fighter is a drama while the HBO documentary is about addiction and consequences.

As I peruse the internet I see a lot of discussion about High on Crack Street. Not surprising, the film has unleashed renewed popularity and interest. But I must say, it can never be the same as seeing the documentary first, and then seeing the film. I'm glad I got the chance to see its correct chronological order. There are important characters in the documentary that make only brief appearances, or none at all, in the film. Most glaring in its absence is the role of Brenda, a crack-addicted whore, or so everyone likes to call her, who eventually goes missing. I mention the label "whore" because I don't see her that way. Brenda is a "chaser of the high" not a "walker of the streets", and her money-making endeavors are simply a means to her myopic single-vision goal. Her story is a movie in itself. Co-starring alongside Brenda is Boo Boo, her on-and-off again boyfriend who is above all else, a fellow crack smoking partner. Pregnant seven months and long past abortion option, Brenda continues to smoke it up, hit after life-ruining hit. It's tragic and yet pure. Here we have a person who has dedicated her life to something wholly and without distraction. She is, if there were such a thing, a major league professional crackhead. And Boo Boo is in his own right, an enveloping character who you absolutely abhor throughout the documentary and then shockingly, find certain empathy towards the end. It's not simply that he finds himself HIV positive, that's not necessarily when we feel for him. It's that he finally becomes a human being, and shows true concern for Brenda. He rises above the role of addict and evolves into a real person with feelings. High on Crack Street is the finest drug addiction film I've seen. And I see a lot.

It's no surprise the story of of Dicky Eklund and Mickey Ward, along with the HBO documentary, was ripe to become a movie. The ingredients are brimming and waiting for cinematic liberation: the tragedy, the fall, the victory, the glory beyond a simple and poor blue collar world. It's Rocky, Drugstore Cowboy and Million Dollar Baby rolled into one. Yet I've seen movies loaded with these ingredients that in the end become a sum less than its parts. So I was bracing for disappointment. But it didn't disappoint. It really did hit the mark. It's a good film. I don't want to say great, I still have to let it settle in my mind. But let's at least say for now a very good movie. And I can say without reservation Bale's performance was indeed great. I've been a Bale fan since his riveting and memorable role as Patrick Bateman in Brett Easton Ellis' American Psycho. Being a huge Ellis fan and having read the book before the film was released, I felt he truly captured the banal and empty yet perfectly groomed, detail-attentioned world of Bateman. A man lost in his inner brutality, raging with inhumanity yet worried to panic over stains on expensive bedsheets. I forgive Bale his role as Batman and a few other money-grabs. That’s understandable, or as David Cross once said that's understandishable, all artists do it. Here Bale reaches a new level, and shows us something truly memorable.

Sarah Palin Has Herpes

2011-01-22T06:11:00.001-08:00

While the continuing heartbeat of a politician requires that he campaign to his deathbed, still there are acts acceptable and acts contemptible. There are certain events requiring subtlety, where the typical flesh-pressing politician must dispense with standard-operating dogma and transparent stomping. I mention Palin's trip to Haiti because it so glaringly sticks out as an aberration to common sense & dignity. I found that farce of a “mission” to be far and away more condemning than anything said regarding gun control.

What the hell was Sarah Palin doing in Haiti??? What could she possibly have done for the Haitian people? She is not in active office, and has no faculty or function in a disaster relief organization. This was purely a transparent attempt at keeping her in the spotlight (like her ridiculous TV show), pandering to the liberals for a few token votes, softening her image, and trying to inject some sort of international policy to her platform. It’s actually a complete insult to the American and Haitian people. To the Haitians, obviously they are being used as pawns and to the American public, in effect her advisors are saying we are so stupid that we would actually believe she gives a shit about Haiti.

I’m not sure why the American press isn’t making a bigger deal out of this. The “Palin-Haiti mission of mercy” trip came and went without much fanfare. To me, this is on par with Gary Hart’s boating expedition on the “Monkey Business” and his fling with Donna Rice. A career-ender. A complete and devastating blunder. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. We, the American people, seem to always follow our shepherd and obediently move into this pen or that field. How dare we reach a conclusion with our own feeble little minds.

New Paintings

2011-01-17T12:57:00.000-08:00

I'm really back into painting, in fact I have ten paintings cooking at the same time right now.

They are generally small paintings, all oil on canvas but the newer ones are a bit larger. I'm trying to slowly build my way up, as I work through the ideas and technique, to make larger canvases. I used to, when I was a wild and crazy art kid, make 8 and 9-foot paintings. While I don't see that happening any time soon, I do envision some of the new work as at least human scale, say five or six feet. I have so many ideas and so much creative energy finally, I want to do these paintings while the wherewithal is here.

I have this sense of banality, and bleakness, this belief in trying to make something beautiful even though it seems almost pointless. It's this dichotomy of hope and hopelessness, with the lack of hope always winning but searching for something anyway. Maybe because, what the hell, I have to do something. I want to say something about people, and the world, and how fucked up it all is. And yet, I don't want to be a pure misanthrope, a hater of man. Because that's just not interesting and seems to be very much in vogue these days. No, I DO believe in something, some right way to live, some right way to act and conduct oneself...it's so elusive. Like water, just as I feel I have my hands around it, it slips through the space between my fingers.

I was on a real tear this past week, when suddenly my furnace died and now I'm stuck living out of my car and assorted hotel rooms until my landlord can get heat back to my house. It's a double-whammy for me as I not only live here but entertain for business and also paint. So I'm somewhat crippled logistically for the moment. I sit here now, inside my house, with a hat, coat and gloves on. I can only stay here a few hours at a time before I have to go out to my car or some store to warm up.

A few years ago I might have turned to drugs as a way to deal, or not deal, with this crisis. But it's different now. I will deal with all of this, and will handle it with dignity. I guess what bothers me is I don't know where I'll be sleeping tonight, or any night this week, and am at the behest of my landlord, which if any of you know me, then you'd know I hate allowing anyone to have control over my life. The right thing to do is to stand back, give my landlord the opportunity to address the problem and then make the best choice given my options.

Now where is that jar of turpentine?

Painting: "Fucked Up Viewers" Oil on Canvas 14" x 18" 2011

Photos, and Trannies, and beliefs and God and stuff

2010-12-02T14:27:00.000-08:00

I used to take thousands of photos of myself. I documented and catalogued every procedure and every stage of my transition. I had a new batch of photos every week. It seemed necessary. And it required very little effort on my part due to my natural enthusiasm. I treated it as an extension of my art.

Something's changed. I just am not interested in more photos of me. And haven't been for more than a year. I guess I will have to be once I get my pay site going but that would be solely for business and still the natural enthusiasm has vanished. This seems to go hand in hand with my loss of interest in typical TS behavior, and I would include taking millions of pictures of yourself as one definite TS trait. Other natural tranny interests like participating in popular discussion boards like Hung Angels & Hung Devils, have completely lost their interest for me. I haven't posted on those sites in two years. I'm completely uninterested in the club scene, too. I don't believe there's such thing as a transgender community , and even if there were I would not join.

I try to be everything they're not. They are generally flamboyant so therefore I’m invisible. They are often loud and vie for attention so I seek none. Their appearance and need to pass in daily life is everything to them, and for me it means nothing. Because that would mean caring what others think. And I do not. They are generally boring and uninteresting, and often unbalanced. I find chess players far more interesting than trannies. Although they are often unbalanced too, lol.

I find myself becoming the anti-Tranny. I'm not interested in TS, I find them generally a narcissistic bunch, emotionally unstable, and gloriously uninspiring. I think becoming a TS is, in many ways, the most selfish thing one can do. I don't even feel like one myself, even though it may be argued I am. Point is I don’t feel like one. I used to think I was a woman trapped in a man's body. Now I know I'm an alien trapped inside a tranny. I can't honestly say I live the life of a woman because I feel like a woman. No, today it makes much more sense to live as a woman simply because nothing matters. It really doesn't matter if I'm seen as a female or male, and I can safely state that I would not go through the transition now if I hadn't done so earlier. It's not that I regret it. I don't. It just is. And in all honesty the effort required to "go back" to my former male self is more than I'm equipped for these days. Today I'm equipped for about five movies a day and tuna salad. But hey, the titties are nice, they feel good, so what the hell, let 'em stay. They look good on an alien.

Now I will have to admit to a little drama here. I make all these statements but I cannot steadfastly remain true to any of them. I may very much be committed to life as a female, and it's wrong for me to accuse myself of the opposite. I just don't know the answer, you're asking the wrong guy. Girl. The only real statement is I'm a fucking groundhog. What I mean is, I just do what I naturally do, it doesn't matter my history nor my beliefs or lack thereof. Groundhogs dig holes and live under porches. They don't ask why. They don't dig Republican holes, and they don't think about God. I envy them. No, wait, Dostoyevsky said that, I can't be copying him. No wait, Dostoyevsky used the example of insects, and I'm different. I'm using the groundhog example. Therefore, I am unique. Or maybe a copycat, who can really say? It's all a dust-collected past and proof that my beliefs are as arbitrary as lottery numbers. I submit, that I am the only woman with the balls to make such a statement.

Andy Warhol used to call himself an alien. I know what he felt. This life, this society, this planet, this country, this race…I don’t feel I’m part of it. It’s just a strange coincidence I have a liver and lungs and two legs and say words to communicate. People see me as human but I am this other thing. There are others like me, not many, and we recognize each other immediately. Like vampires. We are these things that don’t care, we have no feelings, we have no cause. We have no principle in fact, even though it might appear we do. Like, for example, I wouldn’t hurt someone’s feelings for no good reason but that’s not because I’m kind it’s because I don’t want to. And in the very next instant I might deliberately try to hurt someone’s feelings. Not because my principles changed, because there are none. I am finally clear in my one undeniable thought- I stand for nothing. My failures helped me to see this because it was my lifetime of failures that gave me definition. I am truly grateful I could not succeed in anything. It gave me courage and made me strong. And yet by the same logic, I am a coward. And grateful to be. Well, not really grateful. See, there is a perfect example of how I fool myself with principles. I just stated I feel gratitude for something. When the truth is, I don’t even care. It doesn’t matter. That’s not to say I’m depressed or suicidal, no not at all. I will continue ticking until the spring inside my gibberish clock breaks. That was a fancy way of saying till I die.

People today have raped the notion of concepts and beliefs. Everyone has beliefs, everyone has religion, everyone has their politics. Everyone cares so fucking much. It’s nauseating. But in truth, I don’t think these people have anything, they just say they do. They are compelled to say it. Because everyone else is saying it. They cannot fathom the concept of an utterly meaningless and unimportant life. Which is what we all live, even the important people. And yet people will vehemently protest and say, “no, damn it, there is this God of mine, there is this moral code I live by. There is this profession I have that defines me, there is m y family that loves me unconditionally”, and I say whatever gets you to sleep at night. Actually I don’t even say that, I start whistling and walking backwards and look for a clean exit. Because those people…those people who believe in something, they freak me out. No wait, they annoy me. No, it’s something else, point is I used to have debates with those who knew things. And now I don’t. You people with your beliefs, how I envy you. Strike that, I mean, how I detest you. How I admire you. How I revere you. How I condemn you. Fuck, I just can’t find anything I stand by. I want to meet someone who claims to know nothing and then I will find my new best friend. Well, not really a friend, more likely an asshole like me, but someone who has reached the same depth of stoicism and banality I finally feel comfortable with. More than comfortable., I languish in it. I frolic in it. I dread it. I covet it. I fear it. I love it. I welcome it. Maybe if I write enough I’ll finally get the right answer. I’m not really sure. Let’s just say there is this thing, and I do this with it. Oh, I’m just saying that to be dramatic. Truth is, I don’t really care. And yet I care.

I've come to a point where I simply can't muster up interest. And can't burn a calorie for that which isn't part of my agenda. That explains my complete disassociation with my family. And with other people. It’s not personal, I just lost the skills to fake it. It is the clarity of thought that was once anger or frustration, sadness or regret. Life is so basic these days. I care about my personal affairs, I care about my private world, like what’s in my mailbox, how much money I have, stuff like that. Outside of that, if it doesn't affect me it's all abstract. I try to be honest, so I say I am selfish. I am self-ish. It is only my self that counts. Jeez, there I go again…trying to attach some philosophy to it all.

For those of you who read through all of this, I commend you. I think it took great courage and faith to stick with it, even though it was clear from paragraph 2 that I am completely unhinged. Well, not courage but let’s say fortitude. No, not faith but perhaps stubbornness. No wait…

I was talking about photographs and why I don’t take them anymore. And why I don’t feel like a TS. Truth is, I do take photographs, and I do feel like a TS. No, that’s a lie. I don’t and I don’t. I simply cannot lie. Now that’s a fucking lie. I lie all the time. Well, not all the time…

It's 2010 and all is not well

2010-11-21T12:30:00.000-08:00

My latest thoughts on 2010, money, art, writing and our demise as a culture:

2010 may have been a tough year for many, based on the sorry tales I hear about the economy, world turmoil, political polarization, and religious fervor and extremism. That may all exist, and it does, and I for one hold very little hope for the human race finding the ability to live in some semblance of harmony, but still, it's been a very good year for me.

I began the year terribly depressed and flat broke. While my surgeries were behind me, financially I was deep in debt with no light of solvency in sight. I began touring in early February, after taking six months off for a variety of reasons. I mapped out a three-tiered touring schedule that, while not as ambitious as 2009, was less grueling and more realistic, less susceptible to "burn-out" which I suffered from previously. The idea was that there would be three periods of travel, with time at home in between each tour to rest and focus on peace, tranquility and art. Now that my last official business trip is safely tucked under my skirt, I can enjoy the rest of 2010 with a few bucks squirreled away and a week in warm, sunny Florida in December to look forward to. I specifically put money aside for a week getaway in a warm climate to address my tendency towards winter depression. It happens every year but I plan to break up this cold season with two trips south.

Money

Financially, my best course of action was bankruptcy. I hired a lawyer and proceeded through the process, finally being discharged over the summer. Many people have misconceptions regarding bankruptcy. In truth, my credit rating is already better than it was prior to filing. While the discharge will stay on my record for another six and a half years, I'm already receiving credit offers and have a new credit card, a real one, not one of those fee-tattered pre-pay cards. I pay it off every month and have learned to live cheap. I've never known what it's like to live with this month's, and the next month's bills already paid. It's refreshing to live not one, but perhaps two steps from the street. My goal is to save up enough to buy something, land, or a house, or maybe even a building. I am also working on a pay website so stay tuned for more updates on that project.

I have to concern myself with finances. Just like we all do. It's just so damn expensive to survive today. It didn't always used to be like this. But today, we are affected by everything; the falling dollar, the price of gas, China's influence and interest, the Fed's controlling rate, the politics...it's all so massively nauseating. And yet unavoidable. The Fed just recently injected $600 billion into the economy via the purchase of Treasury securities. Now China's pissed off at us. Because in a roundabout way the U.S. government has effectively reduced it's real-world debt to China. Now the dollar in your pocket might actually be worth 98 cents. Gas and food prices instantly jumped 5 to 10%. This all just happened the past three weeks. Everything's so damn volatile. And it pisses me off that I have to concern myself with this shit, but I do. We all do. Not that we can do anything about it. I guess the answer is what it's always been- make more money.

Movies & Art

I've been watching some very cool movies and listening to great old music. I recently bought some documentaries on art: "The Art of the Steal" is a documentary I recommend to anyone who wants to see the power and despicability (is that a word?) of politicians and socialites. It's the story of the Barnes Foundation, a collection of some of the greatest works of post-Impressionist and Modern art, all put together by the uncanny visionary collector Dr. Albert Barnes. It is universally regarded as one of, if not the finest collection of late-19th century early 20th century modern art in the world. No doubt it is the greatest private art collection in the United States worth by all accounts at least 30 billion dollars. I was lucky enough to see the collection in it's original state of exhibition in the 80's while still under the direct supervision of Dr. Barnes most loyal disciple. It has since been profoundly manipulated and exploited by numerous Foundation directors and social political powers in the Philadelphia area. Three charitable foundations, the Pew Charitable Trusts, the Lenfest Foundation and the Annenberg Foundation have collaborated with the City of Philadelphia and the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, under the leadership of it's scumbag Governor Edward Rendell, and the Pew's whoremistress Rebecca Rimel, to in effect steal the entire collection away from the Foundation to downtown Philadelphia. It is an epic story of political might having it's way with the Dead, and it serves as a lesson to all, that what one bequeaths in one's will doesn't necessarily hold up to the test of time. Because it was Dr. Barnes himself, who went to great lengths to protect the collection from these vultures, as stipulated in his last will and testament. Lesson One here is it's easy to steal from the Dead; they don't fight back. And it offers an insight into the darker side of what on the surface may appear to be the best interest of the people, when in fact it is always and always will be the best interest of self. That's why I have more respect for a thief than a preacher. At least the thief is showing his cards.

Another excellent documentary is "Painter's Painting", a wonderful selection of vintage footage taken by the filmmaker and writer Emile de Antonio from 1970 to 1972 of influential and now legendary New York painters who changed the face of art from the 50's to the late 60's. It was a time when artists lived in the now trendy and untouchable lofts of downtown Soho for maybe $100 a month. The interviews are great for a variety of reasons. They truly capture that late 60's-early 70's feeling in the air. For example, while interviewing Larry Poons in his studio, one can hear John Lennon and the Beatles singing "I Dig a Pony" in the background. I thought that was really cool. Poons comes off as a complete moron, which I believe he is, a modern day Jethro from the Beverly Hillbillies, as he tries desperately to intellectualize his mindless work. And they are mindless, be assured. I did like his earlier "blip" paintings, they showed a certain thought and meditative nature but by the time of the interview it appears he's smoked one too many joints and sold a few too many paintings, which feeds his enlarged ego as can be determined by the way he orders his assistant around the studio like a modern day Egyptian slave.

What I found universally consistent in almost all the interviews was the complete inability of artists to express succinctly in word what they were attempting to express in paint. I mean, it was almost laughable to listen to some of these artists, some of whom I revered utterly, only to watch as they wandered off cerebrally into some afterthought, completely forgetting the purpose of explaining in simple words what their paintings were about. Two artists spoke well, they were Willem de Kooning and of all people, Andy Warhol. Warhol was his usual elusive self, deferring questions to his assistant Beverly, often asking her what the answers were. Too funny, and all too Warholian, but in perfect style with an icon who never revealed his true genius. I couldn't help thinking that the interview took place maybe two years after his shooting and near death by the deranged Valerie Solanas. He seemed pretty happy-go-lucky for a man who almost died (Warhol had terrible luck at the hands of thoughtless women, and eventually succumbed to the incompetent care of a nurse at New York University Medical Center in 1987 after routine gallbladder surgery, he should have lived another twenty years). And de Kooning, with his lovely Dutch accent, was completely affable and approachable in his thoughts on painting and his intentions. Most of the painters were intolerably arrogant and spoke with some fucked up hybrid of New Yorkian and bohemian Old English that annoyed me to no end. Jasper Johns spoke almost as if he were British, I couldn't belive that was really him speaking. Robert Rauschenberg was particularly snide, drunk off his ass, openly sipping from a glass that no doubt contained gin or vodka and espousing his genius and disdain for the Abstract Expressionists. I distinctly remember this line, "You must put aside time to feel sorry for yourself if you want to be an Abstract Expressionist." He died two years ago, a drunken old homosexual who lost the respect of many in old age.

Books

I'm currently reading the originally published "Sweeney Todd", or "The String of Pearls", originally published in what they called at the time "Penny Dreadfuls", London's weekly periodicals of the 1840's and 1850's akin to today's Enquirer but more gruesome. The original story has no author, but rather it is believed the story was an ongoing 13-week collaboration by various low-brow writers of the day. The story of a bloodthirsty barber exacting retribution for the wrongs society cast against him was an instant sensation and quickly found it's way to the stage, where it still exists today. I find the story fascinating and highly plausible although it is by no means fact even though the late Peter Haining claims it is fact-based and drudges up numerous unreal documentation in his 2007 book "Sweeney Todd: The Real Story Of The Demon Barber Of Fleet Street." I guess in this day and age truth is like clay, you mold and shape it to fit your needs and publishing profits. The 2007 movie starring Johhnny Depp, while entertaining, is not at all my vision of what the real Sweeney Todd story might have looked like. More accurate is the 2006 BBC version starring Ray Winstone, where we are treated to a realistic late-18th century setting and a cast of peripheral characters that help explain Todd's barbarism and bring some sanity and reason to his evil deeds.

Music

I'm listening to some very quirky music. I still have my turntable and enjoy listening to the old scratchy sound of needle on vinyl record. Right now it's an old Bee Gees record from the late 60's. Please don't laugh. Yes, I actually liked them in their early years ("Every Christian Lion Hearted Man Will Show You", nice song!) . And listening to some classic Clash and Joy Division from the late 70's. Maybe it's just me, but I haven't heard anything of substance musically in over a decade. I certainly have heard nothing in pop music that remotely gets me going. So I turn to the sounds of the past, because I believe, just like a great film, there's still something to enjoy. I did recently hear music by the Los Angeles-based musical artist Ariel Marcus Rosenberg going under the name "Ariel Pink's Haunted Graffiti" which I found interesting. You can hear it on You Tube, it's a great song, and somewhere embedded in the comment section is one of my hoots for the song:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hMNPWT6WDJQ&feature=player_embedded

The beat and the words are so catchy: "knock knock on the dooooor three times, and you knock knock.. on the door!" It’s an original sound, sort of pseudo-80's but in a knowing way and not at all exploitive.

A Cultural Coma

But again, it's so rare to hear something new and original like this. I fear that like art, literature and film, we as a culture have strangled ourselves with our own technology. Each of us as individuals have more technology at our fingertips than ever before in human history. Anyone, and I mean anyone, can publish their creativity to the world via the internet be it music, writing or art. You don't have to be in a major metropolis anymore to broadcast your ideas; a farm boy in Kansas can reach instant acclaim as long as he pays his monthly cable bill. But for all our new-found global tangibility we are thwarted by this very thing. We have stifled and smothered ourselves by collective fragmentation. The end result is a world devoid of trends and movement. We simply have nothing left to say.

I think I'm going to brush the dust off an old George Harrison record now, and put on an old movie. And maybe, hopefully, somewhere in my battered and bruised mind, I can find the wherewithal to make a painting that really says something. Even if no one out there gives a shit.

To My Dear Fellow Americans

2010-10-31T08:32:00.000-07:00

To all of you who believe in this pathetic idea we call the American Dream, fuck you.

To all you politically opinionated zealots who think you know what’s right and who the enemy is, fuck you.

To all those people who use “the children” as an excuse to justify every evil thought and deed in your insipid mind, fuck you. “The children” have been used as a decoy for centuries to further personal agendas that ultimately have nothing to do with the betterment of children.

To all you brainwashed robots who believe in religion and use that to justify your inhumanity, fuck off and die. Show me someone who believes in the afterlife, heaven and hell and all that fiction and I’ll show you a scared and weak coward.

To all of you, and I do mean all of you, who fill your lives with empty technology, I laugh at you. Add up the time you’ve spent purchasing, programming and wasting your life away with phones, computers, pads and personal devices. Now tell me it was worth it.

To all you true-blue Americans, who think this country is God’s Salvation, some divine idea of perfect harmony, wake up and smell the violence you self-deceived monkeys. This country was founded on violence, slavery and intolerance. Stick that in your Starbucks mocha latte and choke.

To all you Tea Party madmen and cackling bimbos, you represent everything narrow-minded and foolish; you can barely cross the street without being hit by a car. You have no business calling for change. Your ideas about what’s right is what’s wrong with this country. You justify your selfishness by masking it as “freedom.” You are white people, and the worst kind. You should shut your mouth, go back into your upper middle class home and drink your fat self to death.

And to all you Democrats, you’re not off the hook either. You suck as much as the other guys, you divide and bicker, you demonize just as Republicans do. Congratulations to all of you on permanently fucking up American politics.

And to any offended by my remarks, you can kiss my ass and suck my dick, that is after you pay me.

Have a wonderful day, peace and love.

Photo: "Death March"
2006 by Melissa Carter

I didn't know Gerald Ford was dead

2010-09-29T19:03:00.000-07:00

I was trying to figure out why Ford doesn't show up at official events these days. Then I checked and found he's been dead almost four years. Did that ever happen to you? Did you ever think someone was alive that wasn't? Or vice-versa?

I remember Abe Vigoda's tag line was always, "I'm not dead yet!" because so many people assumed he died.

I think about death often. No more than necessary, like most people I wonder what will happen after I die. Not if there's life after death, I mean, what will the world be like with me not in it? I've come to the conclusion it will be very similar, only with one more house to rent, one less car to pay off and one less tranny to date.

I used to think some dignified, well-attired & monacled British scholar with dashing moustache and top hat would stroll into my home and begin accounting for all my artworks, carefully annotating all paintings and drawings, busily contacting museums and deciding which institutions would be worthy of a single piece. The world's most celebrated curators would vie for the right to host my retrospective. Shortly thereafter, historians would file in one by one, meticulously dissecting my writings, checking behind the couch and nightstand for any scrawlings, desperately piecing together torn-up letters that would be used for inclusion in my posthumous "Greatest Written Works Of." Then, after a memorial service at Lincoln Center, numerous cultural figureheads would reminisce about what a loss the world has suffered, while political protests surround and disrupt the event. Finally, years after my death, the secret X-rated films would surface, long thought lost, only to emerge in a storage space in Kearny, NJ. This would bring renewed interest to my life with a firestorm of controversy and yet more political protests that would culminate in a great world war.

Or, I die and a 30-yard container is dropped in the driveway. Two guys load it at $12/hour, clearing the rental home, while my body is placed into a plain box and buried beneath a grave marker with mis-spelled name.

New Jersey Governor A Puppet for Rupert Murdoch

2010-08-20T08:49:00.000-07:00

The Republican Governors Association is releasing in September a 20-minute film featuring Gov. Chris Christie's election and governorship, according to the RGA's website.

The organization is promoting the film, which will debut on September 8 at E Street Cinema in Washington, D.C. and online, as part of its "Remember November" campaign promoting GOP candidates nationwide, the report said. RGA Executive Director Nick Ayers said in the report that Christie's administration is a model of conservative governing that should be replicated by Republicans throughout the country.

No doubt this project is being funded by the recent gift of $1,000,000 from News Corporation, the conservative right wing conglomerate owned and operated by Rupert Murdoch.

News Corporation owns Fox News, the Wall Street Journal and the New York Post, among other highly-critical and by no means objective right-wing news organizations that claim to be presenting factual, unbiased information. Their recent $1 million donation to the Republican Governor's Association is undeniable proof that any article or program produced or published by their organizations is slanted and biased and designed to further a conservative right wing agenda. In fact, their donation is the largest ever given by a media organization.

It is not surprising that such films are now appearing, and more will surely follow as upcoming elections draw near. While everyone is entitled to opinions, and it seems the right to an opinion is more important than the quality of opinion these days, what is most worrisome is the blurred line between what is supposed to be objective news and that which is clearly editorial. I would have more respect for Murdoch if he re-titled his organization "Fox Opinion" instead of "Fox News" because beyond the basic weather and traffic, you simply cannot trust the source or the content of a Fox News story. And the Wall Street Journal could be equally criticized for focusing their attention on what they deem newsworthy or front-page worthy. It's all about agendas.

To date, no media organization has ever inserted itself so directly and with such generosity into play for governor seats. What's next? Will Fox, in lieu of further attention on cash donations, simply "give away" commercial spots to Republicans as the election draws near?

The new trend is emerging where media giants are now inserting themselves into the campaign, not by editorial comment but by large cash injections. That should be disturbing to anyone.

Congratulations Governor Christie, Rupert Murdoch is now handling your puppet strings.

I don’t follow your rules

2010-08-07T18:55:00.000-07:00

I was a problem child. I’m a problem adult. Because I don’t like society’s rules. And I won’t play by them. Fuck you society. If you can get past my first “fuck you”, congratulations reader and continue on.

I don’t think modern life means sitting in commuter traffic. Or playing the “corporate game.” Or being a homeowner. Or relying on others to feed you your opinions. Or praying to a God manufactured by a religious corporation. I don’t think you have to choose from the options given. Most times you need to make up your own options. Unless you’re a robot, which many of you are. Part of being a robot is believing you have free will and being offended by that remark. So if you were offended, fuck you robot.

I’m a problem child. And the day I am not is the day I have lost the only thing I ever really had. I’m cantankerous, argumentative, cynical, dogmatic, open minded and extremely close minded. I’m glad to be a problem. I’m a problem to my family, a problem to every company I ever worked for, friendships never last, I trust no one, I make it virtually impossible to get close to me and I think this world is incredibly disappointing. Yet I’m so glad to be alive and so happy to be this difficult person. I think any one of any substance, anyone who has ever made a difference, was a difficult person. And probably contradicted themselves regularly, and denied saying things they said. And lied and cheated. I find these people interesting.

I don’t like the rules we’re supposed to play by. I believe that if you play by “the rules”, on your deathbed you will look back and see an unremarkable life. And you will not be remembered. Hell, the chances of being remembered even if you were an amazing individual are already slim. I did unscrupulous and some might even say immoral things. Sometimes even illegal things. Breaking the law is nothing to feel bad about. Crossing moral boundaries is not necessarily bad either. You have to cross them to find out if they’re good or bad. Most often I have found moral boundaries were nonsense, usually originating from the church, or from social institutions afraid of change.

As the years go by I feel a greater intolerance with these “rules” and “standards” we must live by. I just cannot do it. I tried. For like ten years. But even in that ten year period, I was still a problem to almost everyone I came in contact with. I would say something highly offensive, or do something socially unacceptable. I have a big mouth and it got me into trouble often. But my life is different today. Now my big mouth is all I have. And it pays for me to open it. And people, often like what they hear. They find me interesting and unique. I still offend people, and thank God for that. If I wasn’t offending people I would feel I’m doing something wrong.

I would rather be a freak, an outcast, a persona non-grata, a radioactive individual people want to distance themselves from. I would rather be any of these things than a person living the wrong life. I wonder, do others feel that way? Do you sometimes think, “I’m living the wrong life!”

Are you capable of stripping away your justifications and really looking at yourself? I find it hard to believe all those people in morning traffic and all those people in the corporate world feel “yes, this is the life I want to live.” If that’s the case, I might feel sorry for them. But I don’t. Because they’re robots and I have no feelings for machinery.

Painting: “Landlord” 1986 Melissa Carter Oil on Canvas 24” x 24”

Art and what it means to me

2010-07-16T08:02:00.000-07:00

I’m painting. I am an artist again. Finally. I can’t show anything new yet because nothing is finished. But I will as soon as they are ready. I have always said I am an artist first. That's all I can say for certain. Transsexual? Maybe. Woman? Nah. Man? Who cares. Asshole? Fuck you. But Artist? YES.

I’m doing two different types of paintings. One is the House Paintings. I’ve been painting houses for almost two decades, the image runs through all my work. I picked up on an idea I left off almost 15 years ago. Paintings like “Death by Suburb” were where I ended in the 90’s but it is now my starting point. My paintings are less gestural and more precise now. They are typically run-of-the-mill suburban houses. I like the split levels from the 60’s and 70’s. Because they’re so bleak and hopeless. So sickening. Each painting tells the story of a horrible reality. The suburbs are incredibly nauseating and always have been to me. They send a message that inside this house is a happy balanced family. When the reality is anything but that. I’ve always believed the greener the grass the sicker the shit behind that front door. I’m working on four painting right now titled “Murder” “Crime Scene” “Rape” and “Child Porn”. In other words, what’s really happening inside those houses. I grew up in the suburbs. I used to actually get sick to my stomach looking at all those putridly pretty houses and well manicured lawns. Some homes radiate a vibe so vile I need to leave. I sense evil the second I walk in. Something didn’t make sense to me even as a kid. I was too young to fully grasp and put into words the conflict between what was seen and what was felt. But I knew it was a lie. A big lie.

The second series of paintings are the Word Paintings. I am working with a sign maker who makes the custom vinyl lettering I adhere to the canvas. They are used as stencils so that I can concentrate on painting the background. I thought about carefully rendering the letters but quickly realized that is not what these paintings are about. These paintings are messages to the world. Very personal messages. They are directed sometimes at single individuals who have treaded on my liberties, or sometimes directed at society at large. Sometimes directed at corporations. They are angry paintings. And they damn well should be. These paintings need to be made. Everyone must answer for what they’ve done.

There are a group of “Fuck You” Paintings. People who know or knew me will not be happy. But that’s okay, the message is fuck you, why would they like it? Yes, certain family members, former co-workers, certain public figures will get the big F. But these paintings are not simply a statement. I am, as I’ve always been, concerned with beauty. Art cannot simply be a statement or it is not art. It MUST concern itself with beauty, too. That’s why I care so much about the colors, the edges, the finish, the font, the spacing between letters and words.

There are the “Pussy” Paintings. Yes plenty of pussy. It’s an important word, it needs to be made. Again and again. These are larger paintings. I’m hoping to offend as many as possible. Because art must also provoke. And to those who choose the “wishful package” of Heaven & Hell, they must be offended. They must hear it from someone, that the beliefs they purchased are not real. That the values that came with those beliefs, from the Church, are oppressive and designed to exclude.

And then there are word pieces taken from my writing: “You Make No Difference” and “Viewers Like You”. “Family of Assholes”, “Robo Christ”, “Fucked Up Planet” “Death to The Tranny”, these are all phrases taken from my stories.

All my paintings have personal meaning for me. VERY personal meaning. Like a brother who meddled into my affairs and shared my adult entertainment business with my family. All in the name of God. Can you imagine that? A brother who since the moment you told him you were transgender began a personal investigation on you, searches you up on the web and then shares your escort business with your family? Is that a brother or an enemy? He is the definition of a self-righteous asshole. So is his annoying, condescending wife, who keeps his balls in a shoebox under the bed. Yep, those two are paintings in progress right now. That’s what I mean by personal meaning: a boss who fired me, a co-worker who shared my websites with the rest of the company. This stuff has great personal impact for me. These people caused hurt and hardship. That’s heavy stuff and the foundation for something meaningful.

Some may say it sounds more like art therapy than art. Not true. Art is and always should be INTENSELY personal. As I thought this idea through, I asked myself, “is this subject matter really art?” “Can it really be art?” It can be if it’s painted right. It can be if I I’ve captured the essence of my anger. It can be if it is, in the end, a beautiful painting. And why shouldn't anger be the core of art? It has always been my driving force. It's not necessarily a bad thing, it's what you do with it.

And may I add it has greater meaning than so much art I see today. Most artists today are so caught up in their process they lose all meaning, let alone personal meaning. They are so busy making their “body of work” the outcome is more random happenstance than making something important. And so they paint something that looks like a field and they call it “field.” Why? Because they’re just making stuff. They’re not making anything specific. They’re not making anything that really matters to them. They say it does but that's so they don't have to face the reality that they are simply a craft maker. And that would blow their whole theory on "reasons to live."

There are so few artists alive who are making something the world really NEEDS to see. Something that MUST be made. Something that is the result of their existence on this planet, something that is an expression of the conflict between their short time here on Earth and the rest of time when they will no longer have a chance to make things right. Artists should always be trying to say something so deeply personal that the feeling will live on in future viewers, long after their body turns to ash. You have to know why you make art, or else why would you even burn one calorie in the studio? Most artists are concerned with style. They are stylistic designers really, not artists. They will tell you different, but that’s because they don’t know what the hell they’re doing. And most artists are lost in the "isms"; they were fed such a load of academic horseshit in this prestigious art school and that renowned art institution. They actually believe the shit they read in art history books. They forgot artists like Mark Rothko existed. And what an artist as deep as Rothko was really doing. Rothko wanted you to weep in front of his canvases. And I have. I feel his feelings as I look at his paintings. And yet he has been dead since 1970. That is a magical, that to me, is art. They are tragic, and an enigma. They are unexplainable, you have to see them. Not the pictures, the paintings. Because he was making paintings that HAD to be made. Paintings that touched his soul.

Ask an artist today what soul is and watch him stutter and stammer. Get ready for the biggest load of crap you’ve ever heard. They think art is about making sculptures out of rubber tires, or lead, or roofing tar. Yes, they are very proficient working with these materials but in the end all they made was an object that says, “Look what I can do with rubber tires.” It's basically an adult version of "Show and tell." Ask the artist what it means and get ready for a long winded recital of words that never address meaning. Ask Rothko or Guston, if they were alive, what their paintings meant and they will most likely laugh and walk away. As they well should because the answers are right there in their work. They shouldn't have to explain, they earned the right to say, "look for yourself and stop insulting me."

Or, perhaps like any great artist, they might question everything they've ever done and look pessimistically at their work, feeling unimpressed and nonplussed. That usually means they are working on something significantly new, a departure. Guston's return to recognizable imagery in the late 60's must have been terribly painful. His deliberately clumsy renderings of the very things he painted as a WPA artist in the 40's was a slap in the face to Abstract Expressionism, and a slap in the face to every collector who purchased any of his work from the 50's and early 60's. He was already well-established and accepted, it was in his interest to continue making more of his abstract paintings. He suffered many negative reactions from critics, gallery owners and fellow artists. He is a perfect example of an artist that HAD to change. He was compelled to make those newer paintings. Look at his late work today, and it's place in accepted modern art; he is an icon. His later work is worth far more than the early paintings. Because it’s been institutionalized therefore it is now profound. I just know, if he were around, he would say to all those critics and historians lauding him, "Leave me alone, I have work to do. Go jerk someone else off." There are two people artists should never trust: critics and dealers.

And of course, organized religion gets its own series. It deserves to be condemned. And while it won’t be condemned in the world, it is in my paintings. That is what artists are responsible for: making things right in their world. Fuck the church, fuck the mosques, fuck the synagogues and fuck the priests before they fuck you. Because it is organized religion that exports values that separate and exclude, politics that hurt and murder…how many times have people killed “in the name of God”? As I wrote in my short story, “Help Wanted”:

“Stay away from churches. Find God in train stations and bus stops.”

Stay tuned for more, there will be blood.

Painting: "Death by Suburb" 1994 Oil on Canvas 48" x 32"

Tea is a drink not a party

2010-07-04T08:07:00.000-07:00

Who is the Tea Party?

These are the same people who pushed the Gingrich platform fifteen years ago, the same people who think Reagan was the Messiah. They're the same extreme right wing Republicans who have been around for decades, and who by the way, are trying to fool the American public and say that the party is made up of mostly "independents." Bull. They're Republicans and the worst kind; they don't even have the balls or the forthrightness to say what they are.

More to the point, these people are all about less government and less spending. It's that simple. And simple is the best word to describe them. Some of these issues are complicated and entangled in other major issues. To simply agree with any legislation that results in less spending is thoughtless.

It's also no coincidence these rallies are fervently emotional, they fly mouthpieces in from all over the country to shout highly-scathing criticism at the President, which I believe is the core of the party and its real purpose. They just hate Obama. And they'll drive or fly anywhere so they can spew their venom through a megaphone or microphone.

Who is the Tea Party? It is comprised of 75% white people, 75% 55 years or older and 75% male, that says a lot. And it's worth pointing out. It's not a coincidence young people are not joining. Or minorities. Or women. We don't like the hype. Or the rage. It's not something we want to associate ourselves with.

These are upper middle class white men who are fighting to keep every dollar they can. It's not that they face poverty, or even a middle class lifestyle due to higher taxes. They are simply greedy and selfish, and that's why it won't last. Because it's not ultimately a viable and vital movement.

This group of cry-babies will be gone in less than a year. And then maybe they'll come back and call themselves "The 1812ers" or the "Neo-Colonists." Either way, they're the same pasty Grecian-Formula SUV-driving, my-lawn-is-greener-than-yours money hoarders we've been hearing from since the Reagan days.

Who is the Tea Party? They are the same people who backed Bush. The same people who won’t admit Cheney is a war criminal. The same people who would drive their BMW past a homeless person and laugh. They are the heartless and the uncompassionate. They are the Ugly Americans.

The World according to God

2010-06-23T05:28:00.000-07:00

Religion ruins everything, because religion is spirituality canned, bottled and sold to the public for influential consumption. Proof of this is in the extreme religion goes to infiltrate all facets of life. They wouldn't be satisfied with simply raising our belief in God. No, that's not good enough. It must be taken to one's personal life, their sex life, where they shop, who they boycott, who they donate to, what political party they will support, etc, etc, and stomach-wrenching etcetera.

Religion finds ways to support the very thing they claim to cherish- LIFE. It is not a coincidence the devoutly religious believe in the death penalty, they believe in governing a woman's right to choose, and they justify killing other human beings IN THE NAME OF GOD. How can you at once believe in protecting precious life and simultaneously believe in government-sanctioned killing? It's easy, ask any religious extremist. They can justify it all, because it makes so much damn sense to them.

Even more troubling, these people believe it is their own, self-realized individual belief. Speak to any devout Catholic, or Orthodox Jew, or Muslim fundamentalist, and they will recite their religion's belief system and tell you it's their personal philosophy. As if they themselves came to these conclusions. Could it be they purchased these beliefs, wholly packaged, with the simple payment of free will and independence? No, according to them, they still have free will. It just so happens, according to the zealot, that their chosen religion happens to fit nicely with their already established beliefs. In other words, part of the brainwash is believing you are not brainwashed. They could never admit they sold off independent thought, because that would be admitting they are sheep.

Extremists claim to promote acceptance but they are the most judmental people on the planet. And those judgments are dangerous because they are the basis for hurting and killing others. If you can justify it through scripture, there's no end to moral condemnation. That is what our society has become. We have gone backwards in time to a puritanical collective mindset. That's why people like Sarah Palin can garner so much public support.

We can justify anything. Because God says it is so. Just read this book and you'll see.

To the TS admirer, a heartfelt message

2010-05-04T07:45:00.000-07:00

Here is a heartfelt message to you, the TS admirer, who I’ve come to know well over the years.

TS, I feel, don't think enough about the whirling feelings that spin about inside your head. We are all about the $$$, and of course we need to live so that's understandable. What I find so compelling is the vacillation of emotion, swinging from one pole to the other, "I'm a good husband, I'm a devoted family man", to "I want to suck on this beauty's cock." Both are honest, yet both are opposite. And yet here they are, trapped inside one being.

I believe we all have a tendency to look back idealistically to better times, more hopeful times. Whether they were better or more hopeful is not the point. What we do as human beings is recount with a certain dreamy light that surrounds the memory, and not the memory itself. People change, relationships change, and there is a tragic feeling of helplessness that cuts to the heart when we stand by like observers, at once the main character and the bystander. We want so much to take the director's chair but we are only a viewer sitting alone in the movie house. Or so it feels when you try to take control of another person's feelings. Because in the end, it is simply not possible.

I wanted to share an excerpt from a story I wrote three years ago, which is on my website. This is a fictional account of a man in a future time confronted by government involvement into the deeper, less-talked about parts of our lives. I was, and still am, fascinated by the idea of government inserting itself into the deepest parts of our emotional lives, places the State as yet has not gone, but have no doubt will one day. I tried to imagine myself as a broken man, a man who once had something special, someone who felt unique but lost all. In some ways, like the character Lester in the film "American Beauty". Although I feel my character is not trying to regain something lost, like Lester. My character is painfully aware that what is lost is lost forever and can never be found.

This is a portion of the story, "A Visit form H.S." 2007:

“OK. Tell me, what would you say was your happiest moment? Describe to me a time or moment in your life that offered true serenity. H.S. would like to include the highlights of your life in their case file, not just your struggles.”

“My happiest moment?”

“Think of a time when all was right with the world. Describe it in all its detail.” Rappier paused to allow Maerkin time. Maerkin gazed into the diffused morning light entering through his kitchen window. A moment peaked its head from the blur of his past. It came to him.

“I was 28 or 29. I had been dating a beautiful young lady, who would eventually become my wife. We were just getting to know each other and love was in the air.”

“Describe the setting.”

“Blue collar New Jersey. Elizabeth. Garden apartment.”

“Aah, yes. Elizabeth, I know it well. I have an uncle buried in the Jewish Cemetery just off Routes 1 & 9.”

“Cubicle-style living where the occupant gives empty rooms warmth and comfort. Otherwise, the space remains generic and the tenant is a faceless, nameless organism taking up space.”

“What room?”

“Bedroom, of course.”

“Would it help to gaze into the Light, Maerkin? Would that make it easier to recall?”

“Um, no, but thanks.”

“What year was it? What objects exist within the room? Are there any other living souls involved in this memory?”

“It was autumn 1995, the room is filled with second-hand furniture I’d acquired- a small TV given as a gift, a bed from an old girlfriend, a few books and my two cats, Boycat and Girlcat.”

“Those were their names?”

“Those were their labels.”

“And what made this moment a highlight, Maerkin? Why this particular moment?”

“I’m not really sure. It jumped out to me; a moment frozen in time, encased in happiness. Times were simple. No career. No children. Life was a ball of clay I could shape to my desires. There was awesome control.”

“I see. Yes, that is attractive. Direct control over your destiny might emit a strong sense of happiness.”

“I was on top of my direction. The forces that governed would submit to my will. I exerted more control over these forces than they did me. I was Master of my reality.”

“Of course, I understand. Very few people reach that place.”

“But I did. I swear, I was the Master. Wind swept around me, rain rolled off me, or so it seemed…”

“And was that it? Was there something else? What about your girlfriend? Was it a love theme? A passion theme? Could this moment be duplicated in a heliogram to be played on the TV screen of your tombstone?”

“Uh- probably not. WE were both high, naked and having wild sex.”

“OK, can’t use it.”

“Well, I don’t see why not. It is after all, my happiest moment.”

“Sorry. H.S. clearly states in Rule 5:22.3(d) no sex or drugs on tombstone screens, you know that Maerkin. However, we can at least incorporate it in your file. Go on…”

“The moment begins as I cue up a Roxy music record. I get up from the bed, naked, walk to the stereo, pull out the Roxy Music album and play the song, ‘More than this’. As the song begins I walk to the bed where she lays in waiting. I pull the covers over us and plant a locking, breathy kiss on my beauty. We are joined at the lips. Then we hear Bryan Ferry’s angelic voice:

I could feel at the time
There was no way of knowing
Fallen leaves in the night
Who can say where they’re blowing
As free as the wind
And hopefully learning
Why the sea on the tide
Has no way of turning

More than this - there is nothing
More than this - tell me one thing
More than this - there is nothing

“As the song plays the lovers entwine in each other. They gently roll across the soft surface of the bed, attached by their lip-lock of love. The camera, if there was one, would hover directly over them in the dimly lit bedroom, illuminated only by a glowing red exit sign just above the bed. It was originally purchased from a building supply catalogue and installed as both a joke and reading light.”

“That’s some pretty racy stuff, Maerkin.”

“The connection is so deep and personal. I remember loving every part of her physical makeup. I loved her breath. I could smell and taste it from the deepest part of her soul. It was pure sweetness. It could be bottled and sold beyond the price of a diamond. We were unguarded and open. There are few moments in a person’s life when romance like this is found. They should be treasured but it seems we always take it for granted…as I neared climax we held each other tightly with closed eyes. The magic moment came and shook me. I had a vision of cliffs falling into oceans; a vivid bird’s eye view of miles of cliff collapsing into water, not unlike those images of icebergs melting in Antarctica.”

“So what happened?”

“We married, had kids, argued and finally divorced. You know, the usual.”

“Was it really love, then?”

“When you fall in love there comes a point where she becomes all women; she is Every Woman. She embodies all that is feminine, soft, voluptuous and loving. It is at that moment that you are unguarded; it is at that moment you drop the shield and explore the magic before you. It is at that moment you are at your most vulnerable. It is at that point she owns you.”

“Are you suggesting it’s all downhill from there?”

“Pretty much.”

“That’s not very optimistic. Are you sure this is your happiest moment?”

“I don’t seek optimism. It’s realism that calls me. The beauty of the moment was in letting my guard down and confidently, faithfully…(a moment of silence)…idiotically, handing myself over to her. One soul entrusted to another. It is the fruit of one’s labor…the apex, the pinnacle and final step of a process that started with a chance meeting at a cafe...

“Then why do you say its all downhill? I don’t follow…”

“It’s all part of the natural rhythm in life. We see these patterns again and again. A flower spends months becoming a bud, then another few weeks flourishing into the vibrant wonder it is. It remains in its highest state of beauty for a few weeks, a small fraction of its total life. Look at an athlete’s career. An athlete is reared for eighteen years, and then sent off to college where he/she excels and gains attention. Years are spent honing their craft at top-notch level. Finally they burst on the professional scene and shine in the spotlight for three to five years. Many less than that. Their career peaks then downslides and eventually they’re bounced from team to team finally retiring. We, as living organisms, peak briefly. It is the nature of things. And it is true for love, too.”

“I’m sorry but I must disagree with you. What about the countless couples who live their lives together, grow old and pass away side by side?”

“That is a lie. That is the second greatest lie perpetrated by society. That is not love. That is tolerance and acceptance.”

“Maerkin, you are so cynical and pessimistic.”

“You call it cynical because it is unpleasant. People are designed to live alone. We are born one at a time, from one mother, and we die alone. One at a time. Even multiple deaths like a car accident or plane crash; we think of it as one instantaneous collective death. But it’s not. Each person dies a separate and personal death. Even the crash itself is experienced individually and unlike any other victim’s experience.”

The entire story can be viewed here:

http://melissacarter.net/avisitfromhs.html

Why I don't write

2010-04-26T13:39:00.000-07:00

I make this writing thing so serious, it becomes a monumental task before I've even touched the keyboard. No person could ever live up to these self-imposed expectations. And so, I successfully un-write myself out of a book every day. Because in my mind I have to be Dostoyevsky, Kerouac, Erica Jong and Bret Easton Ellis all at once instead of just being Melissa. Melissa is good enough, but in my mind I don't think so. Because I think, once I finally lay it out, there’s nothing of substance to offer. I think I need trickery and foolery to somehow pull the wool over the reader's eyes. I don't want them to REALLY know me. And that’s why I can't write. I'm trying to be a writer. Which is boring as all fuck.

The Salesman

2010-04-21T12:12:00.000-07:00

Glengarry GlenRoss is a movie with amazing dialogue; almost every line is worth repeating. While I'm not the biggest David Mamet fan, I am most certainly a fan. And when he's good he's great. Because Mamet is drawn to the struggle, to those voices in our head, those thoughts of desperation so often felt but rarely spoken. I find his dialogue and the scenarios that unfold highly plausible and realistic. Jack Lemmon's character is a perfect example, a man at the end of his rope, late in his career, standing in payphones rain pouring down, making cold calls to people who once filled out a form. Sometimes his dialogue feels forced and does not translate onto film, like "House of Games", while entertaining it felt choppy and unnatural. But in Glengarry, it all comes together perfect. I consider it one of the best films made in the past twenty years.

Consider that every actor in the film, even the peripheral characters, like Kevin Spacey and Ed Harris, are all leading actors who can easily carry a movie on their own. And yet here they are, egos put aside, happy to play a supporting role and contribute to the greater good. Al Pacino was outstanding as Ricky Roma, one of his last great performances before he developed that overly-scratchy voice character that began with Scent of a Woman, and then regurgitated itself in what seems like twenty Pacino-De Niro sagas that added up to nothing of substance.

I highly recommend the DVD special edition, and pay special attention to Alec Baldwin's commentary. He is one of the most insightful actors of our day, capable of telling it like it is without pandering or spewing venom.

One must consider this film as a continuation of the Salesman saga, begun with Arthur Miller's "Death of a Salesman" and followed by the documentary "Salesman" and even more contemporary films like "Tin Men". In this manner Mamet hits big and earns himself a place in literary and cinematic history. The role of a salesman is a journeyman role, and often is filled by people who chose one profession but ended up somewhere else, a person who never lived their intended dream. It is in some ways the ultimate actor's role. Marlon Brando was asked his feelings on being an actor and his response was something like (and I'm paraphrasing), "I don't consider myself an actor. An actor is someone who gets up in the morning, his wife's disgusted with him, his teenage son won't talk to him, he drinks a cold cup of coffee, walks into a shoe store and spends all day trying to convince some lady she looks great in those shoes."

I very much relate to these ideas in my role as a provider/TS persona. Anyone who visits my sites, or meets me, or reads my stuff, or sees my pictures and art will immediately notice I'm creating an image. And selling that image. Not only as a chic with a dick but as a unique individual. That's my niche. That's why I'm different from Yolanda at the Comfort Inn on Route 21. Or all those chickies with dickies on Shemaleyum. I've somehow managed to pay my bills for years inserting myself into men's heads. I'm keenly aware that every phone call, every internet post, every photo, either contributes or deters from my development and reputation. I am a salesman too. But instead of selling land, or cars, I'm selling an idea. Even my sessions, as brief as they are in a man's life, will hopefully settle into his mind as a memory he can fall back on and live out again.

But let's not get too heady. It's about surviving. You know that scary feeling when you see a stack of bills and then look at your measly checking balance? That "me against the world" feeling? I feel that thirty times a day. I think most people do. I'm no different than the used furniture guy. We're all selling something.

When a movie sours, when a movie soars

2010-04-17T14:09:00.000-07:00

I have been living my life in theory these days, pretending to be characters in movies. In theory only, because I’m just barely smart enough to realize I cannot be any of these characters. It would be wonderful to be lost in this movie fantasy but in truth I am painfully aware of the plump body laying on my couch.

And so enter Amazon.com, where I can take my riches and parlay them into $9 purchase, plus $2.98 for shipping and handling, and inject my heroin, by means of the DVD eject button. One such purchase was “Boogie Nights”, the acclaimed film by P.T. Anderson which takes on the portrayal of the porn industry circa 1977-1985. When I first saw Boogie Nights in the theater in 1997, I remember walking away thinking “this film is great”. I cannot say the same today.

Consider that the film was made while there was still a faint creative heartbeat in this over-technologized and purely sterile world, and that Anderson succeeded in casting some of the most talented actors of our day: Burt Reynolds, Julianna Moore, Heather Graham, William H. Macy, Ricky Jay, John C. Reily, Luis Guzman (this man never fails to totally crack me up, you need to see him in the HBO hit “How to Make it in America”). With a cast like this how could one make anything less than a totally riveting film? Consider that Anderson would go on to make a vastly superior movie, “Magnolia”, where he truly does succeed at his original intentions regarding Boogie Nights. In Magnolia, he takes his formulaic interweaving of seemingly unrelated lives and brings them together in a decisively moving way.

Most disappointing in finally seeing Boogie Nights again was the overt and blatant commentary on cocaine. Oh sure, coke will ruin your life, no doubt. And it will ruin your life quickly. Take it from a recovering drug addict. It’s just that the cocaine use in Boogie Nights was so literal, not even symbolic, but literal in its depiction as the source of all ruin, the modern downfall of all stars. I remember getting stoned before first seeing Boogie Nights so perhaps my entire memory of the movie is hazy and better than the reality. Mark Wahlberg did nothing for me. His development as Dirk Diggler was linear and predictable. That could be said for the entire film. There were some fine performances however. Burt Reynolds was wonderful as Jack Horner and his financier, The Colonel, played by Robert Ridgely, was equally impressive. Don Cheadle, as Buck the black country western enthusiast, was fun to watch. Once again, with this enormous wealth of talent, one would think the experience would have been more moving. In a sentence we can sum up: big-dick dishwasher discovered by porn industrialist rises to the top, struggles with his fame, delves into drug addiction, loses his sense of self and finally…well, finally, what? That’s just it. Nothing.

On a more positive note, I saw the film “Synecdoche” starring Phillip Seymour Hoffman and directed by Charlie Kaufman. I had not heard of this film but upon reading online reviews, it seemed just the type of overly-intellectual melancholy and thoroughly depressing film I might like. I’ve watched it once and will be putting time aside to watch it again. Now here is a film that will make you think. A film that will offer no clear answers or tidy little morals that can be boxed up ala Boogie Nights. Its ambiguity, and its self-referential and almost mocking depiction of actors, will bring you back to your own life, like it or not. The very notion of making a movie about making a theater production, where you as director are cast as a starring role, and that same actor follows you around, sometimes even directing the production himself; this is a conundrum, a riddle that you don’t necessarily want to make sense of.

And there, before my very eyes, is the fat plump body on my couch. She shouldn’t watch so many movies, I think. She wouldn’t if she had a life, someone, perhaps myself, says. But she is you, I say. Well then, who is this person looking at her? So many voices, and only one plump body on that rumpled couch.

Carrying condoms, can you be arrested?

2010-03-31T08:26:00.000-07:00

This is not an admission of guilt or inference, further I categorically deny any such selacious activity. Not that I'm a prostitute. But lets' say, for the sake of argument I were one of those types, not that I am one, but if I engaged, oh lets say just as a random stab in the dark, in the act of prostituting my hot slutty body, which just so happens is perfect for the whore business, combined with my despicably filthy mind, in simulata only..... might that perfect storm of whorism make married men all over the world cum violently and earth shatteringly? Now we're talking theory only, I cannot stress this enough, IF I were a cocksucking whore, or as I might call it a Semen Extraction Specialist, hypothetically of course, I then logically would have taken interest in the following prostitution arrest story. And, hypothermically speaking, I might have even offered the following response, not that I did author said response, but hyperkinetically only, as an abstract blueprint of sorts, enough said. Here is a recent article from the New York Post, along with my hypothetical response, which I did not write, but for the sake of argument, let's just say I did:

Can You Get Arrested For Carrying Condoms?

Suspected sex workers are finding their safe sex supplies can by confiscated by the police as "evidence."

"First [the police officer] asked me what I was doing with all these condoms. Then he took the bag and threw it in the garbage. Then he arrested me." -- A transgender woman in New York City, from a 2009 Sex Workers Project survey.

Sienna Baskin, staff attorney at the Sex Workers Project in New York City, says there's a question she's always asked at the "Know Your Rights" workshops she leads for prostitutes and other sex workers: "How many condoms are we legally allowed to carry?"

There is no law in any state in the U.S. restricting condom possession, but if you're a sex worker, you might have reason to believe there is a legal limit. Law enforcement officers in New York City, Washington, D.C., and the San Francisco Bay Area routinely confiscate condoms from suspected suspected sex workers, sometimes filing them as evidence of prostitution. Almost everyone interviewed for a recent Sex Workers Project survey, Baskin says, "mentioned a certain number of condoms over which they felt more concerned about increased harassment." Cyndee Clay, executive director of D.C.-based Helping Individual Prostitutes Survive, says, "It's a common enough practice that everyone knows about it."

Keeping a few condoms tucked in your handbag probably won't land you behind bars -- unless police profile you as a possible sex worker. Are you in an area known for street prostitution? Are you a transgender woman? Are you a woman of color? Do you have a prior record? If you answer yes to any of these questions, the number of condoms you're carrying could suddenly become grounds for suspicion, even if you are not engaging in illegal activity.

Sex workers have reasons to want to avoid attracting attention from police that go beyond fear of arrest. There's a long and shameful history of abuse and harassment of sex workers by law enforcement -- ranging from violence and threats of violence, to police demanding sexual favors in exchange for leniency, to rape. Within this uneasy context, the confiscation of condoms is not an anomaly but emblematic of the failed law enforcement approach to sex work. Instead of preserving the safety and well-being of this often vulnerable population, police officers are endangering them and undermining their ability to protect themselves, their peers, their clients and their communities.

I agree a working girl needs to be tough and stand up for her rights.

A bag of rubbers, as they say "could suddenly become grounds for suspicion". So what? Suspicion? No one gets locked up for suspicion If they are aiming to harrass you so you never return to their town, they still need evidence. For the authorities to take it to that point you have most likely created a very blatant scene. I find it hard to believe the arrested individual didn't give cause for attention to herself. The fact alone they searched her handbag substantiates that.

Some girls are living cartoons of the TS stereotype. They rove around in packs, they Red Roof it @ $59, sometimes THREE in a room. They stay at the very places being targeted. Many clients tell the "a guy hiding in the closet" story in past TS experiences. They don't monitor their traffic they take anyone.

In this business you roll low key. You try to be invisible. You're a business traveler and you want to be left alone. You travel light, you can be out of a room in three minutes. And you don't leave condom wrappers on the floor. If you're smart you bag & tie your garbage or throw it in the dumpster. Everyone says they're "discreet" but it actually involves a lot of details. Leaving a trail means you burned that hotel for future stays. And maybe that area.

Very simply, you do the legwork to keep your business off the streets. Thats part of the job.

Why I'm Pissy

2010-03-09T17:57:00.000-08:00

People act like being pissed off is a bad thing. It's not. I'm always pissed about something but I'm not angry. There's a difference. I was angry as a man. As a female I'm still irked, annoyed, pissed, etc...but inside I'm happy to be me. I get comments like "you seem angry", as if a dude who fems out ought to be a happy-go-lucky sissy. Fuck that, I'm more subversive than ever. As a guy it did not go over well. I came across bitter. And I was. As Melissa, it seems a bit more palettable. Maybe they're just staring at my tits and not listening.

I have lived a tough life...even now with a pretty face, the history is behind the mask. Life was always really tough. Brooklyn, destitution, physical ailments, drugs, constantly moving every two years (can you imagine how much that sucks to have to move every two years?)...I've been one inch from disaster since I'm 18.

I like being annoyed, troubled, bothered....that means there's something on my mind. Kurt Vonnegut had similar ideas. He felt contemporary writing was missing something- it was that urgency to voice thoughts that bother a writer. More than bother- gnaw away at oneself. Writers are a dime a dozen these days, it is no great honor to publish a book. Any asshole can do it. That's because they've taken meaning and importance out of the equation and replaced it with profit. The same applies with music and art. There are very few artists or writers that really matter now. But I guess to the American public that's okay because they've got to get to Home Depot before 5, and then pick up their robot kid from soccer, buy dinner at Boston Market, just in time to watch American Idol.

I don't understand why so many transsexuals seem to think gender change means happy and cheery. That's retarded. Take a look at most transgender profiles- its sickeningly cheery and uninteresting. It's like a My Magic Pony commercial. I could puke. Show me someone who's pissy and I'm interested. Or if not pissy, deeply troubled. Being comfortable with the world means you're not thinking. That's why America is a mere shell of it's former self. We are cattle, we protest nothing, we do not organize our disfavor with government, business or culture. We lost our right to an opinion. But thats okay cause Dancing with the Stars is on at 9.

Mis-Cast Actors

2010-03-01T11:33:00.000-08:00

Mis-cast actors. I think this would make an interesting topic on the right discussion board. Unfortunately, my website does not get that kind of traffic to support 1 in a thousand readers replying to something neither they nor I give a shit about. That is not to say my website doesn't have heavy traffic. It does, but my average viewer is more apt to click photos & videos before my blog. On the plus side, I'm sure the percentage of viewers who successfully jerk off to my pictures has got to be around 25% not including family. I guess that's where my power lies, in the masturbation industry. I receive deep and sincere thanks from gentlemen all over informing me that they did indeed masturbate to one of my movies, or just a note from a gentleman expressing appreciation. Those little voices chiming in day after day, they really mean something to me. They make a difference when your confidence is shaky. And mine is shaky at best. (Ssshhhh it's a little secret: while I appear confident and poised, I'm actually terrified and petrified, blind and stabbing in the dark at something I'm not even quite sure I'm trying to achieve.) I'm just really good at acting the part. It's all acting, except it's real life, it's like watching a movie you're starring in. I think most transsexual women have this skill. It's essential for getting around the world. If you don't believe in yourself, act as if, until you do believe. People see what they want to see, or sometimes what they're conditioned to see, and they accept it.

Anyway, back to the topic "miscast actors": I will get the ball rolling here with my entry, an absolute miscast for sure, confirmed by the American Guild of Miscast Roles.

William Hurt as Richie Cusack, Crime Syndicate Boss of Greater Philadelphia and brother to Joey Cusack in "A History of Violence"

You have to see the movie to know what I and I'm sure thousands of viewers must have felt. Total miscast. Curiously, not without effect, however. There were powerrful lines come to life in a way only William Hurt can do. There were memorable lines ,and I do mean memorable:

"Jesus, Joey" Richie Cusack says just before Joey shoots him in the forehead) My old boyfriend and I used to say that whenever something seemed screwed up, one of us would say, "Jesus, Joey".
When his three henchmen get rolled by a weaponless Joey and he escapes, Richie Cusack says to one of his bleeding, dying henchmen, "HOW do you fuck that up?" I think he actually says that twice and then shoots his own employee through the heart

While the movie "A History of Violence" is a great movie (yes, I'll use the term "great", it barely slides in the category) the role of Richie Cusack should be like a real Philadelphia guy, which is basically a Jersey guy with a little more grace (not much). Philly mobsters are like, take a capo from Astoria and corrupt union official from Linden, NJ, combine their worst traits, and put an Eagles ballcap on his head. That should be Richie Cusack. William Hurt projects far too intelligent and cultured an air for Richie Cusack to permeate about. But I want to be fair. While I do believe nobody had any business calling Mr. Hurt for the role, I will say with pleasure he put a unique spin on the role. While it is not the treatment I would have used, Hurt is once again terrificly successful and quietly powerful. That's his trademark. He has quietly and without fanfare carved out his place as one of the great actors of our times. He is perhaps not on the same page as Nicholson or Penn but he is right behind them. I'm a big fan, and even a fan of his performance in "A History of Violence", but I see the whole concept as faulty. I think Hurt should have been on some other set working on an introspective drama dealing with loss and grieving.

Hurt's miscast role does not in any way ruin the movie, just makes it a curiosity. As stated, I like "A History of Violence" a lot, but I have mixed feelings on Cronenberg. As miscast as Hurt is in this film, it is curious to note the rest of the cast is simply outstanding. Viggo Mortensen is at his best. And perfectly cast as Tom Stall a.k.a. Joey Cusack, a simple midwest man with a shady past. Maria Bello, perfect for the role of Tom's wife, plays well and is unresistably alluring. Ed Harris is wonderful as Carl Fogerty, the Philadelphia boss who personally drives out to visit Joey. Probably the biggest surprise is the well-acted and heartfelt performance of Ashton Holmes as Jack Stall, son of Tom Stall. All in all, a great cast for any movie, with memorable performances by all.

Please, if you read my blog, by all means contribute with your miscast contribution. I'm curious to see what others think are obvious miscasts.

The 9/11 Conspiracy Theorists

2010-02-20T06:10:00.000-08:00

I used to laugh at them. However, they just won’t go away. Now I’ll say on the record they scare me. Not because their claims are justified. It’s because the depth of their mental confusion and the veracity of their need to campaign for conspiracy shows a disturbing social phenomenon.

Whenever a cataclysmic event occurs there is a collective discussion followed by a need for reflection and understanding. Events occur sometimes in an instant, like the 9/11 terror attacks, or a lengthy ongoing horror, like the Holocaust, that require us to make sense of it all. We have a hard time accepting the fact that man could be so inhumane to each other.

The Arab fundamentalists have no trouble understanding this. They feel there is nothing left to lose. So complete annihilation of the Western world is not only justified, it is something they strive for. Should they be condemned for such utter disregard for human life? Maybe. Then again, if I felt that desperate I might hold a similar stance. But I, like most of society thankfully, do not feel the same.

9/11 was a tragedy no doubt. But I think the deeper tragedy is the realization that followed. We were fortunate to get a window into the minds of so many people. Everyone talked about it. People made documentaries about it. And the conspiracy theorists were born. They scare the shit out of me. These people are our neighbors, our co-workers, people we sit in traffic with. They honestly believe that somehow this was a diabolical plot perpetrated by some unseen invisible empire. They go to ridiculous lengths to explain, or rather not explain, how the collapse of the twin towers and other nearby structures could not have resulted from impact of two jumbo jets flying at high speed loaded with fuel. They speak of "controlled demolition" and evidence of fire accelerants. They cite structural engineering data, anything at all, ANYTHING, but the obvious.

Hundreds of millions of people watched the event live on the air but, according to these people, it was a staged event to disguise a deeper plot. Right, lol, it couldn't in any way have been the impact or the heat and flames, no, that's not it...Mohammad Atta is really a CIA operative, right? And Big Foot is roaming Yellowstone Park, right? And UFO's can only be seen in the desert of New Mexico, right?

This is the advent of the internet. What were once silent thoughts darting through a person’s mind can now be defined in words and posted on the World Wide Web in seconds for public consumption. The average person on the street can now stand on a soapbox in the hopes of drawing a crowd. These are folks with too much free time. Look at the kids who put the "Loose Change" documentary together. They are out-of-work skateboarders desperate for their fictional account to gain attention so they can pursue a career in film. It's no wonder the rest of the world laughs at the stupidity of America.

Painting: "Clear Skies" by Melissa Carter 2002

Stanley Kubrick is the Shiznitz

2010-02-12T20:07:00.000-08:00

I've been on a Stanley Kubrick kick the past few weeks. I was always impressed with Kubrick but never saw all of his films, or really ever took the time to look deeply into any one of his movies. Which is exactly what you need to do. More than any other director, Kubrick was the artist as filmmaker. He was first and foremost a visual artist, like a painter, except that he expressed himself through photographic medium and this he did at the earliest of ages.

Like any good director, if I like their films I tend to watch them twenty times. I am most impressed with Kubrick's progression from film to film. Watching the steps he took from Paths of Glory to Lolita, and then the giant step to Dr. Strangelove, only to be surpassed by the leap of 2001 A Space Oddysey. That film alone seals his place in motion picture history. I see now it was the beginning of Kubrick's "mature period", a signature mark all his films forward would have. Even the best directors are unable to get to that level of clarity and perfection. It is the kind of movie you have to think about. For a long time. A true testament to the film is it's ability to look technically rich and visually believable forty-two years later. Most movies are entrenched in the mire of their times, technically. The scenes of galactical cosmos are still impressive. And completely believable. The almost character-like presence of classical music, which would continue to be an intrisic presence in every future project, is not hokey or cliche.

A Clockwork Orange, for me, is where Kubrick becomes a Master. It was so clean and fluid, and you get the feeling that every single shot, every word spoken, and not spoken (2001 is a perfect example of words not spoken) was considered at great length. All his films thereafter had this clean masterly air. He owned every aspect of a project, and inserted himself at will where he felt changes needed to be made. From cinematography to editing to even marketing and legal issues, Kubrick defines the take-charge person.

The music, as mentioned, is an integral part of his movies from 2001 forward. I like listening to the soundtracks. They can be spooky and moody. Wendy Carlos, originally Walter Carlos, collaberated with Kubrick on The Shining and A Clockwork Orange.

For all his ingenuity and painstaking perfection, I am at a loss to explain Eyes Wide Shut. The fact alone he chose Tom Cruise and Nicole Kidman, married at the time, for the leading roles of the movie, makes it's abiltiy to rise into Kubriesk legacy almost impossible. Kubrick never chose actors for their star status, and I'm sure that was not the reason for his choice in Eyes Wide Shut. But I do think it is a burden to the film in it's total experience. I'm not saying Kubrick lost his ability to make a compelling and yet again thoughtful movie that required time to understand. He did. Some parts of Eyes Wide Shut are spectacular. Certainly the orgiesque cultish and ritualistic sex gathering was absolutely riveting visually, erotically and socially. That was a Kubrick hallmark, to take an event and make it more than the event. Everything was a symbol for something greater. I'll have to watch Eyes Wide Shut again. Perhaps there is Kubrik unity I somehow missed the first two viewings. Kubrik died only days after the film's release. He was not a filmmaker afraid to change a film after release. He called back prints of films in his career, even had additional prints sent to theaters, to be spliced into the existing film. It is not beyond the realm of possibilities Kubrik, had he lived, may have tweaked Eyes Wide Shut for further clarity, to get to the film's essence. Or maybe I need to get some clarity.

Rush Limbaugh: Certified piece of shit

2010-01-20T10:46:00.000-08:00

Why Rush Limbaugh still has an audience is beyond me. His latest thoughtless remarks, which always illustrate his complete lack of compassion, are about the natural disaster in Haiti. He of course uses it as a platform to criticize President Obama, who is doing what a President should do - help the helpless any way we can. Here are some comments from the rotund brainless wonder:

"Everything this president sees is a political opportunity, including Haiti, and he will use it to burnish his credentials with minorities in this country and around the world, and to accuse Republicans of having no compassion." (Anyone who does not believe the Haitian people need help now has NO compassion).

Limbaugh says that "the earthquake played directly into Obama's hands allowing him to look "compassionate." (As if the sizemic eruptions of Earth can somehow be choreographed).

He also appeared to discourage help for the island nation, saying, "We've already donated to Haiti. It's called the U.S. income tax." What a fucking asshole.

Meanwhile the selfish fatties like Rush and his supporters complain about $100,000,000 sent to Haiti...that equates to 33 cents per American, a poultry amount in comparison to the opportunity to save thousands if not tens of thousands of lives.

And by the way, this is not simply an American effort, it's a global effort and every nation should be contributing to those in need. That includes China and Russia. We will get our pound of flesh from them one way or another.

Damaged Goods

2009-12-28T11:52:00.000-08:00

See my new video, "Damaged Goods":

www.melissacarter.net/damagedgoods.html

It's a good example of where my heads at these days and what I've been working on. It's like my paintings are becoming videos. Which makes perfect sense.

Why damaged goods? Cause thats exactly how I feel right now. So much is converging at this time to make me feel like a spec of dust, an insignificant nobody tossed into a sea of a million somebodies. Everyone seems to be so busy with their lives, taking care of their affairs, while I sit in my house and watch the world go by.

That's not to say I don't feel valuable, just lost. I could use a flashlight, a few thousand bucks and a map.

About my Art

2009-07-30T14:27:00.000-07:00

My paintings are the door to my soul. In them you will see my most sardonic thoughts, the depth of my cynicism but also my deepest appreciation for this beautiful world. The world is not wholly evil, only partial. Beyond the raping & pillaging of this planet lies a strange beauty. I feel eternal gratitude for being given the chance to live here on Earth.

I was born to paint. This is my one gift. And yet I have painted so little these past ten years. It is my greatest sorrow. Hopefully I can find that spirit now that my transition is over. For a long time my focus was on my transformation and in a sense I became my own painting. That is done now. My canvases await.

My work can be seen on my website however the paintings are decepetivly large. You cannot tell from the images, but most paintings are huge, some as large as nine feet tall. "Biitch" a red painting of a girl lifting her summer dress, is eight-feet tall. A painting of an old IBM 286 is nine feet square. "Stop Pause", a portrait of a radio, is eight feet wide. They were made for museums. The only question is will they get there?

http://melissacarter.net/paintings.html

Drawing has always been for me, a kind of shorthand painting, a hybrid expression between writing and painting. It offers me the analytical quickness of writing a story but still confines itself as a visual medium like a painting.

Like my paintings I dwell on the unpleasantries of modern life. Somewhere in that ugliness is a strange beauty and a cathartic resolution to what troubles me. Clearly, based on the content of my drawings, I don't hold society or it's moral compass in high regard.

Society tried to do with me as it saw fit. And often had it's way with me. But in my drawings I always win regardless of the subject. If my drawings could be summed up in two words it would be "fuck you". But it's a fuck you with a twinkle in my eye and a smile on my face. Because as beligerent as they are, they are also playful and I love that my playfulness comes out so freely. A perfect examle is "Parking regulation", which I love. Also take a look at "Sunday morning" and "Daily Grind". LOL I still laugh every time I see those.

http://melissacarter.net/drawings.html

TV vs TS (finally clarified)

2009-07-12T08:02:00.000-07:00

Allow me to list what I have seen as distinctions between TV and TS. Having lived both and started as a crossdresser, I dwelled and obsessed over these thoughts, especially as dissatisfaction with my "double life" grew. Here now the definitions:

1. TV's live a fractured "double life", they are known as Bob by most and Tiffany by some. This split life remains separate and the TV does his utmost to prevent worlds colliding. In contrast, the TS is repulsed living as a male, we can't stand having to present as male. We yearn for the day we are legally and spiritually female and the transition is over.

2. TV's are heavily invested in their male identity, in fact it is their predominant identity. When they die their male name is scribed onto their tombstone, and most will never know of their feminine escapades. It is shrouded in secrecy. TS, on the other hand, loot and pillage their male life so that all is left is an empty shell of a building. It is all transferred to the female side. TS strive for ONE coherent identity and ONE blended life. We want to put our male past behind us once and for all.

3. A preoccupation with clothing, hosiery and shoes permeates a TV's interest. There is a sexual fixation attached to garments, underwear, etc...The TS views clothing in the same way a natural-born woman does: there is no fetishistic fixation, clothes are simply clothes. We go for comfort first and a sense of natural style a close second. Take a look at what TVs wear for the most part- go to a TG party and you will see they wear weird clothes, not at all what real women wear.

4. I caught a lot of shit for this when I wrote it on my blog but I'm stating it again cause it's the truth: "crossdressers don't look like real women but they all kinda look like each other." TS, however, strive for complete and total stealth. We want to blend in seamlessly so that if we get any looks at all, they are looks of lust not, "check out that dude in a dress."

5. TVs are into the shortcut, for example, they want the quick fix, i.e. wigs instead of real hair, breast forms instead of real tits, they even have hip and ass padding. For the TS, only complete authenticity will do. I don't take my tits off at the end of the night. I've tried but they simply don't come off.

6. TVs don't generally have the opportunity to live en femme every day. For most, they get to be Tiffany once or twice a week, for some less than that. Because of sporadic female expression they never get a chance to really grow as their female self. Most are not even aware of this. They are so caught up in the cycle of Bob-Bob-Bob-Tiff-Bob it just seems like the norm. TS live EVERY day as their female self. Like a painter who paints each day, their progress grows in leaps and bounds simply by virtue of the consistency.

7. Lastly, this addresses the issue of surgery. SRS has NOTHING to do with TS status, or for that matter female status. For example, I am a non-op. I have no intention of having SRS. Yet I am legally a female on a state and federal level. My transition is over. I've lived as a female for years. With that in mind, how can that surgery really define who has become a complete woman and who has not? When I'm at the supermarket and the dudes are checking me out, do you think they have a clue I'm TS? Hell no, they're imagining fucking my vagina. It's none of their business what's in my underwear. Point is, the concept of " going all the way" is a gray area. When guys ask me, "are you going all the way?" I tell them I already have.

My 2009 "Dressed to Arrest" Tour heats up

2009-07-07T05:42:00.000-07:00

I head to New England today, kinda like pitchers and catchers report early for spring training. Should get me nice and warmed up for the Midwest starting next week. Also I've added New York City in early August. Here's the dates:

NEW ENGLAND

Hartford, CT July 7 - July 8

Boston, MA July 8 - July 10

MIDWEST

Chicago, IL July 14 - July 19

Detroit, MI July 19 - July 21

Cleveland, OH July 21 - July 23

Pittsburgh, PA July 23 - July 24

EAST COAST

Philadelphia, PA July 28 - July 31

New York City August 3-7

WEST COAST

Los Angeles, CA August 11-17

(San Diego, CA August 14-16)

San Fransisco, CA August 18-21

purrrrrrrrrrr

Still he wants to be with me

2009-05-30T06:10:00.000-07:00

Here is an old poem I wrote three years ago I found on an old blog. It brought back some warm feelings:

Sunday morning I wake
Oh good not alone
Warm body I crave
Black muscle on bone
Can’t resist I am drawn
I turn here’s my plan:
If the world were to end
I’d be safe with my man
~~~~
He accepts that I’m not
Sees the truth as it is
A woman in theory
But real nonetheless
Still he wants to be with me
~~~
I’m late all the time
I forget when to call
I say I will do things
Don’t do them at all
Still he wants to be with me
~~~
I smoke pot like a fiend
My house is a mess
Too much time in the bathroom
And I must confess
Bugs the shit out of him
Feel my chances are slim
You see a man can only tolerate
So much insanity on his plate
A woman on the other hand
Makes a life of it around her man
And still he wants to be with me
~~~
I ask for presents
They come in threes
I ask him to fuck me
He’s such a tease
I ask him to fuck me
He says say please
Like a good girl should
I beg on my knees
My boyfriend my love
Still be with me please
~~~
He’s happy again
Well I don’t disappoint
He gets what he wants as he’s leaving my joint
He says you're my girl I say I’m his girl
I’m warmed round his love in a cold concrete world
~~~
Our relationships solid he knows what he has
He's one step away from dumping my ass

2009-05-21T11:21:00.000-07:00

Heres a letter I received from one of my many, many, incredibly huge number of, loyal webcam viewers:

Dear Melissa,

I'm missing you! I love your shows but haven't seen you in a while.I hope everything is alright for you.

Things I like about you:

Your attitude - you respect those who respect you. You don't put up with bullshit either. you always speak your mind regardless.

Your opinions - I agree with what your experience has taught you, and what you've learned in life is reflected in your views. You are tolerant to a point, and the more I listened the more I heard a well balanced philosophy.

Musical taste - No kidding, you have EXCELLENT taste in music. I have never once tuned in and not liked what was in the background. Allot of people have OK to marginal taste in music, but I guess yours is very much like mine, and that is rare (he said breaking his arm while patting himself on the back!)

There are lots of other things I enjoyed, you are open, honest, a pelasure to listen to and look at, your smile is bright always genuine, and believe it you project your presence so well. It's a quality few can duplicate.

Of course I'll be like the mainstream and praise your beauty. You are so very sexy and arousing, a googleplex on a scale of 10, the body of a godess, the lips that make me long to kiss, the eyes I'd love to stare into and have stare back, the warmth I know is not in my arms, The first voice I'd wish to hear upon waking and the last before I dream, ... I shall stop here.

I want you to know that the beauty you have, and I praise, would be very little without the other parts I mention(opinion attitude, outlook, etc...) that make you what you are. At this stage of life I'm fooled by very little and you are not only a rare beauty, which I'm sure so many others point out, but a genuinely good person I would wish to have as a friend at the very least.

Take care and hope to see you again soon.

Love & respect,

Special Delivery to You, the Faker

2009-04-25T06:45:00.000-07:00

You, I'm talking to you, all of you, that is 99% of you, you're all full of shit you're all fake. You pretend to be something you're not. Men, thats what you are. Stop saying you're a girl, leave that to the real girls. If it bothers you then I'm ringing a chord of truth. Fuck, someone needs to say this!

Now get back to your fucking cubicle and get that report ready for your boss before you lose your job due to faggotry.

Excerpt from my book

2009-03-06T21:05:00.000-08:00

I'm in the midst of writing my story, which should be ready approximately ten years after my death. Here now, in mid-stride, having no knowledge of the context, you may jump right in:

I’m the girl with the husky voice, that woman who having undergone all the necessary physical augmentations, still projects somewhere in her aura that original gender. I’m the shemale bitch, the woman with something extra, I’m the chick with a dick, and though I say there’s no price for my soul you can clearly find my hourly rate on the internet.

This brings us to a kind of infallible truth among transsexuals and that is, well, trannies suffer such a poor reputation because we behave like, er,uh…trannies. What exactly is tranny behavior then? We must start with the basic idea of transgenderism, and that is we are inherently dissatisfied with our own basic construct. We are in fact, disgusted. You hear now and then how this is a serious medical condition, an issue of life or death. When I hear such statements, and mind you this is coming from a tranny, I wanna puke. It is a load of bullshit. Our hearts will not stop nor will our lungs fail to fill with air should we keep our penises or don male attire.

I submit a position that is not popular in the transgender community, a term so laughable to me because of it’s complete non-existence. I hear this phrase transgender community, as if there is a little village where we all rally together to support each other. And here now, the truth: there is no population within society more divisive and isolated unto themselves, more unsupportive of our universal goal of acceptance and this fact reveals itself each time a transgender bites down on the hardships of assimilation. Each time a TS is fired from her job, or ridiculed by a neighbor, or given that look at a restaurant or bar, she goes it alone and her perseverance is dependent solely on herself. I will touch upon this further in.

I believe we all make choices. I believe the decision to transition from one gender to the other is a deliberate choice, not some act of fate or destiny predetermined at birth. Most transgenders are repulsed by this position because in assuming complete responsibility for this choice, it must be concluded that the switch is not vital, not necessary, and this goes against all the malarky we read about in countless trans-books so popular today. However, if we follow the logic of this idea the final conclusion is one of true accountability. In recognizing the choice, and not the need to transition, we can be viewed as more responsible for our actions and ultimately society will be more accepting of our place. It is a concept the general public can understand. To say we are a “woman trapped in a man’s body” brings about connotations of predestiny, almost a fairy tale. How are we to be taken seriously if this is how we’re viewed? This concept perpetuates the myth of the freak, and is evidence of how our own behavior further sinks us into our self-created hole.

Indeed, I am not innocent. My own actions permeate the stereotype. I am a transsexual escort, I live outside the mainstream, and my lifestyle is in many ways exactly the TS cartoon. I did drugs for years and had wild unprotected sex, I charge men for the privilege of an intimate experience with my body; I am unable to hold a job. But here is what I am not: I am not a drag queen, I am not a spectacle. When I walk out of my house I leave with dignity and composure. Poise and feminine control are the pivotal center. What I despise most is the outlandish queen-like behavior we see so often. That is where self-respect and dignity play a key role. Because in this respect we are no different than natural-born women. A woman, natural or TS, must carry herself with grace. We must steer away from loudness or lewdness. And in the case of the TS, we must disconnect from the male mindset. I will take this a step further and say we must fully disconnect from the gay community.

Our association with the gay population has done transsexuals a great disservice. And yet we have only ourselves to blame. How often do we see a transgender event, often with titles such as “Girl’s Night Out” and the like, held at gay establishments? This is where the crossdressers and transvestites go, the part-timers who live 90% of their life as Bob and then on the last Thursday of the month miraculously appear as “Tiffany”? The gay bars are used because they are the most accepting of such events and least likely to judge. The inherent flaw is that people begin to see the two populations as essentially one. The transgender community thus becomes an offshoot of the gay community. And this is misleading entirely. The fact that such crossdressers engage in sex with other men furthers the notion that it is a) sexually-based and b) homosexual in nature. After all, we’re all sucking cock so we must all be fags, right?

As I recover...reflections

2008-12-18T15:35:00.000-08:00

Three and half weeks after surgery

Life has slowed to a near stop, still resting and recovering. I had a bad stomach bug that combined with the anesthesia to really mess me up inside. I was terribly bloated, had trouble going to the bathroom and wasn't sleeping well. But now I'm better, my breasts are settling into place; they look and feel great. They're not so sore and sensitive any more, which is a good thing. They are slowly but surely getting back to the sensitivity I had. My face is healing well, most people can't even tell I had surgery.

I have been sleeping, resting and quietly watching the American economy crumble from my comfy bed. At least I'm keeping my money in my face and tits. In a strange way I am almost enjoying watching the collapse of modern day America because I feel like the rest of the country is getting a small taste of my life the past seven years. Job loss, destitution, no savings, deep debt, never knowing where your next buck is coming from- welcome to my world. On the other hand, I have the luxury of being able to say I followed my calling and am living the life I want. I end this year approximately the same in debt but have two major surgeries under my belt, thousands of dollars in laser and electrolysis, my credit is still good, my bills are paid and I'm in control of my destiny. I'm clean and sober over four months and haven't had a cigarette since October 1st. I travelled extensively and have an even more extensive tour planned for 2009. I am officially and legally Melissa, and am officially a woman on a state and federal level. While I can't say it's been an easy year I can say it's been a year filled with accomplishments.

As proud as I am of my accomplishments I would not want to make the same mistakes again. It is my hope 2009 will be a better and less rocky road. As much as I'd like to say I'm out of the woods I need to be realistic. As long as I escort, as long as I'm scraping the rent together, as long as my credit card debt looms, as long as I leave myself vulnerable to bad guys, I am always one step from calamity. That said, I walk confidently, even with some trepidation, my chin up, my head clear, my perky tits and a smile on my face.

It's November therefore change

2008-11-22T09:21:00.000-08:00

In two days I'll have breast implant surgery. In addition to the implants the doctor will perform minor plastic surgery to my face, a lip lift, which is removing a small sliver of skin under my nose and pulling up my top lip a smidgen. As with all procedures, my doctor has my complete confidence and understands natural is the key. That is, it should not even occur to people that I've had work done.

Am I excited? Totally. I worked so hard to make this possible. This has been very carefully planned out; the date was set six months ago, I've been slowly paying my surgeon a thou here a thou there, the forms have been fitted and the cc-size changed twice (I eventually decided on 275-cc medium profile rounds), and pretty much everything I can think of was addressed including recovery time. I should be a solid C-cup when all is settled.

Tonight my boyfriend and I are going to see Madonna in Atlantic City. That of course, is another dream come true. Madonna has and continues to be a total hero and inspiration. I would think any transsexual must appreciate her ability to reinvent herself. After all, isn't that what we do?

On Monday I will be at the hospital at 8:30 a.m. Surgery is scheduled for 10:30. After surgery I will spend the week resting and recooperating at a beautiful old mansion on a barrier reef island along the New Jersey shore. I can think of no better way to recover than to look out my window and see the ocean. Lucky me.

It's funny it seems like I go through these life-changing moments each November. It was November 2004 when I suddenly and without warning lost my hearing in my right ear, my equilibrium and with that my hopes and dreams. I suffered terribly the next six months, melancholy, thinking my life was over. But I came back damnit. Then the following November, tailspinning into a horrible depression and hanging up my girl clothes. Then the following year, fired without a clue, fearing homelessness or worse and looking into a very uncertain and scary future. But I hung in there. And last November, crashing my car and smashing my head into the windshiled. A few days and seventeen stitches later I was fired yet again. And there I was in the"my-life's-changing-and-I-can't-do-a-damn-thing-about-it" hotseat. And now here we are again, it's November so therefore my life must be changing. A few cup sizes later, a week to reflect at the beach (in the cold when there's no one else around, I love that) and who knows what else is coming. We will see. All I can do is brace myself, hope for the best and prepare for the unexpected, however you do that.

It's been a great year full of pitfalls and setbacks but you know what? I'm coming out on top yet again. I'm 100 days clean and sober, almost two months of no smoking. Drugs and booze are a world I don't want to know about anymore. I have no interest in escape. Why escape? I have too much to do. As I recover there are a number of projects to undertake: first I want to re-design my websites, both personal and business. I also want to start a paysite, XXX of course, and have already begun that process. That will entail a constant flow of new content but with my new boobies I don't see a problem. And I very much want to start painting again and writing my book.

I want to start running as soon as I can. Due to my drug recovery I didn't run that much this year, maybe fifty times in all. That's nothing for me. Based on what I've read regarding the healing process I probably won't be running till after the new year. I want to seriously work my diet and skin care program. After surgery I'm interested in a laser resurfacing of my face to help correct some damage done by an idiot electrologist who burned my skin last year. I may need to wait on that procedure a bit. It will also require hospitalization.

I probably will not be "working" again this year. Recovery and healing will be the main focus. Money will just have to wait. I have big plans for 2009. Lots of traveling. I've already set my 2009 winter and spring schedule. I plan to be in Florida and Los Angeles in January and February. And also a midwest tour encompassing Chicago, Cincinatti, St. Louis, Kansas City and Denver. I've really honed the craft of touring since getting clean. I research each town along the way and find the best running spots, the nicest parks, the best restaurants and art museums. There is nothing like living life now, getting my kicks on the real stuff not the fake stuff.

As for my bras, they will be useless and I'm giving them away. If any of you are interested in a collection of 34-B & 36-B cup bras, mostly black, mostly padded, some gel most Victoria's some Maidenform a few lacey a few satin but a nice collection all in all, please email me privately.

Life has become very much the life I always wanted. It's the little things that matter now- a cup of coffee on the picnic bench, a run in the park, enjoying the countryside, closing my eyes and feeling glad for simply being alive. While my ambitions run high, I never want to forget this simple but hard-earned lesson. We will choke on our ambitions lest we forget the simple things.

Thanksgiving is coming. I have a lot to be thankful for. Thanks to all my suporters and clients who met me or said kind things here on my page. Thanks to my friends and family who loved me unconditionally. Thanks to my fellow recovering addicts who helped me to see the light. And thanks to you for not being a douchebag. That is of course, if you're not being a douchebag. If you are go fuck yourself. If you're not, I wish you a wonderful holiday to you and your family.

2008-11-03T19:33:00.000-08:00

For me, passability is in the eye of the beholder, and it's not for a TS to say whether they're passable or not.

I will say this however: TS don't have the right to judge their passability but they do have the ability to observe the frequency of passing. It appears I pass pretty much all the time and get hit on by unsuspecting guys on a daily basis. For me, that is the ultimate test. If the dudes are checking you out, you're good.

My credentials show me as female. That goes for my driver license, life and car insurance and credit cards. That was important for me. I felt it was disingenuous to live as Melissa but to be officially labeled in my old name and male gender. I remember once being stopped by a cop before I legally changed name and gender. The officer did not believe I was the person in the license.

I would also like to add that from the very beginning of my transformation passability was important to me. In the beginning, I did not pass all the time. And it fucking killed me. I would cry.

Some might say passability is overrated and what's most important is that you're happy in your own skin. While that is true don't let them fool you- passing is huge for any TS.

Boston & the Dickhead Factor

2008-10-28T11:49:00.000-07:00

My trip to Boston was so-so. The trip was loaded with guys jerking me around in one form or another, and this continues even back home in New Jersey. I have generally seen an increase in guys playing games, which as you know I call the dickhead factor.

The dickhead factor (the ratio of people who call with impure motives, that is they have no real intention of dating) which I originally set at 50% and then adjusted to 75% is now at an all-time high of 90%.

9 out of every 10 phone calls/texts have been from guys looking for free phone sex (long pauses between questions, lots of "anatomical" questioning, dialogue revolving around me cumming on them), hagglers (I state repeatedly in ads non-negotiable) , callers who make appointments then no-show no-call (apparently whores are not entitled to common courtesy), guys who want to "meet for a drink" (when I tell them the donation is still the same, drink or no drink they mysteriously drift into the woodwork) and guys sending me pics of their dicks. And let's not forget the guys who ask, "do you party?" in other words "can I bring drugs to your hotel room?"

Not to mention, my ads and websites clearly state "NO TEXTS" so why am I receiving any texts at all? I've analyzed this and found the following: not one guy who texted me followed up with a real date. It is a similar result regarding the "shoppers", those prospects who call and badger girls with twenty questions. Not one guy who asked the battery of anatomy/biology questions, "how big are you? are you functional? do you cum a lot? how much? cut or uncut?", has followed through with an appointment. They are a pathetic bunch, they ask these questions like they're shopping for tires, "radial? steel-belted? good in snow?"

I believe this increase in deadbeats is a reflection of the economy as these hassles were less earlier in the year. I think some guys simply get off on the live communication, and they'll take anything they can get for free. Bottom line is some guys have class, some don't. Thanks to all of you who do.

melissa

Dark Times

2008-10-13T06:11:00.000-07:00

The dark ages are now. If ever you want to test that theory live the life of a TS. No matter how passable you are, no matter how stealth you live, sooner or later you face discrimination and ignorance.

Here is a sad statement of our times: I am happier now, more secure within myself emotionally and economically, as an escort and adult entertainer. I spent ten years trying to do the "right thing" and pursued a career in management, only to be tossed to the curb five times. Can you imagine what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under your life year after year? It's demoralizing. And eventually society, in it's own subliminal manner, whispers to you quietly, "be gone oh freakish one", "get out of plain sight."

And so we become the subculture, the 'girl with a secret', the tenants on society's fringe. I've lived with no health insurance for a year, lived many years like this, unprotected and exposed to calamity. My income this week will be only as good as the men who choose to visit me. I may roll in the money, or eek out a week on grapes.

This is our modern world, our enlightened society...and we continue to feed the archaic with our misfit leaders and their evangelical morals.

Smooth Sailing

2008-04-24T07:51:00.000-07:00

Everything is going well for once in my life. I've recovered completely from surgery in January, working for myself, traveling a lot, meeting new people and seeing great art. In love with my boyfriend, enjoying life and feeling so hopeful about the future. Now all I need to do is lose these ten pounds gained over the winter....

xoxo,

melissa

Surgery

2008-01-26T06:20:00.000-08:00

Day Three of my recovery. Yesterday the doctor removed packing from my nose. I can breath again, hallelujah! My friend Tina came over with some Chinese food. I ate noodles in bed. That helped... I closed my eyes and drifted off. I had my first decent sleep last night. The bruising and swelling is more than I thought it would be. I still feel weak and tired. I still feel like I need to be in bed. Taking lots of drugs, pressing frozen peas and corn onto my face to bring the swelling down. Drinking lots of fluids.

2008 sick & tired

2008-01-02T07:07:00.000-08:00

2008. I have a bad cold. It's in my nose and my head. Everything has that "sick" smell.

No job, in all honesty I don't even have the drive to look for one. I think of that Buzzcocks song, "I don't know what to do with my life". Boobs are getting bigger. I'm getting chubby. Haven't run in a month. Getting a nosejob January 23rd. Maybe while he's sculpting my nose he can dig deeper into my brain and fix my stupidity. I guess that would be a "knows" job.

I have all day to do nothing. Shave my legs. Style my hair. Perhaps play with myself. Naah, that would be pleasurable. Can't have that. Oh wait, I can starve myself. That's always fun. I love denying myself. It's the only thing I'm good at.

Please do not reply. I'm not looking for "keep your chin up". I don't want sympathy. I'm a bitch and doing what I do best.

Unemployed...again

2007-12-13T23:11:00.000-08:00

It comes as no surprise I was let go by my company last week. Until I start a new job I plan to enjoy my time off. I'd like to paint, run, eat healthy and stay on my diet. And heal from the car accident. And maybe even read Bret Easton Ellis's "The Informers".

Hopefully this weekend my bf will take me to see the new Coen Brother film, "No Country for Old Men". Looks super-excellent as all their movies do.

Besides the stitches in my head there are three stitches in my right cheek from a cyst that was removed. And still have some blue bruise marks on my cheek from Sculptra injectables shot into my face last week. In other words, my face is once again a construction zone.

Tomorrow I go for a manicure and pedicure in the morning. Then it's off to the plastic surgeon to have the remaining stitches removed from my head. And a follow up on the injectables. Winter is here now. I pack that horrible five pounds on this time each year.