Cherry Bomb: The Bad Girl of Burlesque

Visible

2009-08-21T14:00:00.000-04:00

I don’t think I ever mentioned this, but I was recently published in an anthology.

It’s called Visible: A Femmethology, a collection of personal essays from queer femmes, exploring what exactly that word and all of its weighty baggage means to them. It’s a vibrantly diverse group of queers, exploring that busy intersection between race, body, profession, penchants, tendencies and being femme. It’s a brilliant showcase of the shades on the spectrum, and though I ended up hating the book’s cover art, I love being a part of all that tonal diversity.

I wrote my piece a few years ago, submitting it on a whim. It seemed appropriate given the context of what I was going through at the time. But the project was put on hold, languishing for a few years, and when it finally changed hands and was resurrected, I was sent a copy of my piece to re-read and edit, if necessary.

It was awful; like looking at photos of your awkward pre-teen self, I cringed at each aggressive turn-of-phrase. It struck me as defiant, petulant, borderline defensive. I’m sure that I meant to come across as resolved and strong, but I read the fear in between those words.

So I revised it. Snuck a little of me now into me then, but without doing a complete hack job. For the sake of the 23-year-old that wrote it, I wanted to remain true to the core of the piece. It’s a discursive story, covering Dyke Marches and New York City and these frustratingly epidemic dreams I used to have about Britney Spears. It references no less than four ex-girlfriends, especially everyone’s favorite half-fairy tale of mine - The Musician: The Best Friend That Became The Girlfriend.

And then, in the not-so-gentle overlap of paths that exist in this world, the whole thing comes full circle. Back in 2005, The Musician took me to San Francisco for our one-year anniversary. We dropped in on a life that seemed so very West Coast to me, firmly rooted as I was in the NYC way-of-life. We brought takeout coffee to a group of her friends who were doing a 24-hour art show in a motel room, and that is how I met Jiz Lee, who reviewed this anthology.

I remember trying to study her features without staring. I remember being fascinated by what they were doing in that half self-conscious way I had about me, back when I used to think everyone was doing something more interesting than I was. We used to play that game back and forth, The Musician and me, back when she was one of an entourage struggling toward more realness, and I was just fighting to survive my city.

But this is my story. And that was never a fairytale, I just somehow wound up back at the scene of the crime, grateful for the chance to make edits.

The "Love, Me" Project

2009-07-28T15:00:00.002-04:00

This is a little blog project that some other female bloggers (see below) very bravely decided to join me in writing. The idea came to me the other day, when I was heavy under the weight of other people’s feelings about me. The mass of people that aren’t sure how they feel about me, can’t make up their minds, and the people that actively loathe me, enough so to say violently awful things, even if they don’t know me at all.

I am acutely aware of all of the things that I don’t like about myself. And being mostly incapable of letting what others say roll off my back, I am also painfully aware of what others don’t like about me. So, I decided I would write a love letter to myself and publish it on my blog.

It was a prospect that terrified me. The moment you admit to loving something about yourself, you are subject to the animosity of others, clamoring to take you down a notch. We are not taught to love ourselves. We are taught to demur when given compliments, to write them off with a laugh and to never absorb their true meaning. Admitting to loving things about yourself is egotistical, the cardinal sin of "femininity.”

Hating yourself should be passe by now, something as 1996 as brown Jnco corduroys. I have no idea why self-loathing is still en vogue, but despising yourself makes it just that much easier to hate other people. Especially other women. Hating yourself is easy; what is truly subversive and challenging is admitting to loving things about yourself.

This may also be the longest blog post I’ve ever written, but whatever. Fuck it, Take Back The Night. It’s been a rough couple of months and I’m going for broke.

Dear Cherry,

I know I haven’t been very articulate when telling you how I feel. I know I tend to focus on the negative, the aspects that I carve into in order to whittle out some change. And I know it may take you by surprise to find that I do, in fact, love you. I’m sorry that it took me so long to finally tell you so.

I love that you give really thoughtful presents. That whether someone is 5 or 500 miles away, you send snail mail, carefully stitched into personalized perfection.

I love that you were born to be heard. That you have learned to communicate on all physical, verbal, and metaphysical levels, just to make sure you get your point across.

I love that you remember everything. That you know the MFA’s high school mascot (Indian) and the number of her jersey when she played softball in college (3); the name of The Musician’s first dog (Taco) and the fact that The King of NYC can’t stand cucumbers, and therefore pickles, either. You remember what was supposed to be Skatepark’s first concert (Amy Grant), the name of EV’s first girlfriend (Shannon), and The Psych Doc’s SAT scores (not telling). I love that you hang on to these cherished tidbits as emotional souvenirs of the people you have and do love, long after they have left the building.

I love that your loyalty guards your friendships like a shield. I love that you are so cautious about who you love because you know that you’ll never be able to let them go.

I love that when you decide you are going to do something, you just fearlessly fucking do it. And that you never say you’re going to do something unless you absolutely are. I’m glad you aren’t one of those lazy fuckers with poor follow-through that just disappoints.

I love the way that you can give something your complete and undivided attention, blocking out all of the other noise and distractions around you. That you can curl up with a book in a chair and read blissfully for hours just like a child.

I love it that all you want to do is dance until your feet bleed; that you are a good girl in bad girl disguise that is learning to break the rules.

I love that you aren’t jaded, that you still keep your faith intact and can see circumstances for what they are. I love that you haven’t reduced the world to black and white, and that you’ve found a way to love people in all of their grey shades.

I love the way your heart inexplicably beats for the wreck that is New Orleans, that every kitten in your home is a stray, that every creature that crosses your threshold finds love and shelter.

I love the work that you’ve done, the way you’ve opened your arms to the kind of change that terrifies you; given up deep deep comforts in order to become the next size up. That your Saturn Returns will be prolific years of your life, and you are milking that for all that it’s worth.

I love that you put so much soy milk in your coffee that it turns the color of your skin. I love that you give nicknames to everyone that you care about; that you can always see the bigger picture, and that you rarely regret your decisions after having been so careful when making them.

I love that getting your first speeding ticket at 27 gives you a slight feeling of rebellion but mostly just makes you laugh, your absolute adoration of your baby sisters, and your ability to be a polite Southern girl anywhere in the world, when the moment calls for it.

And I love that the thing that people say to you most frequently after getting to know you is “I had no idea you were so sweet,” their tones somewhat shocked, as though they had just stumbled onto the best kept secret in town.

And you know what? They did.

Love,
me.

This is Where I Write - http://rantsnotdrugs.blogspot.com/

Ms. Bea's Helpful Hints Blog - http://msbeahaven.com/ms-beas-blog/

Twenty Twenty Hindsight - http://twentytwentyhindsight.com/

Rollertrain - http://rollertrain.tumblr.com/

Fluid Pusher - http://fluidpusher.blogspot.com/

Road Map

2009-06-29T02:29:00.004-04:00

I love Baltimore. It is a city that pumps creativity into its drinking water, but without the smudge of big-city pretentiousness. I love how it is chronically underestimated, how it surprises people with its quirky-as-hell regionalisms and John Waters pride. And, of course, practical, future-tense Bomb loves its affordable housing prices.

Baltimore has a grittiness that jogs my nostalgia in the direction of Brooklyn and Philly. It’s that post-industrial landscape that is gradually being reinvented and given new life. I wandered into Mt. Washington in the gorgeous sunlight of a Saturday, the absolute perfect song playing through my sunroof, and stumbled across the only Whole Foods I would ever voluntarily move into. A stunning old mill building, converted into a Whole Foods with smaller boutiques surrounding it like wedding attendants.

I was there to perform at Baltimore Pride, which felt like sweet relief to me. Durham doesn’t have much of a queer scene to speak of, a fact that has disappointed me since my arrival 8 months ago. It doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me, since The Bull City happens to be quite diverse, and although a population of 500,000 doesn’t constitute a thriving metropolis, it’s also not a farm town in the middle of Kansas.

Recently my burlesque show roadtrips have been leading me to medium sized cities with surprising underground communities of artists and queers and other sordid folk. It’s been inspiring; I feel like I’ve discovered some secret that everyone else has overlooked, other places where I could find a home.

But my Pride performance landed me exactly where I wanted to be: in a backstage dressing room with dozens of gorgeous drag queens. The main stage was being strangled by throngs of thousands of people, which was, in my estimate, the largest crowd I’ve ever performed for. And they were so into it, and supportive and receptive…as ideal as you like. I had a big burly bear chaperone, and dozens of drag queens fawning over me. And walking down the street to my car after the show, people hung their heads out the window and shouted, “Cherry Bomb!” waving and smiling until I blushed and laughed out loud.

Afterwards I wound up at an enormous house owned by a local artist, each room painted in Technicolor shades brilliant enough to evoke the jealousy of a Crayon box. There was a moonlit backyard pool with conversations overlapping our 2 degrees of separation. No one really knew each other that well, we just knew of each other, but it didn’t matter because we were friends. Which is how you end up a trio in the kitchen, laughing your faces off at absolutely nothing while you share the remainder of a bag of chips. And how, at 2:30 in the morning, after you’ve talked, smoked, and drank, you wind up skinny-dipping in the pristine pool. Because what is a Pride that doesn’t end with heading home much later than expected with your hair all wet?

I needed it. I needed to get out of town and experience the celebration of a Pride with no baggage. I remembered last year’s Pride in NYC, where I fought the heat of claustrophobic masses and the wave of nausea that seized me when my newly-minted ex walked by clasping the hand of the girlfriend she’d procured a few short months after our break-up. I relished the feeling of being around a group of people so easy to like, who warmed to me without any hesitation. The people are who make it easy to love Baltimore.

Really, it’s because one of my closest friends lives in Baltimore that it’s on my heart’s radar. She brought me there, this city that she’s made into a home, and opened the door for me. We’ve known each other for a long time, and of the two pieces of jewelry that I never, ever take off, she gave me one. When I look at it, it reminds me of the ways that friendships shift and expand, sprouting off pathways that intersect with other people. I feel grateful for that, because it’s difficult.

It’s difficult to take something that isn’t perfect and see it through its darker evenings. It’s difficult to stand beside someone in the midst of miscommunication, to trust them enough to take their hand and know that there is “the other side” waiting somewhere. It’s difficult to uncover someone’s imperfections, to be the victim of their transgressions, and to love them anyway.

This is why my friends are at the center of my universe. Because they have made the difficult choice to stand by me, even when there is no starting over, no clean slate. In the world of romance, it is so much more appealing to start fresh, lured by the fantasy that maybe this new person will be the one that wraps to fit perfectly; the one that will never let you down, never hurt you. Our hearts choose the lure of the unknown over the elbow grease of sorting through a dented and damaged history.

I understand it. It is that rush of potential and thrill of creation that I used to feel when admiring a blank sheet of paper…before the pressure of the blinking cursor and the temptation of the delete button. I understand why the future of possibilities with a “her” looks so much more appealing than trudging through the backlog of anger and hurt and frustration with me. That litany of disgustingly human flaws you wish you’d never seen.

But then there’s the fact that I know your favorite candy and find it in all of the convenience stores on my travels. And that I can surprise you by reciting obscure stories of your childhood back to you verbatim. Or that I can be the bedside gypsy that interprets your dreams first thing in the morning.

I can’t take any of it back, but this is the roadmap. And whether it leads to Baltimore or Atlanta or Brooklyn or San Francisco, who knows…

Juxtaposed

2009-06-03T08:12:00.004-04:00

By Marilyn Minter, from her solo show "Green Pink Caviar," currently showing at Salon 94.

Last week at Atlanta’s MondoHomo, I debuted my “Scarred” number, which paid subtle homage to my love for the show “Nip/Tuck.” The music was the theme song from that show by The Engine Room, for which I’ve long held a bit of an infatuation. It’s a narrative about the ways that you can change your physical self, modify and smooth and bleach until the exterior causes people to feel that looking any deeper is unnecessary. Most people don’t feel inclined to question beauty; to push further and wonder what it is that hides beneath the pristine exterior.

Planned communities horrify me. They are endemic to the South, their carefully planned cul-de-sacs cropping up across the suburbs that flank the outskirts of our larger metropolitan areas. When flying into RDU or ATL, you can press your forehead up against the plastic-coated glass of your window seat, and watch the veins and arteries of their streets pulse with SUV’s and station wagons. The thing that truly terrifies me are people who want regulation mailboxes, identical to their neighbor’s. I feel they must be hiding something hideous. That their manicured lawns and chipless paint masks the father who drinks too much and bruises his wife, or the child that focuses all of his attention on dousing the family cat in kerosene.

I feel similarly about people with flawless exteriors. We put such a high premium on beauty, and will use its presence to forgive any degree of transgression. Beautiful people are invisible to us, because we only see what lives on the outside, smiling pleasantly as we step aside and allow them to glide through life unmolested.

It is a double-edged sword. To be beautiful and to observe beauty carries an equal burden.

I’ve never been a classically-styled burlesque performer. From the very beginning, I knew that particular brand of unblemished beauty would never suit me, and so I set out to find something that was more authentically mine; with safety pins, gun holsters strapped to my thigh, stretching myself out in the gutters of dirty streets. But it was an itch that I couldn’t quite scratch, a message that couldn’t quite make itself heard. I was never fully comfortable being the bearer of it, because the truth is that I have always wanted to be beautiful. I have wanted that easy, unquestioned beauty, the kind that lubricates the obstacles of life and makes people smile reflexively.

What I got was intensity, a focus that shimmers off my body in waves like Death Valley heat. What I got was power, an engine constantly humming in the background, revving at unsettling intervals without rhyme or reason. What I got was a twisted allure that makes people recoil slightly, a disconcerting kind of presence that evokes tendrils of fear and hatred at the periphery of minds almost instinctively. The people who are attracted to my brand of beauty are the kinds of people you would find picking through the gritty interiors of bombed-out warehouse buildings, angling cameras for the perfect wedge of natural light through shattered chunks of windowpane. The kinds of people who pump ragged heartbeats for the power of deconstruction, and lust the chrysalis of metamorphosis.

I have been told that I am intimidating. I intimidate myself.

After the show on Monday, someone came up to me and said, “I loved your piece…the juxtaposition of the beautiful and the grotesque is very powerful.” It hadn’t occurred to me to phrase it that way, but after the words were uttered, it felt true. To me, honesty is revealing what is also grotesque about beauty, that unsettling itch of deep sadness you feel in the midst of a breathtaking moment. Truth isn’t erasing that bittersweet pain, it’s embracing it and finding the moment of peace in that place.

Whiplashed

2009-05-14T00:47:00.010-04:00

I realized after this most recent photo shoot that it had been a solid year since I’d had a solo shoot. I have mixed feelings about most photographers, and I can get awfully choosy about who I want seeing me that close up. I want to love their photos, I want to like their style…I want it to feel right in intimate ways, kind of like a first date.

Eddie felt right. Eddie Pinto of Whiplash Studios fell into my lap at my first show back in North Carolina, when he took some stunning shots of me. I loved the sigh of antique gothdom heaved by his photos and wanted very much to be one of his strange, strange girls. I asked to have him all to myself for a few hours for a photo shoot of one’s own.

Eddie is stylish, impeccably so, but he’s kind and calm. He doesn’t have that unapproachable razor-sharp edge that sometimes protects self-proclaimed “creative” types like barbed wire. And he doesn’t give constant direction, which I love. When I work with photographers who tell me to move my elbow this way or lift my chin up, I get angry and self-conscious. Angry because, seriously, let me do my job and you do yours, ‘kay? And self-conscious because, no matter how I try and rationalize away the feeling, having someone direct the minutiae of my body’s movement and angles makes me feel like I’m not doing it right.

Eddie was perfect. He encouraged my desire to crawl around on the ground and pour soy milk on myself. He wasn’t afraid to trek the midday Raleigh streets with me (in a corset) to suss out the best spots and backgrounds. He was in it to win it, and I adore him. Not to mention the shots that came out of our afternoon adventure.

I love it when photographers get down n’ dirty with me like he did, sprawling out on the pavement to get just the right angle. It reminded me of the shoot I did many years ago with Paule Saviano in Dumbo, BK. I rolled around on cobblestone streets and got so dirty that immediately following the shoot I went and got in the water to wash off. You know you’re pretty nasty dirty when you think the East River is cleaner than you are.

Eddie took me to this little alley next to what can only be described as the jumpin’-ist little mom n’ pop hot dog joint I have ever seen. There was a line out the door and around the block, which may sometimes happen at Magnolia in the West Village, but something I ain’t never seen the likes of this side of the Mason-Dixon. Turns out they were waiting to get in to The Roast Grill, famous for grilled hot dogs since 1940. We parked our gear in the alley and began shooting, much to the interest and confusion of all the nice, certainly good Christian families waiting in line.

15 minutes into our shoot, the side door open and out stepped a man from the back of the restaurant. I expected him to shoo us away, worrying that such an unwholesome sight would be bad for business, but he kindly motioned for us to finish shooting, inviting us in for hot dogs when we were done.

Turns out this sweet man was none other than George, the proprietor of The Roast Grill, which I found out post-shoot while I sat on the vintage bar stools at their counter. I typically don’t eat hot dogs, but I had nothing but coffee for breakfast and had been strapped into a corset until 3:30pm. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to pose for a 2 hour long photo shoot, on a street, in a corset, but it’s hard to breathe and you work up one hell of an appetite.

So, I sat down at the counter.

“How many hot dogs do you want?” he asked.

“Um, one?” I said.

He nodded. “Okay, but you’re going to want another one. What do you want on it?”

“Um, mustard? Ketchup?”

“No ketchup. Don’t need it ‘cause the chili’s so good. Best to get it with chili and slaw on it.”

“Okay then, I’ll do that.”

He fixed the hot dog and sat it down in front of me. “Want a Coke?”

I also never drink soft drinks, especially not of the non-diet ilk, but it just seemed like the right thing to do. When in Rome…

“Okay. Yes please.”

The hot dog was incredibly delicious. And the Coke was tiny and came in one of those old-school glass bottles. I happily stuffed my face while George told me about the place. That it had been around for quite awhile; that they only served hot dogs, but had never served any ketchup. “If you really need it,” he said, “you can bring your own.” I thought about those commercials from the 80’s where the woman pulls her own salad dressing out of her purse, and it made me giggle. While we chatted, a preacher came in to pick up an order of 22 hot dogs, which seems like an awful lot to carry, but nobody blinked an eye. Bulk orders must be common.

The day was about as brilliant as it could be, and it opened up a side of Raleigh that I hadn’t seen. One of the things I loved so much about my little Brooklyn neighborhood is that I could go exploring. Long walks each weekend uncovered some new little store or café that had opened up in an innocuous sidewalk nook. One of the things I was reluctant to come back to were the static, obvious layouts of certain Southern cities. There would be no mystery, no intrigue.

Now I know differently. I’m “discovering” all kinds of new faces to the cities of The Triangle that I thought I knew so well. And I like my face against that backdrop, not to mention the delicious hot dogs I get as a reward for my hard work afterwards.

A to ...

2009-05-04T23:43:00.001-04:00

I could tell you about the things I find when I scrape the underside of the night, halfway between here and there. It wouldn’t do them justice. I could settle into these deep, pulsating beats with sugar.ache vocals because that’s what I feel. If I could sign language you the music cranking through my eardrums then maybe you might feel this space with my words.

Always and always missing. I am the babystep in between rebuilt and destroyed. I am nostalgic with homesickness for the places I loved and the people I lived. Forever and ever shifting and eroding into new mountains on top of which new roots take hold. You and me, we chopped this wood. I have the heart now like I never did before.

These deep rainy day aches suffer me the beauty I always saw in us. The greatest beauty hides the deepest ugliness, but in the scarred, in the broken and bruised, is the emancipation of the unflinching, exquisite truth.

tease.

2009-04-21T07:06:00.003-04:00

Before I became a burlesque performer, I was an organizer; an activist that organized at a grassroots level. I still consider myself to be an organizer, and this burlesque thing is about as grassroots as it gets.

It’s a daunting task, to build a scene. You have to educate people, convince them that what you’re doing is worth taking a look at, worth spending their precious time and money to come see. You have to somehow transpose your passion onto them, let your internal love affair seep from your pores, enough to be infectious, but not so much as to be crazy.

And you have to enlist the help of people that love you. Or the people that love what you do. Or the people that are just adventurous enough to take a chance on you.

Like Scott Jennings and Ginny Skalski, both of whom covered The Carolina Heartbreakers on their blogs right at the moment of our birth. And Sean Baker, who volunteered his insane design skills to make us this gorgeous flyer for the show this weekend. He cranked it out one late night, and I’m so in love with it that I have a copy ready to be mounted for the wall in my apartment.

It’s these kindnesses that make it easier to do something that hasn’t really been done before. In New York City, things take off so quickly. Audiences have such a short attention span that the problem isn’t getting them, it’s keeping them. Durham is teaching me about building, laying on bricks and gradually becoming a part of something that I’ve helped to create. It feels more organic, and I’m learning the value of patience…and flyering. I’m definitely re-learning how to flyer.

With that said, come out this Saturday night to celebrate The Carolina Heartbreakers’ Durham debut! Not only do we have the genius of the J’Cougarz on hand, an all-vinyl, all-female DJ troupe for the dance party afterward, but it’s also my birthday!

tease.

Saturday, April 25th
9pm

The Pinhook
117 Main Street
Durham, NC

$5 suggested donation

Share.

2009-04-07T20:32:00.002-04:00

I’ve always been good at sharing. I grew up in a household with many siblings and little money: sharing was the only way. Though I am too petite for most people to share my clothing, I do help myself to sharing other people’s prized hoodies, sweatshirts, and tank tops. I share my opinions freely and share my favorite stories over and over again. And I share my feelings. Incessantly.

So in the vein of generosity and sharing, I’m going to share with you a few websites that I have been crushing on for the past couple of weeks, in case you’re like me and crave a bit of a springtime love interest.

I don’t tell many people this, but I am obsessed with weddings. I’ve been planning mine for years, right down to the hemline on my dress. This may be a normal pursuit for a woman of my age in life, however, not if you are currently as tangled in a state of single faggotry as I am.

I don’t care, I love weddings. And I love Offbeat Bride because the entire site is dedicated to photos of women just like me indulging in their wedded bliss. Gay chicks, inked chicks, former alt porn star chicks and their punk ass grooms in Italian castles or in their BFF’s back yard in Chucks with a keg. Doesn’t matter. They are creative and brilliant and brave and so against the typical taffeta-encrusted wedding madness that I couldn’t help but fall in love. And imma be one of those brides one day, trust.

Twenty Twenty Hindsight is a blog that I read because it is irreverent and makes me laugh in that way where part of me sort of resists. That hidden little part of me that refused to use the word “bitch” or “whore,” or my inner uptight feminist, as I like to think of her. The writing on the blog is brilliant, and I honestly try to tell the writer that, but she continues to ignore me in that way that drives us homo girls crazy. I may have to commence to stalking her.

The best part about it is that I found her through Craigs List. Last February, in order to assuage the shooting pains of a gory breakup, I was in Brooklyn, reading the missed connections for RDU. She posted a twisted and hilarious MC that evoked disgust in other readers, but which I thought was so on point, that I had to send her an email. I did, and she confessed that not many other people knew it was a joke, which made me feel even more twisted.

When I came down to NC in March, I met her. Turns out I share that connection with an ex. Go figure.

re.create

2009-03-30T00:38:00.002-04:00

I adore design blogs.

Those tiny curved corners of visual confectionery. Little bite-sized tidbits of colored life. Every object cohesive within the visual landscape; a wet-dream of what my life could be if only I had unlimited time to browse Etsy and play creative director to the chaos.

I miss weekend pilgrimages for eye candy, trudging to Manhattan book stores in the monochromatic drizzle in search of…something inspiring. Open studio tours in Dumbo with collages made of burnt toast. A recharge for the optical nerve so that, come Monday, it could take another hit or 12.

Williamsburg was an ever-evolving mural of street art, and I was in love with the way I could walk the same route one weekend to the next and find that my neighborhood had already shed its skin. Fuck seven years, Brooklyn’s cells turned over faster than love left the building.

Combing through IndieNC, I serendipitously cyber-tripped on to the doorstep of the Mint Design blog, my eyes opening wide like Alice taking in that White Rabbit. I wanted to run my hand over the screen in the hopes that the corners and edges of all their gorgeous things would read like Braille underneath my fingertips. I wanted to put it all in my mouth to taste; the deliciousness of those greens and blues and greeting cards with thread hand-sewn through the heavy paper. An artisan curated life.

I spend all of my spare time making costume parts. My bachelor pad of an apartment stands woefully neglected, the minimalist aesthetic simultaneously appealing to me and making me feel inept. I want fluffy blankets on my bed that match my walls, painted a gentle shade of blue called “exhale.” I want end tables handmade by friends living outside of Seattle by a lighthouse. I want a house that reflects my impeccable attention to detail.

Instead, I stretch out with ropes of sequins and piles of beaded fringe, threading my needle on a flight for a business trip. My co-workers stare at me, confused, before poking the beginnings of my conical masterpieces and asking, “What’s that?” I hand-stitch my pasties with contrasting thread, make internet-perfect matches on bead and fringe, and calculate how much sparkle can be loaded onto one tiny little circle of nipple coverage. Those petite canvasses can’t help but feel a little bit like me, bare in anticipation of impending shine.

I make all of my own costumes. I used to love spending entire days slutting around the Garment District, touching everything I could put my hands on. I would binge on eye candy before coming home and strategizing ways to make my vision come to life. These days, it’s more difficult. The materials aren’t as readily available, and before I make something I have to scour and match and vet. I have to test the strength of the fabric, the integrity of the color to make sure it won’t bleed at the first hint of blood, sweat, or tears. I have to figure out if I can possibly take all of these foraged semi-scraps and be the alchemist that turns them into the fluttering, shimmering beauty I see in my brain.

But see, that’s just what I do. Give me the difficult dream, and I will find a way to make it come alive for you.

Heartbreaking

2009-03-16T22:36:00.003-04:00

I know a little something about heartbreak.

I live it, I've learned it, and I'm learning to live with it. I even have it tattooed on my hip, courtesy of a former heartbreak, thank you for the memories. It's so much a part of who I am that I have to make jokes about it, break out the gallows humor so that people don't start to feel too uncomfortable spending time with emo girl.

I'm not a sad person. People mistake heartbreak with sadness, but I promise, they aren't the same. My heart gets shattered like a dropped tray of ice because I let myself love so hard. Even when people hurt me, even when they aren't worth it, even when they have no idea what they held in their hands before they broke it beyond repair. And when I think of myself, draw a little mental composite sketch of me, my heart pumps red and bloody; my best and worst feature. But I'll never regret any heartbreak.

When it was time to name the burlesque troupe, I had no hesitation in naming us The Heartbreakers. Heartbreak is a right of passage, a badge of humanity, fodder for songs and poems and art. It's a gossamer thread that weaves a connection between us all, and no matter your age when it finds you, it never hurts any less.

I'd like to think that someday, just as a little bit of karma, I might break some hearts, too.

As for The Carolina Heartbreakers, well, we've put together our first show for you this weekend. Served up on a platter, smoking hot, with new faces, new numbers, and 5 new chances to fall in love...

Click here to visit the Facebook event page.

Introducing:
The Carolina Heartbreakers!

Saturday, March 21st
Local 506
506 West Franklin Street
Chapel Hill, NC

Doors at 8:30pm

$8 advance/ $10 door
Click here to purchase tickets: http://shortn.it/VdDj

Special Guest - Porcelain

Hosted by - Ronald Ray Gun

Stomping Ground

2009-02-22T00:48:00.005-05:00

First show back on home.state soil was accomplished brilliantly. I’m not sure what I was thinking would happen; that maybe my stilettos wouldn't properly puncture Southern soil... I had just grown so accustomed to packing my giant camouflage bag full of shoes and sequins, lugging it onto the subway in full makeup and hair extensions while others looked on. They didn’t stare for very long, though. In New York City, I wasn’t the only drag queen that rode the subway.

Here, I drove myself to the venue…Legends in Raleigh. Plenty of space in the car for as much costuming as my heart desires. Props, too. Now there’s a change of pace.

The place was packed on a Monday night, which both thrilled and surprised me. Standing room only with a hybrid audience, a little of this and that, in a gorgeous space. Candles lit on the tables, a proper stage, the whole deal. The crowd was enthusiastic, supportive, and attentive, and I couldn’t have asked for a better homecoming.

I’ve been exploring the venues of the The Triangle, attempting to pin down spots that might be open to the idea of burlesque. Most venues were created with bands in mind, their stages without any sort of curtains, their Green Rooms tiny and reeking of Pabst, if they even exist. Bars have low ceilings and owners that are reticent to dabble in burlesque shows. I have to swear to them it isn’t illegal, which I do, even though I’m not really even sure what Cackalack has to say about nipples. Oh, it’s good to be home…

You’d think that after all of the years of crawling up on random bars of the 5 boroughs, I’d be prepared for anything. And I am. I once had to use what could best be described as a 2x4 for a stage, crunching my creativity into abbreviated movements. I performed outside on the deck-like stage at Outpost Lounge, delicately tip-toe dancing in my sky high heels to avoid chinks in the wood. I once had to go-go dance to a band called The Butter Knife Suicide. I am a Girl-Scout-prepared-ready-for-it-all kind of performer, but this is my first mission as a burlesque ambassador. I’m used to dealing with venues and audiences that can’t get enough of too much.

New York always had a way with spaces. The MFA and I used to trek to the outer recesses of Park Slope into industrial no-man’s land to see Revealed, one of the best and most risqué burlesque shows in the city. I would cuddle into her against the post-industrial cold of what was little more than a raw space, both of us simultaneously relishing and rejecting the “underground” patina of the whole experience.

Last New Year’s Eve, we waited in line on crumbling steps, dimly lit by a single greasy bulb, to make our way into a warehouse on the Brooklyn waterfront. I clutched my little sister close to prevent her from being scarred by wayward cigarette ashes, laughing at the ridiculousness of such an overly forsaken setting. It bordered on campy, as though we were performing up against a movie studio backdrop of “Brooklyn,” rather than legitimately waiting to pay too much money to hang out with our friends.

I have been romancing Durham’s gritty spaces, the derelict steel frames that are transformed in my mind’s eye. I am watching it happen slowly, the city that I left behind after college replaced by a town self-consciously regaining its blush. The pink flush of new life against the contrast of crumbling brick; it is that gritty/pretty that teases my crush on Durham into life. If I don’t stop myself, by summer I may be head-over-heels.

I still love Brooklyn deeply. It’s strange how you can still have so much love after being caused so much pain. I can’t explain why I still miss the comfort of her concrete arms, despite the fact that she broke in, stole, and kept words and memories that were not hers to have. I still ache for her, carry her intricate street design tattooed on my hip for the rest of my days.

We fought bitterly, her quick-hearted Northern edge never seeming to understand my slow Southern caution. When we were good, we stole the show, but we spattered the streets with the carnage of our break-up, and I carry the scars from shattered glass on the side of my hand.

And when I think of her, I feel an intense crush of heartbreak and loss, coupled with the sweetest, most misunderstood love I will ever know. Brooklyn, she loved me and hated me in equal measure, but at night I hope she misses me as much as I miss her.

I crave a kinder, gentler world now, and Durham has potential. Durham and I, we have a chance if I can just exorcise the ghosts of my own past. I love the shy, tattered streets, the slow evolution of repurposed spaces. It’s all done modestly, without the blaring announcement of features that would cause any other city to jack up the asking price. I identify with Durham, slowly becoming who she is, finding the equilibrium between abandoned and rebuilt.

Out with The Aries tonight, she said, you know…we’re so hard on each other that by the time we hit our late 20’s, we just want to be with someone who is nice to us. Yes, I thought. Please be nice to me, Durham. I want to be the Bull City’s new sweetheart…

Introducing...The Carolina Heartbreakers!

2009-01-29T21:52:00.005-05:00

All photos by Mark @ RTP Photography

When I found out that I would be moving back to my homestate back in October, I started to do a little research. New York City, being the dynamic center of urban creativity that it is, has a thriving burlesque scene. Every night of the week, there is a burlesque show or two to be found somewhere on the stages of that city. As a performer, this is fortuitous, because if you do your booking properly, you can stay fairly busy.

North Carolina, on the other hand, has a much more subdued scene. There are shows popping up here and there, but The Triangle has no burlesque "scene" to speak of. I found this fact quite surprising, considering the wide range of creative, intellectual, and performer types that make their home in the RDU. That's typically a breeding ground for saucy ecdysiasts like us.

I was fortune enough, thanks to word of mouth, stumble across 3 talented and beautiful women who are also very skilled burlesque performers:

Miss Rachel Riot
Miss Mary Wanna
Miss Lila Lavender

A blonde, a brunette, and a redhead, all different beautiful body types, all different styles of performance. I was stoked, not only because it meant we could build a scene and have spaces to indulge in our tease, but also because it was something unique and thrilling that we could bring to an area already thriving with new ideas. Scandalous.

I am really excited that we create this in The Triangle, and we hope that you'll join us in all of the unadulterated fun we plan to have at our shows.

Below you'll find our email address, links to our Myspace and Facebook pages, and a badge which you can grab for eyecandy purposes on your blog or profile, should you feel so inclined. There's also a mailing list sign-up widget, which will help keep you in the loop about our shows and projects. We've already got 2 booked in the coming months, so make sure you're there for our big reveal!

So...you all ready to have your hearts broken? ;)

Hearts & Ammo,
Cherry Bomb

carolina.heartbreakers (at) gmail (dot) com

~~ The Carolina Heartbreakers on Myspace

~~ The Carolina Heartbreakers on Facebook

Grab our widget!

Being Bettie Page

2009-01-03T22:38:00.006-05:00

Every burlesque performer knows who Bettie Page is.

I can’t remember the first time I saw a photo of Bettie, but I do know that it was well before I began my burlesque career. I had always thought that she was a staple of pop-culture; a ubiquitous entity like James Dean or Marilyn Monroe. Bettie was featured on far more magazine covers than Marilyn, actually, and she was sort of the anti-Marilyn, with her jet-black hair and signature bangs, which was what initially attracted me to the image of Bettie: the fact that I looked like her.

It doesn’t sound like much, but I grew up in the great Southern land of blondes. Blondes for Homecoming Queens, blondes for daughters, blondes for teachers, blondes for miles. It was a relief to stumble across photos of this brunette temptress that they called the “dark angel.” A sexy pin-up without a bleached hair on her head. It made the gears begin to turn.

The things that drew people to Bettie’s image back in the 1950’s are the same qualities that attract people now: her playfulness, her unabashed flirtation and sexuality, the taboos she was fearless in trampling all over in those stilettos. She was able to portray an image of innocence while simultaneously being dressed in bondage gear. It’s a difficult thing to do, believe me, and I think the only way to pull it off is that you have to honestly, to your core, feel no conflict about what you’re doing. If you feel conflicted, people can read it like a banner all over your face.

There is a lot of mythology surrounding her life. But her biography paints a picture I can understand all too well. After she stepped away from the spotlight, she suffered: mental illness, three failed marriages, winding up almost penniless by being swindled out of royalties for the use of her image. It’s a common story. Lili St. Cyr suffered the same fate at the end of her burlesque career. It’s the result of the image conflicting with the reality; the character versus the woman. Chances are, the men she married thought they were marrying Bettie Page the Pin-Up Queen, when in reality, they were getting Bettie Mae from Tennessee, with all of her frailties, despite being on more magazine covers than any other model. Ever. When you become another person, a character, in the same physical body, it’s a fine line between performance and schizophrenia.

The thing you may not know about burlesque performers and pin-ups is that we can be rather shy and reserved off stage. It’s hard for people to comprehend, because we are bold, we are brassy, we get up on stage and take our clothes off! The scandal! But that’s what makes us performers; that ability to embody a character. Otherwise we’d just be getting up on stage and being ourselves and wouldn’t need to go through the whole process of a stage name, fake hair, and make-up for days.

This is what I see when I look into the eyes of Bettie Page. I see a brave woman who enjoyed what she did, loved the thrill, and didn’t think anything was wrong with doing it…until other people started to make her think otherwise. I see a girl who was awkward and shy when she was little, who dreamed of and practiced being someone else. A girl who got so good at it, that she actually became someone else. I see the conflict of being loved and internationally adored for being someone that isn’t you. The world didn’t buy copies of Tease! Magazine to see shy Bettie Mae from Tennessee, and Bettie Page knew that. And inside, she still felt like that awkward little girl.

I’m projecting, of course, but besides being Bettie’s story, it’s also mine, and the story of Dita Von Teese, Marilyn Monroe, and Lili St. Cyr. The story of awkward or abandoned little girls that grow up wanting nothing more than for the whole world to love them and think they’re beautiful. And if you look closely, you’ll see moments of that awkwardness shining through the gloss. Watch any TV interview with Dita Von Teese. Watch the video of Bettie giving her best, slightly awkward burlesque performance. Ask anyone who’s ever dated me and been forced to spend perfectly good Saturday nights on the couch with me and my cats, watching documentaries and playing Scrabble.

Everything I know about being a pin-up, I learned from Bettie. You can see it in the ancient photos from my first Cherry Bomb photo shoot. I’m doing my best to copy her, and it’s shy…

Bomb's First Shoot

When I can’t sleep at night, I watch YouTube clips of Bettie Page and June Carter, who are two women that I consider to be my performer muses. I have studied their faces, their biographies, their beliefs, and I have noticed the similarities. Two women with the bravery and fortitude to stand up to the judgment of their day in order to pursue their careers, their lives, their happiness. They had the strength to believe that, despite being nude pin-ups or having been divorced and fallen in love with a married man, that they deserved to be happy. They were good girls, the ones that were mockingly called “goody two-shoes” for not drinking, not smoking, going to church, going to bed early…eager to please, and devastated when the world judged them so harshly for doing what it took to be happy. “What’s so wrong with posing nude, if that’s just the way God made me?” “What’s so wrong with doing whatever it takes for love?”

The bravery of Bettie Page is that she looked for her true self, and despite the heavy price she paid, she didn’t abandon her…

People can be so cruel. You should hear the things people have said about me…all of it a fabrication, and my punishment for standing up on that stage alone. For having the guts to do what they all wish they had the guts to do. Burned in effigy for a crime they wish they’d committed. But give me a stage with 200, 400, 1200 people in the audience, and the only reason I have the strength to get up on it, is because Miss Bettie Page came before me and blazed that trail. And every time I climb onto a stage, I try and make her proud, though those are some tall stilettos to fill.

Rest in peace, Bettie. Your legion of fans will guard your legacy.

Welcome to 2009, ya’ll. I’ll be on top of this more often, promise. You can sign up for my mailing list in that little widget on the left hand sidebar, or you can follow me on Twitter for plenty of daily flirtations and musings on lingerie.

Hearts & Ammo,
Cherry

My Name In Vain.

2008-11-30T02:56:00.005-05:00

In order for people to truly listen to what one is saying one has to wear a mask and not be recognized.

-Banksy (English graffiti artist)

A week or two ago, the Musician called me up and told me to make my way over to the bar she owns. There were some photos of me that I should see, she said, taken during a performance by a local artist. I did a show down here in NC last March, and we’ve been trying for months to find photos of it, hoping that someone had snapped some they’d be willing to share. I ventured over, thinking that I’d be flipping through 4x6 candids.

When I walked in, I was suddenly and strangely confronted by huge photographic images of myself, fully in the throes of performing.

It was the oddest sensation…like catching an unexpected glimpse of yourself with a brand new hair color in a mirror you didn’t know was there. The shock of it was painful; a physical jolting sensation, although I couldn’t explain it in the slightest, because the person in the photo was me. Or a version of me, manipulated in Photoshop and stretched out across a huge canvass. In my ex-girlfriend’s bar, no less.

A woman stood beside me as I gaped at the photo. “Is that you?” she asked, pointing. I felt reluctant to respond, afraid, like someone had cornered me in to telling a secret I wasn’t ready to divulge. “Yes,” I said slowly, “that’s me.”

She opened her eyes wide. “I just bought that piece,” she said excitedly, “and you’re going to be hanging on my wall! Oh my god, you look so beautiful!” She hugged me then, and I felt overwhelmed. Flattered, in a way; the photos were beautiful…but so revealing. I read the title of one, “Is This What You Want?” and I suddenly felt so transparent; the discovery that I was giving away more on stage than I even realized.

And to think of someone hanging the piece in their house…

It is gratifying when someone thinks what you’re doing is interesting enough to document. But something has happened to my performer skin since moving back to NC: there is less of a separation between me and the character I’ve created. Suddenly, I am her and she is me, in a way that never happened when I was crawling up on top of sticky bars in the Meatpacking District. Suddenly everyone knows that I am Cherry Bomb. And I myself have been made more acutely aware of that fact…

A few days later, I was checking the bar website for information about the show’s opening reception, and I came across this write-up:

David Koslowski's "The Women Series" Art Opening
Artist reception from 6-9. This exhibit will be up until January 7th. Koslowski's latest body of work called "The Women Series" is a combination of photography, design and silk-screening. It is a personal and powerful look at empowering women that have been mistreated or mentally abused. The women in the images have overcome this abuse to the point of empowerment.

There are certain moments where I simultaneously comprehend things in my head and my skin. I feel the disassociation of a “too much” overload start to creep in, a detachment from my physical self…an out-of-body comprehension. As I started to feel equal parts angry, shocked, upset, and panicked, I began slipping outside of my body; outside of the skin that creates so many problems for me.

I’ve felt this before. Over the summer, about four months after my bone-shattering break-up with the MFA, I was in a photo spread for Inked magazine. One photo of me, a complete Women’s Studies nightmare of feminine disembodiment, features a pair of Manolos and the tattoo on my side. The tattoo that she designed for me. She posted the Inked photo on her company’s blog, complete with a tagline reinforcing her custom work. At the bottom, she gave credit to the photographer and the stylists, but not a single mention of me.

No mention of the year and a half we’d spent together, or the hours we’d huddled in front of her computer screen, puppies in our laps, trying to figure out what worked best. No mention of the conversations beforehand, me sharing with her the trepidation I had about getting a tattoo that would inevitably be misunderstood while she ran her fingers through my hair to comfort me. No mention of the 3 hours she spent holding my hand and supporting me through the incredible pain of bringing that piece to life.

It broke my heart. Everything that we were to one another, and in the end, I was reduced to nothing more than a billboard for her work…a digital business card. Not even worth mentioning.

This experience felt similarly. My body, just a canvass for someone else’s work. My image, pirated and reused, a story placed on it for artistic purposes, my own story erased…

I was upset about the obvious transgressions: my image being used without my permission, being sold, and then a story being folded on top like an overhead transparency. A story that, if it were true, would be no one else’s to tell but mine. But what upset me most was that no one prior to me had mentioned to this artist that maybe, just maybe, what he was doing was not okay.

It made me feel isolated, like I am the first and last line of defense when it comes to protecting myself. As though because I have just arrived, there is no community to be vigilant on my behalf. In NYC, Doc Wasabassco always made sure there wasn’t any photography at shows unless the performers had given their consent. And had anything like this happened, the whole community would have expressed fierce outrage at the sheer inappropriateness. After all the years of performing at shady venues in all corners of New York City, and it’s something that happens in tiny little Durham, where everyone knows everyone, that makes me feel more exploited and objectified than I ever have.

As a writer, I know my rights. If someone reprints my work without my permission, it is plagiarism. It is illegal and punishable by law. If I write a song, if I paint a picture, if I make a speech…these are all captured works of my brain’s power, and I know my rights.

But my body, my body is not my own. If I am out on the street, and someone takes a photo, then I am fair game. That image is no longer mine. If I am on stage, telling a story with my body, speaking with my limbs, then the narrative is subject to the editorial rights of a photographer’s lens.

In the artist’s defense, he responded well when I confronted him. He apologized, explaining his side of the story and offering to take the photos down. I didn’t take him up on it, feeling as though what was done, was done. And the photos are powerful pieces, so why deprive the series at this point?

And I contemplated not writing this post because he had apologized. Because I try so hard to hide my anger, my hurt, lest the whole world repeat its mantra about how I’m too sensitive. But the reason I started this blog in the first place was to give myself a voice. On stage, I am body and movement, but here I have a voice, too.

And this is how I found my voice.

2008-11-05T23:27:00.001-05:00

Make-up is my armor.

I reinvent myself behind it. In order to be someone else, to live someone else’s life, I spend hours very delicately dusting and shading it across my skin. Hair and make-up prior to a show usually takes me about 2 hours. A very labor intensive process, a secret ritual for turning me from street clothes to superhero. I remember when the documentary crew came to film me for Lesbian Sex & Sexuality, I felt so self-conscious undergoing this particular transformation in front of the lens. It seems like a slight-of-hand trick, now you see me, now you don’t…nothing that should be done in front of curious eyes. Might give away my best secrets.

Make-up is a necessary part of performance, for my shows. It sets me distinctly apart from the women in the audience who watch me with curious eyes, wondering if they could ever do the same thing. But more and more I seek the defenses of eyes ringed in heavy kohl, a barrier against a harsh world and protection from the tears that seem to so easily spring from between my lids. I drag vibrant sapphire shimmers over my eyelids, hoping it will protect them from the things I might be forced to see. I darken my already intense eyes, hoping people will be too intimidated to look for my truth. Because my eyes don’t lie. They can’t.

Here in this small city, I hide my thoughts, my fears, my feelings behind a mask. And that mask is part me, part alter-ego, which feels uncomfortable after having kept the two strictly separate for so long. In New York you can live 5 different lives and no one would ever know. Here I just slick on another layer between me and her and fight with my eyes wide open.

I Heart Brooklyn Girls Launch Party

2008-10-28T00:34:00.002-04:00

Here's a couple of snaps from the party, thanks to Vanessa Geiger...It was a bitchin' good time.

Check out www.iheartbrooklyngirls.com for more info...

Cherry Bomb's Last Stand

2008-10-17T14:38:00.003-04:00

I'm leaving town.

After nearly 4 years of living and loving in Brooklyn, I'm trekking back down South to take a job that is perfect for me. I couldn't have asked for a more bittersweet situation.

Brooklyn has always been an amalgam of the best and worst of me. That's why I love it so much; I'm not just admiring its qualities, I empathize with its rough-around-the-edges glamour and attempts to stay below the radar. I feel comfortable among the grit and stray chicken bones of a not-wholly-gentrified-yet neighborhood, bridge columns standing in for the trunks of trees in the urban forest of my midnight walks. I know how to take my shell of a warehouse self and renovate and redecorate until people are raving about the original detailing of the façade. Me and Brooklyn, we are of the same mind. Constant works-in-progress with plenty of dark alleys to sneak into when you don’t feel like being found.

Going back to my home region is bittersweet. I’ll finally be able to have all the things I was so homesick for, all the people that I missed, but it feels like walking over trodden ground. I have lived that life already, and now it is up to me to reinvent myself completely in the same space. And that prospect is almost more terrifying than starting from scratch, because I’ve got to trust the people around me to allow the metamorphosis to happen…to let me be someone other than who they knew.

Along with the good comes the bad. This isn’t a time that I am interested in being unemployed any longer than I have been. And New York City is a hard place to stake your claim. I’ve been carving out my little niche here for four years now, and I’ve been really lucky to work with and know and love some amazing and talented people. And those bonds are something that the Mason-Dixon line can’t take away no how.

So now, let’s freakin’ celebrate this shit.

The wonderful people over at Monday Night Burlesque, Doc Wasabassco and the lovely ladies, have agree to host Cherry Bomb’s Last Stand. I’ll be opening and closing out the hour, so getcher ass out to come holler for me one more time. And then maybe buy me a drink and make out with me in the corner or something…just sayin’.

8-9pm is happy hour drinks and the show starts at 9, because I know some of you have to work in the morning. So don’t be late…

Charm City

2008-10-10T13:22:00.004-04:00

Channeling my muse June Carter backstage before the show.

Although I asked around all weekend, no one could really tell me why Baltimore is called “Charm City.” Not that I needed an exact story; Baltimore is pretty damn charming. Lots of little neighborhoods and that grittiness that I find so attractive in places and people *ahemthatIdatecough*. Baltimore reminds me of Brooklyn in certain ways; formerly industrial, now with evolving urban spaces and an appreciation for art and creativity. Philly also struck me as that kind of place, smaller versions of Brooklyn that have been on my radar for awhile now…sleeper cities just on the verge.

Backstage dressing room.

Thanks to being hosted by one of my BFFs, I got a whirlwind tour of Baltimore’s offerings. I learned to “crab pick,” which really just means ripping the little guy apart limb-by-limb with your bare, Old Bay smeared hands, and there’s a photo around here somewhere of me drinking a 40 of National Bohemian beer, or “Natty Bo,” as it’s called locally. I drank about two sips of it, being the lightweight that I am, and had to hold it with both hands because I boast the physical stature of a 12-year-old. Rad.

The Charm City Kitty Club produced a show stuffed with talented queer performers. I really liked having a 2-night show run, because it gave me a chance to get to know the people involved, the space, the audience, to tweak my performances…It gave me some food for thought for future ventures, as well.

SJ has to help me hold the 40 because my tiny hands cannot wrap around it. Thanks, SJ!

Also included in the evening were performers like Susana Cook, whose piece I didn’t get to actually see but was so good that just hearing it backstage had me laughing hysterically. Susana, being a fellow Taurus, exudes this magnetic charm. She has that unidentifiable “thing” that is a mash-up of sex appeal, confidence, and stage presence. Reina Williams did this incredibly sexy rendition of “Father Figure,” which I think you can see a video of on her Myspace page, and the very powerful activist/artist Ignacio Rivera was present as well. Happily, Ignacio and I seem to book ourselves for the same shows on a regular basis, and I enjoy the performance familiarity.

Backstage mess. Guess which bag is mine...

One of my favorite things about doing queer shows is the sheer range of gender expression and the ways they are showcased. Most of the time when I’m doing a show, sexiness is performed with a heavy feminine slant: lots of gorgeous cleavage and fishnets and long hair. I adore all of my Burly-Q girlies, but I also really love the opportunity to perform within a spectrum of varied gender expression. I love the fusion, the overlap, and I feel like what I do is read more accurately. In other words, I feel like my drag queen presentation is more appreciated in queer spaces. Other times, I feel like my burlesque self is simply read as hyper-feminized.

Thankfully, I survived the Chinatown bus trip back. But don’t anyone ever call me unadventurous.

Clean Slate

2008-10-01T22:15:00.004-04:00

You'll never see me anything but happy ever again...

People revel in your pain. They scrape their fingernails through it and delight in the pulpy trails it leaves behind. They run their tongues along the surface and savor the metallic taste, and I am not willing to be the main course anymore. I am accepting no more blame.

Call it self-preservation. Call it getting older. Call it shitty ex-girlfriend fatigue. Whatever it is, I'm changing the tone of this blog and keeping my personal life personal. These past two months have swept out the vestiges of my former life, forced me to face a brand new clean slate. And while it's terrifying, it's also an opportunity; a shakedown of all the old emotional baggage that was holding me back.

That doesn't mean that I won't absolutely document the hell out of this ridiculous burlesque lifestyle, though. If you happen to be in or around the Baltimore area, I'll be performing with the Charm City Kitty Club this weekend, Friday and Saturday nights. It'll be my first time in Baltimore, as well as my first time ever taking a Chinatown bus. For those of you who are unfamiliar, a Chinatown bus is a cheap, death defying ride in a questionably maintained vehicle, that usually travels from Chinatown in one city to another...Philly, DC, Boston, they all have Chinatowns. At $35 roundtrip, it's a blessing for broke ass performers trying to get from point A to point B. Good thing I'm not a diva.

Details are below. And if you're there, come give me a welcome back kiss.