Sow Geraniums and Reap Orchids

My impromptu "Weirdest Metaphor" award goes to Madame Nina's geranium cream (New Yorker, November 22, 1930), which confuses a debutante's face with...a map of Manhattan. Really.

When going to bed, she dips a slim finger in the fat glass jar and rubs contents across the map of Manhattan in the mirror, paying particular attention to the bright lights that so easily run to dark circles on the morning after. Incipient crosstown lines are refused police protection. General traffic conditions are improved. And the Great White Way gets a gentle bleach all over.

In the morning, she uses the same specific as a foundation for make-up that looks more natural than little sister's first blush. Rouge--if she follows the revived vogue for it--can never be mistaken for a stop-signal. Powder doesn't skid. And the first aid work begun for the entire facial countryside goes on all day.

 Now you know how to flatter a dame: "Darling, your face...it's like the street map of a huge metropolitan area. Your nostrils: the north and south subway lines. That freckle: city hall..."

I Totally Understand

"Oh the rent--the rent! What about my career!"

(It's by William Crawford Galbraith, who did a lot of artwork for The New Yorker but appears to be otherwise forgotten).

Weird Eyebrow Hairs

It's no secret that your hair starts doing strange things as you get older. By way of example, here are three hairs that I plucked out of my eyebrows several months ago.*


The hair in the middle is entirely typical. Almost all of my eyebrow hair looks like that: straight, thin, flexible, and brown.

The hair on the RIGHT is the type I'm seeing more and more: white, coarse, and much longer than usual. These hairs are like vicious spikes and they really yank when I pull them out.

The hair on the LEFT, however, is the weird one. I see one of these every six months or so. It's globular, stunted, and irregularly coloured. Since it's so thick and chunky I see it immediately when it grows, and all I need to do is prod it to make it come out.

I understand the concept of grey hair -- and I suppose that's what's happening to the hair on the right -- but fat little glob-hairs? I don't get it. I'm wondering if anybody else gets hairs like these.

* I didn't save these hairs for a year and then put them online today; this is an old picture from my old camera, which had obvious problems focusing on little nearby objects.

The Clickety-Clack Face (The Product of Nervous Tension)

How do you freak out a secretary? Tell her that her typewriter is making her UGLY!

Have you that work-weary look...that clickety-clack expression so often worn by stenographers who operate rackety typewriters?

"Stenographer Face" has already had scientific recognition. Industrial health investigators have found that typists are afflicted with ill health more often than any other class of office workers.

For it is typewriter clatter that compels office managers to segregate typists into poorly ventilated rooms...typewriter clatter that draws telltale crow's-feet on lovely complexions and steals away the bloom of youth.

In place of that hammer-blow typewriter you are now using, you are entitled to a "piano" touch REMINGTON NOISELESS. The same 4-row standard keyboard you have already used, but a lighter touch, enabling you to do better work, faster...with less effort and...NO NOISE.

Typewriter racket is no pleasanter to your office manager than to you. Tell him you want a REMINGTON NOISELESS Machine and he will help you get it, in the interest of the business as well as in kindness to you.

See, scientists ALREADY recognize "Stenographer Face" as a genuine affliction! Errr, or rather, stenographers tend to get ill more than other office workers. By some degree. For some reason. Must be because of..."STENOGRAPHER FACE!"

Na'ir-Do-Well

It's been a long time since I've offered a drag-queenery tip. This one is for queens, girls, and unhappily hirsute men who occasionally use Nair.

I used to just goop it on my hands, then rub it on the area I wanted to depilitate. This wasn't so bad but it quickly got messy, especially when the bottle itself got covered in Nair and would start slipping around.

Now that my shoulder has a limited range of motion I've had to be inventive, and tonight -- for the first time -- I tried using an "extender," namely, a wooden spoon. I put the Nair on the back (convex) side of the spoon, then extended it to the area I wanted to depilitate, and besides being an easy way to reach out-of-the-way places it also proved to be more clean and accurate than my hands ever were.

So give it a try!

PS: If you're getting a chemical burn from the strong stuff, maybe try the mild next time, it might be all you need. Ouch!

Scrutable Poetry Corner: "Il Penseroso"

Ahh, beauty in the May 18, 1929 New Yorker.

Sad weird figures garbed in white,
With their headgears tall and fearful,
Faces drawn--druidic sight,
Seated dumb--not gay, not tearful.
How they scan unconscious mortals,
As they come and go again,
Crossing through forbidden portals.
Are they happy or in pain?
Do they plan the fate of nations,
Gathered round, this mystic seven--
Good or evil machinations?
Do they think of hell or heaven?
Do they ponder living? Dying?
Pestilence? The battle axe?
No, their thoughts are all on drying
Waves put in by Antoine, Saks.

"Antoine de Paris" -- originally Antek Cierplikowski -- was one of the more famous upscale hairstylists in 1920's New York. He claimed to have invented the shingle bob hairstyle, and therefore became the first of a long line of "celebrity stylists." Hairboutique.com has an interesting writeup about him here.

As for this poem it is credited only to "Bunny," but her real name was supposedly Eleanor W. Koehler. You may well ask "Who's that?" I haven't got a clue, but any bunny is a good bunny.

"They" Want Me To Be Ugly

They discontinued every lipstick I ever loved. They discontinued my eyelash glue. They even discontinued my FOUNDATION, all in an attempt to break my spirit and soul.

But this time they've gone too far. Apparently they have discontinued my 3M adhesive tape.

Have you ever wondered how I construct my cleavage? I use adhesive tape from 3M, which in my world stands for "marvelous man-made mammaries." It's cheap, it's gentle, and it grips like a tetanus-afflicted ferret. You can sweat like a pig -- and I do -- without ever loosening the loving stranglehold of properly-applied 3M. I've spent years developing the perfect way to construct the perfect cleavage. Let's just say I DEPEND on this tape.

After ten years of unflagging service, however, it appears that my miracle tape is being discontinued. PANIC! Vanilla and I managed to find a five-roll stash at Zellers today, which will last me a few more months at least. Long after other queens have resorted to turtleneck-gowns I will be doing my best to remain proudly on display. Because that's just what I do.

A Portrait of the 1920s New Yorker Reader

The New Yorker magazine has always had an exclusive reputation, but during its first five years it was PARTICULARLY exclusive, geared to people who are simply not like you and me. New Yorker readers may have spent countless nights playing Mahjong, bridge, and annoying trivia games, but you somehow can't see them ever playing dominoes or -- God forbid -- ROCK BAND (which, in the '20s, would have required eighteen friends with various types of horns, and perhaps a guy with an electronic washboard when doing the down-home stuff).

Whenever the magazine gets too stuffy for words, I need to remind myself of its readership. And sometimes the disconnect is spelled out so beautifully that it's worth mentioning.

Here's a Rolls-Royce advertisement in the April 6, 1929 issue. While I'm sure that Rolls-Royce was advertised in less exclusive magazines at the time, I somehow doubt that the other magazines got THIS version:

Yes, you can get along without a Rolls-Royce. You can get along without trips to Europe, or a fine piano in your home, or sterling silver on the table. But you don't.

Judging by all the tittery articles about steamship trips abroad, you can be reasonably sure that the average New Yorker reader DIDN'T get along without all those things...or at the very least they WANTED to be the sort of person who didn't.

I also get a kick out of this sentence:

America's foremost bankers -- 163 of them -- endorse Rolls-Royce as an investment by owning Rolls-Royces themselves!

Was this line REALLY intended to show the "investment" value of the car...or was it simply there to remind you that rich and prominent people drove Rolls-Royces, so you should too?

Diary of a Daily Muffy

During the blizzardy winter of 2008 Jenn Wilson and I made a plan: we would go to Niagara Fallsview Casino Resort and take pictures of me wearing my Ann Miller "bumblebee" outfit. Since it takes almost two hours to get there we decided we must go during the summer. To avoid traffic we would have to decide on a weekday, preferably around noon hour.

Wednesday, July 23, 2008, 7:20 am: We are aiming to make a head-start on the day so I have already done my ironing and planning and worrying the day before. I have cereal for breakfast and begin to get into drag.

I had tried to be blase about this adventure, but perhaps I was a bit TOO blase when it came to choosing my drag timetable; due to a simple miscalculation I have lost twenty minutes of prep time. There is a lot you can do -- or, in this case, CAN'T do -- in twenty minutes. My hair and makeup is done in record time. I forget my gloves.

9:10 am: We're off! Almost immediately we are surrounded by cars; it would seem that everybody is going to Niagara Falls on the same day as we. They want to see us succeed in our crazy endeavour. They are slowing us down and getting in our way.

10:00 am: Somewhere around Lincoln I begin to feel uncomfortable and anxious and I need to go to the bathroom.

I generally try to avoid bathrooms while I'm doing a Daily Muffy. Drag bathroom-etiquette is difficult at the best of times, and THIS time I'm wearing an outfit that takes time and subtlety to get in and out of. We pull into a Tim Horton's because I'm hoping that the bathrooms have a single stall.

On my way through the door a man asks me if I have a gas can. Then he notices that I am wearing a bright yellow '50s tap-dancing dress that is cut up to my crotch. He recoils.

By the time I'm finished in the bathroom I realize that I was suffering a form of anxiety due to the way the morning has gone: I got out of bed, jumped into drag, and then rushed into Jenn's car...then we drove non-stop through an alien landscape toward a place I'd never been before. I had felt a bit like a fish, yanked out of the ocean, dropped into a fishbowl, and then rocketed off without yet having a chance to get a grip on the environment.

Now that I have stared down the clientele of a roadside Tim Horton's, I have finally "decompressed." Damn it, Niagara Falls, I'm ready for you!

10:30 am: We park at a pay lot and walk toward the casino. We'd been worried about the weather, but the black storm clouds have all cleared away. We are proud that we remembered to bring umbrellas, but of course we leave them in the back seat of the car. We will regret this.

We are well aware that we cannot take pictures near the resort casino, but we plan to run totally amok within the mall and its surroundings. We befriend the man who appears to be head of security and with his blessing we duck into nooks and crannies that we'd otherwise be too scared to explore.

The mall is mostly full of middle-aged tourists and "casino types." They avoid us and are polite when we block their access to brutally expensive posh-stores. One older man walks up to me and shouts "What happened to your skirt? THE FRONT IS GONE!" but before we can be friendly we are interrupted by yet another security guard, who is feeling us out.

We go outside and begin to walk around the mall. It's beautiful! From a distance I get my picture taken with both the American and Canadian falls (another goal achieved!) The Canadian side is WAY prettier. It wouldn't surprise me to learn that the war of 1812 was fought entirely due to falls-jealousy.

Then, thunder. We have become very accustomed to thunder this summer...but I'm standing outside in a fragile dress and Jenn is carting around a ton of very expensive camera gear. Terrified, we rush back to the mall.

12:30 am: It is POURING. We sit in the food court and watch the rain. As I said previously, we'd left our umbrellas in the car, which is a five-minute walk away.

We hatch a devious plan. We walk through the resort's parking garage until we find the exit which we assume is closest to our parking lot, and then Jenn darts out the door to get her car while I huddle in the stairwell and guard her stuff. I realize that the door is identical to all the other doors on that side of the building, and also that I don't remember what Jenn's car looks like, and I don't have her phone number, and that this was a really silly idea.

Then Jenn pulls up and we drive away; she is soaked, I am not.

1:00 pm: Sensing how much I want to take the restrictive "bumblebee" outfit off, Jenn pulls into a covered parking garage behind a hotel and I jump out to get changed. The rain is pouring down. I strip to my underwear just in time for a bunch of tourists to wander into the parking lot with me. Then a car pulls in. The tourists and the car shuffle back and forth as I crouch, virtually naked, waiting for them to sort their crap out and go away.

Finally we are back on the Queen Elizabeth Way and we are heading home.

1:30 pm: The black clouds descend and the traffic slows to a crawl.


Due to an evil brew of construction, weather, car accidents, and the other people's desire to interfere with our shit, our next ninety minutes on the QEW are spent in impenetrable gridlocked traffic, inching forward mile after mile. Then a truly fearsome hailstorm reduces visibility to nil, which is particularly terrifying when you're stuck on the Garden City Skyway. Jenn pushes us through one jam and into the next; we struggle, we fight.

3:00 pm: When the weather clears we are still creeping along the QEW...but we no longer recognize the landmarks. We wonder why the hell we're driving through Oakville. When we start to see "Airport" and "Mississauga" signs our worst suspicions are confirmed: during the storms we missed a crucial turn-off into Hamilton, and spent an hour DRIVING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION.

My mind snaps. I am being driven through a strange area, very far from home, and I am in drag. That alone would be fine except that my face is steadily disintegrating and I have no "boy clothes." I cannot (or rather will not) exit the car in this stage of degeneration, and we've ALREADY spent hours driving in the car...it will take at least another hour to get us back, and we are getting perilously close to rush hour (which would add an ADDITIONAL hour to our journey).

In the face of my emotional-mental meltdown, Jenn is the rational one. We stop and get directions, which are: follow Winston-Churchill Boulevard until we hit the 401. It's a long way home from there but at least we KNOW that area.

Making the best of it, we turn around and resume our journey.

4:20 pm: Home at last. I greet the cat, wash my decaying face, and happily look forward to seeing the pictures we took (you'll see them as part of the next Daily Muffy, if you're interested). I am suddenly cold and I huddle up under the covers, reading Morley Callaghan short stories and enjoying my return to stability.

I realize that the horrific drive home has almost completely wiped out my memory of what we did in Niagara Falls. Thank goodness we'll have pictures to remind us!

Cosmetic Breakthroughs for Sweaty People with Wrinkles

At its very center my life is a never-ending attempt to look as good as possible for as long a time as possible, meanwhile fighting to hold the effects of aging at bay.

Actually that's not my life at all, I'm only kidding, but it's a substantial part of my WEEKENDS. So here's what I've learned recently.

As I've said before I have really greasy skin, and this is a problem because I wear CoverFX cream-based makeup with a heavy coating of powder. Oils are constantly seeping through the foundation around my T-zone, spreading and puddling to such an extent that migrating waterfowl occasionally get trapped on my nose and die. A tragedy for everybody.

One method of controlling this "puddling" is to constantly apply powder to the affected areas. In the past I have used a large foundation brush, but this causes the now-oily cream foundation to smear off as well, resulting in gradually-worsening Picasso-face.

After getting equally bad results from a thin, stiff eyeshadow brush -- which smeared off the cream AND didn't blend the powder -- I tried out a Quo "All Over Shadow" brush. This is an extremely soft, puffy, rounded brush about the size of the nail on your middle finger, and it applies foundation with enough strength to make it stick, but not so much to scrape off the cream foundation or keep the powder from blending. Wonderful!

But none of this stops my second problem. After a few hours "in face," the jolly "smile lines" around my eyes become engraved into the cream foundation, giving me a decidedly un-jolly "Kabuki" look. Re-powdering makes the problem worse, and putting additional cream over the creases does nothing useful whatsoever.

Victoria Parks to the rescue! During our Paris adventure she recommended using a damp sponge to smooth out those lines. I finally tried it after coming home from the Guelph Pride party and...wow! Creases-be-gone! Get a wedge-shaped cosmetic sponge, put a bit of water on it, squeeze it out so it's almost dry, and then lightly wipe the creases away.

This might take some fine-tuning, since applying powder afterwards brings the creases back immediately. Back to the lab, Frankenmuffy...there must be a solution.

May Photojourney!

There are lots of new pictures in The Flickr Photojourney, which you should go look at AFTER reading the three posts below...they explain the context.

In the meantime, though, here's a picture which needs NO context...it's "Frenzy," the Angry Wig!

"Driving Hands...One Minute at the Wheel, the Next at Tea"

Finally, a 1920s celebrity endorsement that I actually care about!

I don't care about the Cutex Liquid Polish. I care about Anita Loos whose books were outrageously funny.

Seriously, when you need some quick summer reading, pick up "Gentlemen Prefer Blondes." It has nothing to do with the movie musical and you can read it in a day.

Exo Hair Postmortem

Last month Vanilla sent me a link to Exoskeleton Cabaret and told me that I absolutely MUST buy some of their hair extensions. I said that such things require elaborate makeup and clothing that doesn't suit me, and she pointed out that the models were quite understated and I should stop being a wuss. She was right!

So I bought two of their pieces: a ponytail fall made out of wool and plastic, and a pair of enormous "tubular crin" extensions.

Saturday was the big night and I gave myself half an hour to get them "installed." But you see, I've always had this problem with hair...

First off, I don't like the incredible PICKINESS of hairstyling, where everything must be meticulous or it looks stupid. Separating my head into REGULAR pigtails is arduous in itself, but building up HIGH pigtails has always been my worst nightmare. My hair is incredibly heavy and my arm-strength is marginal; after half an hour of building, demolishing, and rebuilding my high pigtails I was ready for the sanitarium, and also losing hair.

Then the extensions themselves, attached to thin strips of elastic fabric that are obviously intended to be attached to something -- like a barret -- instead of just being tied up and pinned to death. Then just imagine the joy of arranging these things; it was like herding cats, albeit sixty of them made out of extremely light, long, bouncy plastic.



It took an hour, and by the end of it I was hardly feeling glamorous. All I wanted to do was come back home and make a drunken video with a hand-puppet (see below).

But here's the thing: I think I can do better next time. Maybe I'll try putting them closer together, and attaching bobby pins to the extensions BEFORE I put them on. I can't recommend these extensions highly enough: they're sturdy, they look amazing, and people can't stop touching them.

The latest few pictures are up on Flickr, but I'd like to leave you with this enigmatic shot of Victoria and I which you can try scrounging up a rationale for:

A Moment's Pause

Sometimes, when this blog goes silent for a day or two, it's because I'm stupid and brain dead and I just want to take a seventy-two hour nap.

But at other times -- like this -- it's because I'm working on so many things that I simply don't have the time or brainpower left to explore heavy blog topics (such as the potential fetish appeal of 1920s cruise-line fruit).

What am I doing? I'm glad you asked! Besides the physical/mental logjam that occurs the week before any approaching drag show (it's tomorrow night!) I am also swamped at work (wading into the treacherous waters of DITA), continuously shoveling the sidewalk, finishing off a song that's been in the pipe for more than a year, experimenting with my new hair extensions, and...

...putting together a silly online project that I will link to in a day or two, but which will be of interest only to die-hard devotees of a certain obscure musical group. I mention this not to get you excited -- because I don't think anybody who reads this would be interested in the final product -- but only to explain why I'm so quiet right now.

PS: I'm also watching a DVD collection of pioneering films from the turn of the century, back before anybody realized that a camera could move (unless it was mounted on a train) or that chase scenes didn't HAVE to show every single participant arrive at one edge of the film, cross laboriously across the middle, and exit completely off the opposite edge.

Oh, those simple, child-like directors with their top hats and mustaches! Oh, those sickly-looking infants dressed in oversized doilies! Oh, those insatiable, oat-eating horses! And let's not forget the eight-year-old children working in factories to help buy heroin-laced medicines for their consumptive, coal-mining fathers.

It's no wonder they didn't have time to discover "the close-up."

Cosmetics for the Inept

My life with CoverFX foundation began over a year ago, but I'm still learning how to deal with it; essentially, how to put it on, make sure it stays, and fix it when it goes wrong.

The issue with CoverFX over panstick-and-powder (my old technique) is that it's so delicately natural. Rather than a thick, greasy goop, it is...well, a thin greasy goop. Though the greasiness is mostly disguised with their setting powder.

I have spent a year feeling borderline-ugly, and it is only now that I've managed to solve a few problems that have been plaguing me.

1. My nose has been an absolute train-wreck. I realize that this is because it is a phenomenally oily portion of my face. I can't stop my nose from "greasing up" during the night, but I CAN keep it dry long enough to put foundation and powder on, which is three-quarters of the battle. I have to wash my face several times in the hour preceding application, then -- with makeup sponge ready -- I manically scrub my nose with a dry washcloth. When only a tiny spot of oiliness remains, I dab some powder on with a brush, then immediately apply the cream foundation, and then powder again. If a bird lands on me during the night it will still leave marks with its feet, but at least my nasal shell won't go sliding off on its own volition (perhaps in search of a drink).
2. With the above technique I can also cover up my large pores without everything becoming a mess. I tried Base Watier pore minimizer -- and initially swore by it -- but it simply adds oiliness to an area that I can't afford to be oily. Instead, once my nose is dry and powdered, I smear the cream foundation around and it covers the pores up. Voila.
3. I'm no longer a spring chicken, I'm more of an autumn pheasant, so the lines under my eyes are bound to be visible. But my Mac concealer was making them even MORE visible, turning them into crinkly mummy-pouches before the night had even begun. Now I put a bit of prep lotion under my eyes and then apply the concealer...it works!
4. I'd given up using the outrageously expensive "goat-hair brush" for applying foundation -- using a sponge instead -- but now I see that there are parts of my face where the goat-hair brush is essential. You basically need it wherever you have -- ahem -- growth. After using the brush on those areas you can go over them a second time with the sponge.

So there you have it! May your first year with CoverFX be prettier than mine has been.

My Little Black Cloud of Mishaps

Sometimes it seems like the world is out to get me. You know this is leading to a story about intense frustration, so let's get right to the point.

Sunday, December 16th: a tremendous snowstorm -- the second in three weeks -- wallops my little town.

It's the night of Club Abstract's Christmas party. Since the party is mainly for staff members, they insist you arrive before 10pm so all hands can lock the doors and retreat into debauchery. With this in mind I call a cab at 8:45 and wait.

And wait. And wait. Once again a cab driver has been unable to find me, and instead of calling to check my address he's simply driven away, leaving me without transportation. At 9:30 I am frantically talking to the cab company: they can send somebody else, but not anytime soon; they're booked solid with Christmas parties and the roads are terrible. The fact that THEY screwed up doesn't seem to change the situation.

I make a snap decision. I put on my sturdiest boots and begin to walk, over twelve inches of mostly-uncleared snow, through 60kph winds. Here's a brief excerpt so you can share the joy with me. I make an appearance at the end that turned out surprisingly well. I figured that if I died like a stranded Jack London character, they could use my camera to learn about my last desperate moments.



A survivor, I arrive at Club Abstract...and discover that I'm dressed like a bar skank at a formal event. Alright, maybe I should have asked about the night's "tone."

I feel terribly out of place, I brood about the inevitable walk home, I get increasingly nervous and repetative. People are looking at me strangely. Eventually I discover that my blood sugar is catastrophically low; the walk through the snowstorm has done me in.

A sweet bartender serves me Shirley Temples, I eat a bag of Skittles, I acknowledge that things couldn't possibly get worse.

THEN THE SOLE OF MY RIGHT BOOT FALLS OFF. I cannot walk back home, in a snowstorm, post-insulin shock, with only one boot. I want to kill myself.

Fortunately a quick-thinking staff member gives me an early Christmas gift: duct tape.



Desperate for home, my little black cloud parts long enough for me to grab an impossible cab. I count my considerable blessings.

The next morning I walk to work; a half-hour ordeal through a city paralyzed by the storm. I stop at Tim Horton's for food and realize I've left my wallet at home. I only have petty change with which to buy lunch. I am going to cry.

I sit down to eat my paltry food, I reach into my bag to give myself insulin...and realize I've forgotten my insulin as well. I've come all the way to work and I can't buy or eat anything.

My heart has gone cold and squishy. I gently put my head on the table. I cover my head with my hands and press, scratching my scalp, moaning slightly. I have had a terrible, terrible weekend. I am actually looking forward to going to work; I can't get hit by a car while sitting at my desk, probably. I do not feel safe in the world.

I wait patiently for a cab to take me home so I can grab my wallet, my insulin, and return to work. This costs me twenty dollars. Smiling over its shoulder, my little black cloud of mishaps laughs and wanders off to torture another soul, hopefully not you.

Pridetoberfest 2007, Plus Hiking, Plus a Bonus Cat!

I had four days off work during the long weekend, but somehow it only felt like six hours.

First: the lead-up to "Pridetoberfest," during which I prepped and worried and messed with my hair. Jodi (super-stylist) had revealed the secrets of hat-defeating hairdos, and I spent all week trying to replicate her instructions. I bought hairclips and practiced segmentation, I rigged up an extra bathroom mirror so I could see the back of my head, I experimented with gel and pomade and the fake-hair braids she'd made me...

Well, I certainly learned a lot about hair, but only enough to develop a style that I call "Ugly Squirrel's Nest Mess (with Braids)." And even after four days of fiddling I couldn't remove those evil stylist-elastics without losing hair. After all that worrying and experimenting I settled on two pigtails, wrapped them in dirndl scraps, and considered myself to be suitably German (but still "hat-able").

The actual "Ilsa on Ice" outfit worked BEAUTIFULLY. You can really jump around in an organza skirt if you're willing to grab it and flip it over your head. I probably only broke two toes in my new silver shoes, and the run in my fishnets appeared only thirty seconds into the night, a new record for me.

Click here for a few more pictures from the event, including shots of the fabulous B-Girlz (who were spunky, professional, and hilarious, as expected).

Early the next morning -- nursing a hangover and a set of hamburger-toes -- I went on a 5km hike to Spencer Gorge with Jon & Vanilla. The place was drenched with an impossible fog which made the experience even more magical...click here for the trip in pictures. Consider it a "Bus/Walk Tour" without the "bus."

(You can also find a new collector's photo of Zsa Zsa called "Zsa Zsa A-curl.")

I wimped out of Monday's Oktoberfest Parade, but I did enjoy a super-heated patio lunch with my mother. Breakfast and booze and easy chatter, always nice!

Now, suddenly, I'm back to work again. Did I do a Rip Van Winkle on this weekend or something? Where the heck did it GO? I want to do it all again!

Vintage Muffy

I almost forgot about these! The lovely Morgan James posted some pictures from a 2004 Open Drag Night at Club Renaissance. I'll never forget that night, because the DJ didn't show up and I was nominated to fill in for him. Stripping down to your underwear in a glass booth is not something I'd recommend.

Also in the pics is Annie Drogyny, and Morgan James herself. Ahh, the memories!

Vain observations: I look gimpy, but young! I hate those silver platforms. My eyebrows were good. And why the hell am I dressed as a nurse?

Buying the Best (or at Least the Better)

When I first moved away from home I survived on a small income; I lived in student housing, ate where I worked, and was unaware (sometimes knee-jerk dismissive) that the items in Maslow's hierarchy of needs could differ noticeably in quality. Isn't food just food, a car just a car? Aren't all clothes essentially the same? Does spending more for something mean you're getting something BETTER, as opposed to just putting yourself in a hoity-toity category of elites?

I have more money now, and some things that people put in a cost-hierarchy -- expensive restaurants, food, wines, and cars -- are still beyond my understanding. But friend Vanilla will sometimes hand me a piece of high-quality wool and I'll hold it and think...wow, this feels incredible! Years of buying cheap clothing in chain stores -- and having to donate it or throw it out after five or six washings -- has taught me something about...well, the life-span cheap clothing. Friend Pete bought me a shot of Grey Goose vodka a few months ago and I was forced to admit that expensive alcohol really IS better. Now I spend a lot of time in liquor stores holding my stomach and crying.

Last week I bought an expensive pen. The initial idea was that paying good money for a pen would force me to USE it, but now I find myself holding the pen and thinking, "wow, this feels really good...it's like the Grey Goose of pens!" And when my last pair of cheap boots wore out after nine months, I found myself paying a bundle for a new moderately "good pair," and when I slip them on I know they're going to last. Or they'd better.

I have a reactionary response to what I consider "gentrification," that is, the ostentatious display of "wealth" with no regard for taste, appropriateness, or functionality. But here I am with my pen and my boots and my $50 hair-care products, not to mention all the money I've spent on CoverFX foundation (right down to the $40 "goat-hair brush"), and I wonder: why the change? Am I spending more money on these things simply because I CAN (or because I want to imagine myself as the sort of person who can) or because I'm appreciating "quality" more than I used to (or because I want to be a person who appreciates "quality?") There's a big distinction between those categories.

In short, I don't know. But if the biggest problem in my life is that I can now afford a beautiful pen, I suppose I'm doing pretty good for myself.

A Sad Hair-well

After a year with my wonderful stylist Sonja, I had to say a sad goodbye to her tonight; she's moving to a new salon which is inconvenient for me to get to. Goodbye, Sonja, and thank you for the farewell hair-clip! And heck, the swoopy bang was worth a try, wasn't it?