Another Very Serious Question

Ok, guys — how about this one?

Take It Off!

Several Saturdays ago, I went to a midnight showing of Doc Wasabassco's Burlesque at Union Hall. One of the first thoughts to pop into my head upon my decision to attend this engagement was: "Finally! An excuse to wear my lavender feathered cocktail hat with my leopard-print pumps!"

Yes, these are the sort of things I spontaneously muse upon.

And before I go any further, let me just advise you all that when you're wearing stiletto heels, it is NOT a good idea to follow the HopStop directions that include the step "Walk 10 blocks south on 5th Ave."

Anyway...

I'm a big fan of burlesque (then again, I'm also of the opinion that pole dancing is a legitimate art form). Maybe it's a result of my third-wave feminist streak and love of unique and creative self-expression. Or maybe It's just because I like to look at pretty naked girls. Either way, it's fun. And as I briefly mentioned in this post, I'm also a big fan of the unorthodox and unusual. People usually associate burlesque with a kind of kitschy, old-fashioned flirtiness. Which is why when the stage went dark in preparation for this next dancer and I heard the opening strains of Tool's "Sober" — a decidedly unburlesque piece of music — I knew I was in for something interesting. And most likely unforgettable.

And boy, it was.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

Magdalena Fox's Sugar Skull/Day Of The Dead Piece

(WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT)

Trouble viewing? Click

here.

At the end of the show, the male MC, Doc Wasabassco himself, surrounded on stage by 7 topless girls in g-strings, announced to the crowd: "Hi. This is my job. What do you do?"

I do believe I'll be back for more. :)

P.S.: In compliance with the requests made in this post, here is a partial pic of my heavenly headpiece:

I Survived Glam Nation...Barely

I am way too exhausted to write up a full report right now, but I thought I'd at least show you what I looked like:

Glam Nation Transformation!

Transformation, Ink

So...my tattoo.

Due to its location, it's usually hidden from view, but it's rather extensive. I hadn't planned it to be. It's grown over the years, for various reasons.

It started out as a simple crescent moon on the back of my left shoulder. My first word was "moon," and the Moon is a symbol of the Divine Feminine, so it's special to me. There were only two problems:

I picked the design off the wall.

And I got it done with a boyfriend.

Anyone with any tattoo experience whatsoever will tell you that these are both very bad ideas. The first issue came to light almost immediately — the coloring came out differently than I had expected. This is undeniably a rookie mistake. Because, as you know, the background on the wall is white, and skin is, you know, not. Even the whitest white girls like me don't have pure white skin, and the bright yellow I had been drawn to on the wall now looked more of an orangey-pink. Color me an unsatisfied customer.

Issue #2: The boyfriend. Aren't they always an issue? Even I knew enough to never EVER tattoo someone's name on your body, but I hadn't counted on the negative associations my artwork still conjured up after the boyfriend and I miserably and viciously broke up. One night, in a particularly volcanic fury, I decided to cover over the tormenting reminder with another tattoo. Unfortunately, what I decided to cover it up with was a rather hideous tribal sun ('cause it was BLACK! That'll show him the depths of my hatred! [Not that he ever even saw it...]). The pieces of the original that still showed through were inked over in peacock blue; however, my inept artist fucked this up royally, and I now looked like a pen had exploded on my back. Fantastic.

Lesson #3: Never get a tattoo on the spur of the moment. Especially in a judgement-impaired fit of retribution.

So, after living with this monstrosity for a few years, I finally came into some cash and decided to fix it somehow. My original plan was to have it removed and start over, putting something else in it's place. See, I still wanted a tattoo in that spot, just not an awful amateur piece of crap that still brought up bad memories of the ex-boyfriend. This plan was quickly nixed when the new artist I spoke to explained that because of the size and the dark color, laser surgery wasn't guaranteed to remove it completely. He elaborated that it would take at least more than one session to even attempt it, which would be a major expense and most likely leave a substantial scar. Dang. What he suggested instead was to just incorporate it into a bigger piece so it would be less noticeable.

This appealed to me.

Shortly thereafter, I was doodling during my accounting class when I happened upon a really cool idea for a design. I brought the actual page ripped from my notebook, with my homework assignment written on the back, to the artist with whom I had previously spoken, and asked him what he thought.

After a few seconds of thoughtful studying, he nodded and said, "I can do something with this."

And so it began.

I've added different shades of blue and green to the tribal, to make it Earth-colored. I've replicated that design on the back of my right shoulder, in shades of red and yellow, for the Sun. Between them at the base of my neck is a blue and silver moon. Beneath all three is a row of red and orange flames. Below that there is mirror image scrollwork in purple, yellow and green, resembling wings. And at the base of my spine are two emerald green eyes.

My moon. The Pagan trinity. The duality of fire and flame of creativity. The Gemini element of Air; the ability of flight. The gift of vision; the Emerald birthstone of May; the Gemini sign of the Twins. A powerful Phoenix rising from the ashes of my mistakes. Plus the tiger lily and ankh on my right arm, for the Chinese zodiac Year of the Tiger and the Egyptian heiroglyph for eternal life. My version of spirituality written on my body.

And it looks really pretty. :)

The 3

So, several years ago, I was at Tattoo Lou's, skimming through some portfolios, waiting for the manager to come back out and finalize the plans for my [still unfinished] masterpiece. While I'm waiting, 3 different girls come in, all separately, but when the guy behind the counter asks each of them if he can help them with anything, all 3 of them answer the same thing:

Butterflies.

One wants them on her ankle, another just had one done on her back, the other one was thinking about getting one but isn't sure yet. After the last one leaves — and before another one gets a chance to come in and make the same request — I go over to one of the artists, trying to keep a straight face, and ask about how many girls come in here asking for butterflies? What's the percentage, roughly? He shakes his head and says "Honestly, about one out of every three."

I must have caught them on a good night.

*On a completely unrelated note, on the way home, 3 different radio stations were playing 3 different Fallout Boy songs all at the same time. Conspiracy? You be the judge!

Things I Wish Could Really Happen

Every time I put on the Avatar 3-D glasses, I turn into one.

Chocolate donuts cure cancer.

I actually get paid to screw around on Twitter all day.

Punching obnoxious douchebags on the subway not only legal but encouraged as a behavioral deterrent.

All Twilight and Justin Beiber fans placed in internment camps for "re-programming."

My cat does the dishes and cleans the bathroom for me while I'm at work.

Republicans develop the capability to act rationally.

Tattoos are eligible for government subsidies and feel like the brush of butterfly wings against your skin.

A kind stranger leaves me a charming and spacious Park Slope apartment in their will.

Doing karaoke helps me lose 20 pounds.

Sucide Girls provides scholarships to the Pratt School of Fashion Design.

Survivor critiques considered high literary art.

Giant adult-sized castle bounces installed in all public parks.

"Business casual" = Halloween costumes every single day + unlimited wardrobe stipend.

Flying cars.

World peace.

My Subway Subculture Initiation

So about 2 summers ago, I made the grand pilgrimage all the way from Long Island to Brooklyn to look at an apartment. On my way back home, I get on the Q at Church Ave. I'm only going a few stops, so I just grab onto a pole as the doors close. Distracted by the adorable giggling baby in the stroller to the right of me, I don't even notice this guy on my left until he gets up as if he's about to get off the train, but instead grabs onto the pole I'm leaning against and gets right in my face. He's balding with long hair, missing a tooth, wearing socks with sandals, and seems drunk, even though it's only 11 am.

"I like your tattoos," he says, smiling so wide he's almost leering, and leaning uncomfortably close to me.

"Thanks," I say before really thinking about it, "I have more" — my standard response to such compliments.

Bad move.

"I'd like to see them sometime," he says, stumbling and nearly falling on me with every lurch of the train. I just smile nervously and shift positions, but this doesn't stop my admirer. "Look," he says, conspiratorially, "I'm getting off at DeKalb, but I'd like to get to know you better. Maybe you can give me your phone number?"

Before he even gets the full sentence out, I tell him, "Sorry, I have a boyfriend," which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to flat-out hurt these psychos' feelings. But my white lie doesn't deter Mr. Flatbush Casanova.

"He doesn't have to know," he replies and winks at me.

Oh, gross.

"Sorry," I repeat, grateful that these bug-eye sunglasses are practically eating my face so no one can see the half-amused/half-repulsed look I'm giving this guy right now.

"Do you live together?" he asks.

God damn, he's persistent! "Yeah," I tell him, "yeah, we do," and I'm even starting to picture it now — my imaginary boyfriend and I, curled up on a couch in the apartment I just looked at, eating take-out, doing something cozy and domestic, like a jigsaw puzzle. There's even a cat purring by my feet.

"That's great," he says, still not backing off. "I wish you luck. Tell him he's a lucky guy."

And then — relief of reliefs — it's my stop. "I will," I call over my shoulder as I hastily exit to the platform. I don't even watch the gap.

Man, I think, cracking up by myself in the middle of the empty train station, why can't "normal" guys that I'm attracted to ever be that direct? It would make things so much easier. Because even though I'm more than a little creeped-out, I'm still, strangely, and embarassingly, a little bit flattered.

And I did take that apartment.

[NOTE: Had you been at DimeStories tonight, you could have heard this enchanting story live.]

Put On Your (Tinfoil) Party Hats!

2010 is the year of the Tiger.
I was born in the year of the Tiger.
I have a tiger lily tattoo.
The Tiger is the third sign of the Chinese zodiac.
There are 12 signs in the Chinese zodiac.
12 x 3 = 36.
I turn 36 in 2010.
All of these numbers are divisible by 3.
3 x 3 = 9.
9 is my favorite number.
The number 3 is associated with the Goddess in Pagan religions.
The Goddess is associated with the Moon.
My first word was "moon."
I have a crescent moon tattoo.
It's silver and blue.
There's a full moon tonight.
And it's a Blue Moon.

Pretty neat, huh? :)

Obsolete

To all those who have ever used the "It's gonna look ridiculous when you're 80" anti-tattoo argument:

Think of how many people in the 18-34 demographic are getting tattoos these days. Realize that they are all aging at the same rate. Therefore, when I'm 80, my tattoo will look just as ridiculous as every other 80-year-old's. They'll have become so prevelant, they probably won't even register. Remember pierced ears were freakish, too, once upon a time, but I'm not gonna point and laugh at your grandma for still wearing earrings.

So shut it.