Category Archives: fucking

proud of the pride? | thoughts on the gay pride week

I live on THE Castro. In San Francisco. This year’s Pride parade was mature, peaceful, fun and beautiful. And big- actually, the biggest. More than 200 floats  made their way down Market Street, and for the 42nd time in history the city put its LGBT foot forward and celebrated love- of any kind.

Meanwhile, thousand took to the streets in Sidney, tens of thousands in Mexico City and almost half a million in Amsterdam, making the last week in June a world-wide movement to celebrate and reinforce the hard-earned right to equality.

In Romania- where same-sex relationships were deemed illegal until as recently as 2001- the parade was made of 200 people. Amongst them, officials from a few foreign embassies sincerely supporting the movement and bravely taking a stance- apart from the community, these foreigners were the only supporters. Around the parade, over 300 security officers, a few biased televisions (aaaahh, if you could only see the news titles and how tainted they were) and tens of members of a youth group called The New Right, chanting hate messages and clutching rocks.Death to the ass lovers. I watched the video posted by a friend on Facebook, and my skin began crawling with rage- for a variety of reasons.

First, the stuff I was witnessing– the video was, I’m telling you, appalling. Broad daylight, in the middle of a modern E.U. capital, rocks in hand: death to the ass lovers. With nobody getting particularly concerned about the 1000 ways this was wrong. Really?!? When interviewed, The New Right was very vocal and proud to take a stance against the rainbow scum of society- some talked about God, some spoke of family values, ALL mentioned a pure nation free of deviants- their discourse sounded vaguely familiar and invoked (at least in my head) memories of incendiary speeches from dark times when everything ended with Heil Hitler. Alarming, to say the least. The police was slightly amused, slightly annoyed to be forced to protect some people who, in their opinion, were looking for trouble to begin with- and I almost feel that, if left to their own, the security guards would have instigated a fight between the extremists and the rainbow-wearers, for the fun of watching it. Beer in hand.

Then, the comments. A few Neanderthals found it appropriate to pollute the video (and the position my friend was taking) with their crappy, hate-filled, self- indulgent thoughts- and I lost it. Wish I could translate everything that went down- but not only was I called an airheaded idiot ruined by my gullibility for western ideas, but I was also told to keep my mouth shut, since leaving the country apparently stripped me of any right to have an opinion. Now, these poor jackals barking at my tree did absolutely nothing to my tree/ego/position/sensibilities- if anything, they focused my arguments so that at some point, under my civilized tirade, they had to quiet down and think about how the gays are not parading for the right to fuck (each other), but the right to not be fucked with (by the society). Yay for me. But the whole exchange and the fact that it was public and shamelessly discriminatory (on their part) got me thinking. These are young, hardworking, highly educated people who are well informed and have access to mass communication. Not only are they immovable in their concepts, but they’re very aggressive in taking hold (and comfort) in whatever the majority thinks right. That, and the fact that they were so quick to renounce me made me sad-sad-sad- because it’s hard to keep loving (and helping) a country that doesn’t love you back. Anyway. I advised all my friends who think like me to find a Neanderthal of their own and make it their mission to bombard them with information, pressure and love until they crack. Maybe that’s how the change will come, if it does. One Neanderthal at a time.

Lastly, the gays. Come on, people, you are strong, you are smart, and you are courageous- is this lame parade all you can do?!? Watching the video(s), I got a really bad taste in my mouth- a weak bunch of drunk, excited, not-seriously-prepared people wearing half-ass’d costumes and letting out onomatopoeia does not a march make! How the fuck do you plan to change laws and get the haters to take you seriously if you, yourselves, do not?! I mean, yes, any publicity is good publicity and visibility is better than living in the shadows. But if prominence, acceptance and making equality a civil right is what you’re after, then you better rally up, smarten up and speak up because what you’re doing now is not cutting it. Shrilling, giggling, yelling uncontrollably at cameras, making a mockery of what a human rights manifestation should be, not doing your homework and taking to the streets just so you can put it in everyone’s faces once a year is not enough- if anything, it taints your image even further. So shape up, because you’re dealing with people who would maim you and stick your balls and dick up your own ass if they could- so you need to be organized. You need to be focused. You need to be ar-ti-cu-late.

If not, all the work us, your friends, are doing on Neanderthals in your name is water down the drain.

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friday ‘finking | mother fucking

Twisted thoughts can come from the most poetic of concepts.

Last night I went to the the premiere of Jana and Baladoor, a phantasmagorical creation of the master that still is (albeit one reputably hard to work with) Bahram Beizai. A crazy production of shadow puppets, lights, live music and ridiculously good writing, it kept me on my seat with my eyes glued to the surtitles, my ear perched on the high note of literary Farsi and my soul melting over the two storytellers (one of them being the brilliant Mohsen Namjoo) who did more than what I thought a performer is able to do by simply using the humble instrument of the human body. It was GOOD. Visionary good.

The story is quasicomplicated, well-rounded, sensible, filled with symbolic characters grander than life and, therefore, beyond morals as we, mortals, understand them. This one chick (essence of water and precursor of everything meant to give life) sleeps with her earth, fire and wind siblings. Now, THAT is entertaining to watch (picture flat shadow puppets going at it behind a screen) but also pretty shortcircuiting to deal with in the brain- generally because fucking your sister and brothers is not an easy-breezy subject, and particularly since this play is in Farsi (religious military, anyone?). That being said, the writing and the mis-en-scene managed to somehow separate the earthly meanings from the concept in a way that, in my humble opinion, is what artistic excellence is made of.

Now, on to the twisted part (that’s what you’re here for, right?). In one scene, after having made love to one of her siblings, Baladoor iterates: I am a virgin, and I am your own and my own mother.

That got me thinking- what is sex, anyway, if not a way of recreating one’s birth? All men we know came from some birth canal- the same, in essence, as the one they’re trying to put their penis into every time they utter a pick-up line. Boys come into this world head first, prying open their mothers from the inside out, materializing an expulsion, creating a void they no longer inhabit and opening a tract throughout the path taken in their passing. When they copulate, it’s the other way around. They shut an opening, they fill in the void, they recreate the motion outside-in, they start with their extremities (their penis, their fingers, whatever) and, if we were to imagine a vagina becoming this great vacuum sucking a whole man in, the head would be, somehow, the last part to see the light of day.

That being said, are men ever trying, unconsciously, to go back? Does that mean they’re looking not for sex, but to un-birth themselves by sex with [some, their, future] Mothers? 

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ready, steady, fight | 5 reasons why conflict is good

Harmony? Not for me. Go ahead, boo. But enough with the zen, I say! (If only for the fact that this zen thingie is- and should remain- something to vie for, intangible- indescribable- and- absolute. All the hoards of seasonal seekers who pretend they are it do nothing but cheapen the hell out of an otherwise deeply meaningful philosophical concept. But that’s another story.)

I believe nothing good ever came out of harmony. True, it is most desirable, because it’s rare and yet easy on the brain (symmetry is the easiest on the eye, harmonies are the easiest on the ear, and so on) – but it’s also true that in nature, most things are unstable and balance is not only hard to attain, but also almost impossible to maintain.

Chemistry operates with instability. Chaos breeds creation. Conflict is what commends change. Big Bang, innovation, discoveries, evolution and revolutions alike happened because delta (the difference between what was and what had to be) was greater than zero.

Just to make sure we’re on the same page here, let me explain myself. To me, “conflict” is the existence of more than one angle to an issue, coupled with the high probability that more angles than one can be considered valid. In my book, conflicts are an imbalance that can very well exist in a benign, live-and-let-live state foreverandeveramen. But, more often than not, they get taken into action. Their manifestations, usually belligerent, range from a benign domestic debate to full-on international wars. This applied stage is what communism was for socialism: a twisted practical application of an otherwise inoffensive theory.

As a natural phenomenon and socio- political glue, I respect conflict. As a personal source of advancement and perpetual provider of fun, I also crave it.

Here are the 5 good things that, in my opinion, come from conflict:

1. Information– imagine, say, three people who know each other well and have the same views. If you’re trying to tell me that their talk about the weather, the last soccer game they watched or the color of their kids’ fecal matter is a conversation, you’re delusional.  After all, to converse comes from the Latin conversus, “turned around”. Information gets exchanged if, and only if the parties have different tastes, preoccupations and habits and, therefore, curiosities that need be fulfilled through the analysis of delta (in this case, the difference between what I know and what you know).

2. Therapy– not only you’re letting steam out about everything and their mother (sleazy boss? Shitty in- laws? PMS?), but fighting provides an occasion to spill the beans on everything you’ve been keeping inside on the subject. A heated argument is the only acceptable venue for becoming a little extreme, and when both parties do it it’s.. well, therapeutic. Out with the poison, in with the relief.

3. Productivity– in physics, the sum force of two opposing forces is the difference between the two- if the two forces are equal, the sum is zero and you’ve accomplished precisely shit. The smaller the angle between the two, the larger the sum force. I am not one to preach compromise, but I do have a streak of utilitarianism in me, and I do believe there’s always a middle way that may make all parties happy. But in order for that ideal, productive way to be found, differences- and conflict- need first be acknowledged. In other words, if there’s more people than you in a particular issue, chances are that the best solution for everybody is not exactly what you want- get over yourself and accept that.

4. Socializing– if you think your kid will learn basic social skills from you hovering over him like a freak and telling him “no, Billy, you need to share”, “no, Billy, you need to be nice”, “no, Billy, put your penis back in your pants”, you’re- again- delusional. Billy will wait until he’s old enough to close a door and the first thing he’s gonna do is slam it in your face. NONONO. What Billy needs is what we all grew up with- a cold shower. Distributed religiously, every day, by other kids. Only through trial and error will he learn what it means to be part of a group, of a hierarchy (commanded mostly by age, at that age) and a network and, most importantly, how he can influence his position in this network. Billy will also learn to talk, not talk, approve, disapprove, make friends, deal with enemies, stand up for himself, stand up for others, be humble, be proud, be competitive, risk, pay off, think, choose, suck up and suck it up. All- thanks to differences.

5. Make up sex. And this, my friends, is pretty self- explanatory.

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fashion wednesdays | 3 perfumes that smell like sheets

My eyes are bad, my ears are bad, my fingertips are busted and my taste buds- oversolicited. My nose, however, works with the unbearable precision of finding- in a restaurant, let’s say- the one women around me who’s having her period. It can remember things better than my brain, it can judge pheromones better than match.com can compute compatibility, it can save me from food poisoning and it can guide me to all the real things in my life- real sterling silver, real leather, real EDP, real love.

I live by my smell. Over the years I gave in to its not-so-royal bearings, abandoning my tastes and displeasures to the mercy of my too-small-for-my-head, never-stuffy, third-world nuzzle (I don’t mean no disrespect to nature or my parents’ genes, but the monster that adorns my face does not deserve the human, delicate, normal title of “nose”. No, sir-ee. The thing that announces me who farted, what it is they ate a few hours ago and how much they’re sweating with shame because of it is not a nose. The animal that makes me wet my underwear at the simple whiff of a [I’ll keep this one to myself] is not a nose. The machine that, infallibly, makes me weep with nostalgia every time I smell old powder boxes is not a nose.

What I have is called, scientifically, a proboscis. An organ that, once activated by a few random molecules of [..take a pick], takes over my face, my consciousness and my whole being and makes me into a slave of air and what the air can carry. (Speaking of which, if you ever find me wandering aimlessly, empty-eyed and looking like I haven’t washed or eaten in days,  please take pity in me and direct me to my home as I’m probably under some new olfactory spell and out of my self… just sayin’). Good or bad is not a discussion here, as I remember being equally fascinated by fermenting menure, and water lilies (which, by the way, do have a smell). As soon as esters or some other odor molecules start brewing, my nose is there and the rest of me has to follow.

With this type of undiscriminating snout, all I can do is cross my fingers and hope most of the stuff coming my way is not unpleasant. And most isn’t -maybe because in America people shower and brush their teeth more, or maybe because the sewage system is usually in working conditions, or maybe because I’ve sniffed soooooo many things that I rarely get surprised anymore.

No surprise, then, that I am the biggest fragrance whore you’ve ever met- and, while I’ll still go for more, here are three of my latest- and most remarkable- lovers:

1. The sheet in a black and white nude photograph

White afternoon, a bit moist- like all fall afternoons in Paris-, a bit chilly but still languorous, like the naked back of the summer lying on a day bed. The model is up, you can see her slender legs in the background, blurry, beautiful and shiny- she’s almost naked, soft, comfortable, wrapped in sheets and talking to the photographer. He has a funny hat and two sad eyes, she has a gap in her front teeth and curly, short hair. They like each other, even though she has many lovers and he- none but his black room. The wind is blowing soundlessly through the white curtains, the studio smells a bit like coffee, a bit like cold and the stage is still set. No fish nets, they ended up using a sheet and the straight light coming through the blinds… The street is roaming many stories below, you can hear the cafe bell going off with every customer and the day is sharp and lazy like a demoiselle with too many admirers.

What We Do in Paris is Secret from A Lab on Fire, 2012 (perfumer: Dominique Ropion)- a deep, discrete, addictive, thoroughly feminine, unique scent. This perfume is sophisticated.

what we do in paris is secret | a lab on fire

What they say it smells like: bergamot/ Turkish rose/ Tonka bean

What I smell: honey, lychee, clover, heliotrope and vanilla, sandalwood, amber, a bit of rose and some flower I can’t name (a sweeter bergamot… if it exists).

Sillage: on my skin, less than 2 hours- which is disappointing. However, the dry-down is strong and loyal to what the perfume smells like when you put it on- which is not something I’m used to.

Overall: extremely well constructed, unique and sophisticated formula… a tour de force.

2. The sheet the baker hangs on his door

The vacation you see in glossy magazine is, fortunately, not real. The polished, tan, perfectly poised women and men drinking cordials in their steril white pants, suspended in a motionless dusk air, do not exist- and neither does the clean, sharp sound you imagine  their teeth to make when they’re hitting the edge of their glass.

What is real is the dust, the color changing under your eyes with every hour that passes, the constant humming of the local market, the cloying smells of the butchers and the spice merchants and the leather workers, the hunger, the jet lag. What is real is the knot in your stomach and the conscious feeling that now-and-here is a fortuitous, mortal, indescribable and unrepeatable moment so painfully precious that you are already nostalgic for the time in the future when you’ll be missing it. And so you breathe it in, you look around, you zoom in on details and worry you won’t remember how every cobble street seems to be birthing cats, how every woman here has eyes inside her eyes and how the baker, before leaving his shop for the afternoon prayer, put a sheet in the door so that the bees don’t make it, once again, to his freshly-made Turkish delight.

Traversee du Bosphore | L’Artisan Parfumeur, 2010 (perfumer: Bertrand Duchaufour)- a gourmand-but-fresh Oriental fragrance that is sweet without being cloying, clean without being watery and fruity without being legere. This perfume is collective/ alive.

traversee du bosphore | l’artisan parfumeur

What they say it smells like: iris/ leather/ turkish delight

What I smell: leather, champagne, iris, saffron, tulip, vanilla, musk, figs and a bit of hyacinth.

Sillage: very good, 6-8 hours with a soft, organic, powdery dry-down.

3. The sheet for making silent love by the sea side

I remember a time when I was very young, very pretty, very free and and very thin- so thin, that when I lied down my hip bones poked through my skin on each side of my Venus bump, looking like big, clumsy butterfly wings spread on my inside and immobilized by my flesh before ever taking flight.

One unnamed summer I went to the seaside with my boyfriend- back then, nothing but a big boy- and we took a room with a local. A white room, freshly painted, with a big old bed covered with big old white sheets embroidered by hand by small, long gone old women. A silent, clean, airy white room with a window covered in fat geraniums and not much else but ripe youth and silent love.

I remember going for a swim, then sitting on the old white sheets and not talking much, then going for a swim, then sitting in the sun, then being kissed THERE and not talking much, then being melted and ravenous and closing my eyes and becoming oh-so-aware of the insides of my head, the outsides of my body, and the bitter taste of the old bed by the Black Sea.

Alba | Profvmvm Roma, 2004- an organic, bodily, nutty, sexy and serene fragrance that doesn’t need much talking. This perfume is raw.

alba | profvmvm roma

What they say it smells like: anise, musk, amber, vanilla, hazelnut.

What it really smells like: musk, ambergris, oakwood, hazelnuts, grass, aniseed, rock salt.

Sillage: very good, 4-6 hours with a pungent, present, woody dry- down.

Overall: a fantastic, albeit underrated creation of PR, singular and remarkable. For me, a definite stay.

 

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who’s the bitch? | 5 rules for introducing your new date

I tend to get estrogen flowing around me- and that means men become more normal (as in, they don’t feel like slapping their dick on the table), and women become more aggressive. IT’s (yeah, that’s right, I’ll call it “IT”, all caps, that’s how big a role IT played in my life so far) somewhat funny and sometimes burlesque, specifically since when the women see the men getting gentler, they sometimes get insecure and that makes them even more aggressive. Depending on the group, it can be a neverending, drama-ridden dynamic that makes for some damn fun parties.

I don’t know where IT is coming from, but IT has been there since I was a child. Maybe IT is my fearing almost nothing. Or maybe IT is that I only believe what I can see and hear myself, so I don’t usually make prejudged calls about anyone (tabula rasa, ring a bell?). Or maybe IT is that I’m aware of my body and my inner self and truly curious about anyone new, mind and body alike. Whatever IT is, IT’s a treat that makes my friends make fun of me, and helps me make new friends based on how long it takes new people to get over IT. And when I meet one who can act normal around whatever screwed up pheromones I’m oozing, it’s usually magic. On both ends. Continue reading

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