Flashers, ovaries, and my elbow

I saw another penis on the metro last night.

Paris has more rogue wieners than tourists this time of year.

The owner of this particular specimen was wagging it around like a helicopter blade whilst screaming profanity.  There was an empty bottle of something at his feet, and by the looks of things, he was not leaving the station anytime soon.

I’m a little curious as to why he was so fascinated by his own member, as one would imagine he’s been attached to it since birth.  I suppose their connection is his greatest life accomplishment to date, and this is why he felt the need to share it with the world.

Regardless, there it was, wagging around like a sad limp sock attached to a sad limp guy.

As I walked by, it dawned on me that I rarely see the naked bits of ladies down in the underbelly of the city.  Once I saw a large woman’s breast when she heaved it out to show me (an action I still cannot explain though this too was related to alcohol), but that’s the only time I’ve ever been flashed by a lady.

Comparatively, quite a few male flashers have crossed my path in various locations around the globe.  I’ve seen seen male flashers in the US, the UK, Grenada, Tanzania, Switzerland, and of course-France.

There must be something exciting that flashers get from their dirty deeds.  I wonder what it is, and I wonder if it could be replicated by flashing random bits of body normally not associated with sex?

An elbow, for example.  If I just started intently staring at people on the metro, holding eye contact whilst my arm slowly curled up to reveal a little piece of bow-candy?  I wonder if I’d get a thrill out of it.  Maybe a knee pit now and then?

Though I guess people wouldn’t realize it was something they weren’t supposed to see, so I’d probably have to tattoo the words “Do Not Look At Me, I Am An Erotic Elbow” onto it.

Yea, that might work.  Or I guess I could tattoo some naughty bits onto my elbow and flash them.

Penises are too mainstream though.

I’m thinking ovaries.  Yes, I think if I tattooed ovaries onto my elbow, stared people down on the metro, and flashed them a little ovarian bow, I could probably replicate the feeling accomplished by your run-of-the-mill flasher.

You know, really bring it more into the contemporary art scene.

The tattoo would probably hurt a bit though.  Plus there’s the cost.  And for what?  At the end of the day, I’d just be that girl on line 4, flashing tattooed elbow ovaries at people.

Maybe they’d sell little statues of my elbow in the tourists shops next to the Eiffel Tower pencil sharpeners and baguette pens.  Maybe I’d get silkscreened on a few tshirts before Urban Outfitters caught wind, mass-marketed the shirts and sold them to hipsters for 30 seconds until the fad ended-thus erasing my mystic underground image.

Still, there’s always henna…..

A splash of ethnic flare, a hint of cross cultural flashing relations.  Western white American meets Indian art in unconventional location, in one of the most artistic cities in the world-and it’s temporary.  Flashing continues only as long as the henna-ed ovaries remain on my dedicated-to-the-cause bow.

Yes.  Yes, that’s the key.

Limited. Edition.

With any luck, I’ll make it into the Centre de Pompidou.

Fame will be mine.  Mwhahahahahaha.

If you need me, I’ll be on line 4, mingling with the locals.

I’m dying to find out what all the fuss is about.

Besides, someone’s gotta give these sausages a run for their money.

This Menace is that someone.

Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, and my pledge for adventure

When Sleeping Beauty was banished to eternal snoozetime, I doubt anyone took the time to make sure she was on memory foam.

I’d rather be Cinderella.

At least she has stories.

I went to the ballet last night, in case anyone’s wondering why on Earth I’ve chosen to discuss fairy tales.

When I got the invitation, I was less than excited.  I mean, punk-shows are one thing, but the ballet?  Anyone who follows me will recall my childhood ballerina nightmare. So it’s not surprising that I wasn’t overly ecstatic about the idea of watching a bunch of dancers flutter about onstage.

Turns out I was wrong.

With just the right amount of wine warming my cheeks, and the amazing set-design and choreography, Cinderella done post-modern was inspiring.

I mean, not enough to make me want to twirl about in slippers, but still.

The whole show took place in London 1940 and the stepmother was a drunken ballerina.

So that was fun.

They even did an inebriated dance which was pretty creative, all things considered.  I walked in expecting Disney on Ice or some unholy equivilant, and was happy to discover art.

Just goes to show, I should be getting out more and trying new things.

No time to start like the present.  I’m sitting in the Eurostar train station as I write this, awaiting the arrival of one very crazy, very witty, very good friend.

I’m meeting Man Shopper, and yes-we have a plan.

It involves characters, corsets, and my pledge to attempt an evening sans sarcasm.

Stay tuned.  Like the ballet, this could turn out surprisingly inspiring.

Either that, or I’ll be forced to locate some memory foam, a hot water bottle, and my pj pants.

performance art

I’m considering starting a rhythmic performance art show with kid-Ginger.

True, I have limited musical talent (save for interpretive dance and on a good day-finger symbols).  There’s also the minor detail that my brother doesn’t play any instruments.  But what American dream hasn’t started on the bitter cement of nothing?

None dear reader, absolutely none.

I suppose this logic could be applied to potential careers in other industries, but I’m sticking to music.  Besides, if we slap the genre post-modern on our vision, I don’t see how we can go wrong.

Let me set the stage (or street corner-as I’m thinking this is the most likely first venue) for you.

Brother leaning against a building (preferably condemned-capturing the essence of our time), a broken guitar sadly leans against his ripped denim-clad kneecap.   Myself front and center, one hand in pocket, other casually dangling finger symbols, suspenders hug my Mr. T t-shirt.    Kid-Ginger taps his feet to music the audience can only imagine as there is none actually playing.  I stand still, creepily eyeing anyone stopping to watch-holding eye contact like a ninja goldfish, ready to launch.

Brother steadies himself from building, hangs the tattered fret board off one shoulder, saunters down sidewalk, and utters the words:

“Art. Is. Unemployed.”

Enter in the finger symbol.

Tapping the broken guitar against his thigh, he then proceeds to recite select passages from A Christmas Carol, haunting chime of the symbol periodically echoing his phrases.

Finishing with the passages regarding Tiny Tim-(lets say ten minutes later), he again repeats the phrase:

“Art. Is. Unemployed.”

At which point, the symbol releases me from my frozen stance as I start quickly repeating that gem from the 80’s:

“I pity the fool.  I pity the fool.  I pity the fool.  I pity the fool.”

Which of course, is Kid-Ginger’s cue to slam out air guitar, full with leg kicks and the occasional head-bang.  This goes on for about five minutes, with my intonation ranging from childlike to scary-beast voice (have practiced in mirror-fear not readers, fear not).

Final symbol chimes.

We both freeze.

Kid-Ginger looks over at me, sighs and utters:

“Fool.”

I return my hands to my pockets, glare at the audience and state:

“Pity.”

With any luck, we’d end up with enough cash for two orders of waffles at IHOP.

If ordering those at that establishment isn’t enough indication of our nonconformist nature, then I’d better start revamping my resume.

After this at least I can add ‘ability to make fool of self for cash’ under skills.

A giant, too many vaginas, and an Iphone

A giant initiated conversation with me in a bar a few months ago by inquiring as to whether or not I had ever done any nude modeling.

For the record, when I say giant, I mean this creature:

I was somewhere between sizing him up and answering his question, when he busted out his Iphone, scrolled through a group of black and white photos and said:

“seriously, I ask because I am an artist”

Usually when a man in a bar approaches me claiming to be an artist I brace myself for a long-winded monologue laced with philosophy references.  This time however, I was too preoccupied with sizing up his monstrous features to prepare for the inevitable speech and nearly choked on my wine when he proclaimed:

“It’s all about vagina placement.  See, I mean the placement of the vagina in the shot-do you understand what I’m saying?”

At this point I responded with the first thought that popped into my head:

“I mean, I know where mine is, but that’s pretty much as far as my interest in such things takes me”

Which of course, was my downfall.  Evidently, this was the oversized man’s cue to scroll through nude picture after nude picture, and explain to me in detail why the various vaginas were placed in each location within the frame.

At one point he began discussing the importance of labia shape.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is what happens to me when I attend a function designed to unite english speaking ex-pats.

Individuals seek me out and unroll their portfolios to discuss vagina placement, labia size, and the various problems that may or may not occur when shooting such subjects in a desert.

Last I checked, I do not own a t-shirt reading: ‘talk to me about genitalia!!’

Yet somehow, for whatever reason: my face inspires aforementioned artistic discussion.

Next time I’m staying in, ordering take-out, and watching a National Geographic Special.  At least that way, if labia enters the frame, I won’t have to listen to an oversized idiot mutter to me through excessive mouth-breathing and sweaty gasps why vagina placement is important.

da-christen, painter of all things delusional

I had a babysitter growing up that was convinced she was Michelangelo in a past life.  Not the ninja turtle mind you, but his namesake.  She was old enough to be my grandmother.  When one is nine-grandmothers are a source of all things factual, so naturally I believed her.

With some encouragement on her part and the use of a ouija board, I quickly decided that I too-had been someone famous (determined through the scientific method of me asking the board-and her pushing the plastic piece to yes).  Of course, I didn’t really understand the process of determining ones prior famous self-so I figured it would be best to do some investigating before settling into an identity.  I just knew I desperately wanted to have been someone as cool as Michelangelo.

I had limited resources on exploring historical figures, so I was left to research through my father’s considerable collection of history books.  All lined neatly in our living room bookcase, I spent hours picking out the best one.  I was convinced that my former identity would drop clues for me, so that I could figure out this great mystery.

So with great concentration, I closed my eyes, ran my finger along the spines of books, counted to thirty-three, and stopped as the last whisper of the number left my freckled face.

And that, ladies and gentlemen is how I convinced myself from ages nine to eleven that in my past life-I was Leonardo DaVinci.

Ok, so I definitely knew where that book was, and I definitely wanted to be a ninja turtle like my babysitter-but I also collected evidence to support the cause:

1. He invented things.  Just earlier that year I had ‘invented’ a real-faucet in my fort by pouring a pitcher of water into one end of an old pipe, so that it came out the other (genius, I know).

2.  He painted (obviously).  I painted, and drew  A LOT.  All the time, and I knew I wanted to be a cartoonist-and I read in my dad’s books that the painters made CARTOONS before they painted.  Bang-on.

3.  He was Italian.  Lasagna was my all-time favorite food (ok, maybe inspired by Garfield, but I still loved it!).

Three being my favorite number, I knew I didn’t need any more proof than the aforementioned points.

The dream was eventually crushed when I whispered this to a boy I had a crush on.  We were sitting on the playground swings, I leaned over to tell him my secret, and he pushed me away, ran to his friends and told everyone I thought I was a ninja turtle.

Ultimately traumatic in the arena of playground etiquette.

Considering that boy impregnated a girl at 16, I’d say the reptilian repellant worked to my favor.